I canceled the soccer tournament I was planning for the last two months. I have no other real projects to speak of. All the villagers are in their fields cultivating as it is rainy season. School is out. So all in all, I feel rather useless and unproductive. I smell a funk.
This past week, one of the sons of my village chief died suddenly. He woke up one morning, felt ill, went to the medical clinic 5K away, took the medicine prescribed and was dead by 3pm. I went to a charlatan ceremony on Friday. They are used to determine the cause of death, as opposed to an autopsy, by having the spirit of the dead child tell them what happened. It was translated to me after the ceremony that it was black magic that killed the boy, and now the village must kill a goat to protect themselves from this black magic or locally known as gre gre (pronounced "gree gree"). You know that's what I would have guessed.
My host mother is pregnant, due in September-ish. I just found out by asking since my family never mentioned anything and all this time I thought she was just eating well. Seems my days of quiet chez moi are soon to be replaced with a screaming child. Funny that I had that dream about the puppy in the other blog I wrote. Actually, being in Togo (and this is supported by most female volunteers, myself included) creates feelings of nesting. I have entertained the notion of popping a few out; the babies are quite cute here and it kinda makes you want to have one of your own.
I miss dancing and I will miss Burning Man. Love to all my fellow Burners. Have a lovely burn.
I dyed my hair jet black! Nice, nice, very nice.
I do enjoy Anticipation. It is often better than the object of anticipation.
TTFN
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Affected
8/1/2008
I dreamt in the wee hours of this morning that I was the proud new owner of a scraggly, little puppy. Just days after learning that one of two family dogs, a mother, Sulu, was killed because she had attacked, and I am assuming killed, a neighbor’s pintade or guinea fowl. To some, this may sound like too harsh a punishment, but when you live in the bush, with the price of pintade meat as high as it is (2000 cfa +) and the ability to produce pintade eggs (tastier than chicken eggs), another highly priced commodity, you begin to realize the reasoning behind such drastic punishments. Every household, or almost every household, owns a canine guardian, and you can’t very well have all the dogs killing off the pintades. Even I would be upset. However, I did become friendly with Sulu; I developed a trust with her as I was one of the few creatures in her brutal life that offered any sort of affection. It had gotten to the point where she would run up to me whenever either of us returned home. So it’s no wonder that her death upset me, especially since my host family was so casual about the whole affair. The Togolese do not harbor the same sentiments or attachments towards pets or animals as do Americans. The odd thing was that even before I asked what happened, I knew she was dead. Strange…
So last night’s dream sequence involved the adoption of a new puppy. It was one of those scenarios in which we bonded instantly; we took to each other like mother and child. And for a moment, I remember feeling tremendous love for the little animal, but true to my life inside and outside of Peace Corps, I knew I didn’t want the responsibility of another animal’s dependency, unlike the Daniel Cullop Petting Zoo. J I have had other dreams, but with human fetuses where the same sentiments resurface each time: maternal affection and paralyzing panic. I’m confident that should I decide in the future to be the mother, caregiver or guardian to any living creature that I could do it with instinctual dexterity, however, the prospect of this role, at this moment, leaves me absolutely terrified. While I approach thirty and many of my friends are getting married and having babies, I have yet to experience a sustained, intimate relationship let alone welcome an infant of any species into my life. This is not to say that the task of nurturing a new life into existence isn’t a noble one, but to comprehend and accept that such a project would be premature for me, in my opinion, is priceless. It’s true that there will probably never be a “perfect” moment, but at least any feelings of flight should be dissipated. Don’t you think?
I dreamt in the wee hours of this morning that I was the proud new owner of a scraggly, little puppy. Just days after learning that one of two family dogs, a mother, Sulu, was killed because she had attacked, and I am assuming killed, a neighbor’s pintade or guinea fowl. To some, this may sound like too harsh a punishment, but when you live in the bush, with the price of pintade meat as high as it is (2000 cfa +) and the ability to produce pintade eggs (tastier than chicken eggs), another highly priced commodity, you begin to realize the reasoning behind such drastic punishments. Every household, or almost every household, owns a canine guardian, and you can’t very well have all the dogs killing off the pintades. Even I would be upset. However, I did become friendly with Sulu; I developed a trust with her as I was one of the few creatures in her brutal life that offered any sort of affection. It had gotten to the point where she would run up to me whenever either of us returned home. So it’s no wonder that her death upset me, especially since my host family was so casual about the whole affair. The Togolese do not harbor the same sentiments or attachments towards pets or animals as do Americans. The odd thing was that even before I asked what happened, I knew she was dead. Strange…
So last night’s dream sequence involved the adoption of a new puppy. It was one of those scenarios in which we bonded instantly; we took to each other like mother and child. And for a moment, I remember feeling tremendous love for the little animal, but true to my life inside and outside of Peace Corps, I knew I didn’t want the responsibility of another animal’s dependency, unlike the Daniel Cullop Petting Zoo. J I have had other dreams, but with human fetuses where the same sentiments resurface each time: maternal affection and paralyzing panic. I’m confident that should I decide in the future to be the mother, caregiver or guardian to any living creature that I could do it with instinctual dexterity, however, the prospect of this role, at this moment, leaves me absolutely terrified. While I approach thirty and many of my friends are getting married and having babies, I have yet to experience a sustained, intimate relationship let alone welcome an infant of any species into my life. This is not to say that the task of nurturing a new life into existence isn’t a noble one, but to comprehend and accept that such a project would be premature for me, in my opinion, is priceless. It’s true that there will probably never be a “perfect” moment, but at least any feelings of flight should be dissipated. Don’t you think?
Friday, July 18, 2008
Notes From Childhood
7/3/2008
Today I learned that one of my favorite little girls left with her family to go to Ghana while I was at camp. No chance to say goodbye. If I ever wanted to adopt a child here it would have been her. She was one of the most charismatic and intelligent little kids I have met here thus far. She has such potential…::sigh:: I wish her well.
Funny thing is, I never knew her name. Knowing someone’s name doesn’t seem to carry the same weight here as it does other places. I suspect it is along the same lines with their fear of individuality and non-conformity. If there ever was a place that dreads and panics in the face of originality and uniqueness, values I personally hold very dear, it is here in Togo. I haven’t been all over the world, so there may very well be other places that encourage uniformity. I find here that instead of creative, self-expression, there is communal solidarity. Granted, this is all in degrees and I speak in generalities, but for the most part… It has been said (not by myself) that the people here would rather drink than ever be alone. There’s lots of drinking in Togo.
Thursday is market day in my village, and market days are an opportunity to consume as much Tchouk (local brew made of millet) as your pocket will allow. I am sure I have mentioned before and to my display that babies and small children are given Tchouk to drink by their parents. The complications and disastrous consequences that alcohol can have on children has not yet permeated the communal consciousness here. They would protest that Tchouk is not alcohol. ::ahem:: Right. Whatever you say. So one fun-filled Thursday evening au marche, I was waiting to buy some soja (tofu) for my dinner from one of my neighbor-ladies. Her daughter, about two or three years old, who is already known to be not quite “normal” approaches me. At first, like all things, it was all fun and games. She was jumping and running around me, trying to tickle me. Innocent horseplay, right? I was playing right along, until I noticed my internal clock rang to indicate that enough time had passed that such horseplay should be tapering off. It wasn’t. The little darling, with the same psychotic intensity as before, kept running around me, taunting me, touching me and pushing me. I told her to stop, repeatedly, in French, but, ha ha, she doesn’t speak French. I am yelling at her at this point, and even her older sister stepped in to say something but to no avail. Mind you, I was in the middle of the market, with a three-year old trying to molest me, surrounded by Togolese who refused to help me. I suspect they either 1) thought it was ok because she’s just not “normal” or 2) expected me to strike her. Beating children is commonplace in the home and at school here. My American conditioning told me that I could not hit this child, but I couldn’t leave because I hadn’t got my soja yet and I had no rope to restrain this child. So, what do I do? I put my hands out and, oops, she ran into them, fell down and started crying. I felt slightly guilty, only slightly because what the hell was I supposed to do? No one around really tried to help me and she wasn’t going to stop. I only realized afterward that she had been drinking that day; her Mother serves soja and Tchouk in the market. So yeah, I was attacked by a drunk three year old. Nice.
Today I learned that one of my favorite little girls left with her family to go to Ghana while I was at camp. No chance to say goodbye. If I ever wanted to adopt a child here it would have been her. She was one of the most charismatic and intelligent little kids I have met here thus far. She has such potential…::sigh:: I wish her well.
Funny thing is, I never knew her name. Knowing someone’s name doesn’t seem to carry the same weight here as it does other places. I suspect it is along the same lines with their fear of individuality and non-conformity. If there ever was a place that dreads and panics in the face of originality and uniqueness, values I personally hold very dear, it is here in Togo. I haven’t been all over the world, so there may very well be other places that encourage uniformity. I find here that instead of creative, self-expression, there is communal solidarity. Granted, this is all in degrees and I speak in generalities, but for the most part… It has been said (not by myself) that the people here would rather drink than ever be alone. There’s lots of drinking in Togo.
Thursday is market day in my village, and market days are an opportunity to consume as much Tchouk (local brew made of millet) as your pocket will allow. I am sure I have mentioned before and to my display that babies and small children are given Tchouk to drink by their parents. The complications and disastrous consequences that alcohol can have on children has not yet permeated the communal consciousness here. They would protest that Tchouk is not alcohol. ::ahem:: Right. Whatever you say. So one fun-filled Thursday evening au marche, I was waiting to buy some soja (tofu) for my dinner from one of my neighbor-ladies. Her daughter, about two or three years old, who is already known to be not quite “normal” approaches me. At first, like all things, it was all fun and games. She was jumping and running around me, trying to tickle me. Innocent horseplay, right? I was playing right along, until I noticed my internal clock rang to indicate that enough time had passed that such horseplay should be tapering off. It wasn’t. The little darling, with the same psychotic intensity as before, kept running around me, taunting me, touching me and pushing me. I told her to stop, repeatedly, in French, but, ha ha, she doesn’t speak French. I am yelling at her at this point, and even her older sister stepped in to say something but to no avail. Mind you, I was in the middle of the market, with a three-year old trying to molest me, surrounded by Togolese who refused to help me. I suspect they either 1) thought it was ok because she’s just not “normal” or 2) expected me to strike her. Beating children is commonplace in the home and at school here. My American conditioning told me that I could not hit this child, but I couldn’t leave because I hadn’t got my soja yet and I had no rope to restrain this child. So, what do I do? I put my hands out and, oops, she ran into them, fell down and started crying. I felt slightly guilty, only slightly because what the hell was I supposed to do? No one around really tried to help me and she wasn’t going to stop. I only realized afterward that she had been drinking that day; her Mother serves soja and Tchouk in the market. So yeah, I was attacked by a drunk three year old. Nice.
Vous etes nombreux et je suis seule
7/1/2008
I give you fair warning this blog is not all peaches and cream.
I am one, single person with a laundry list of people near and far that require relative consistent communication. I try to write letters every quarter, sometimes every month if I am feeling conversational. But at approximately $1.50 for postage for each letter I send, it becomes rather expensive on my simple salary. I always respond to emails. It takes time (think in months) and more money to use the internet. There have only been three people I have not emailed responses to because they sent me horrifically long emails, which I printed out and hold close. I am planning to respond to those emails via letter. I also call. I spend the most money on phone credit, which just never seems to last as long as I would like. And, there’s the problem of charging my phone’s battery, but that is a different issue. I am explaining all of this to you because I want you to understand two important points: 1) I am making efforts and finding ways (that are effective) to establish consistent communication and 2) that by doing so, I am showing you that I value your presence in my life. Such mundane things are valuable to me, not only for my sanity here in Togo, but also to ward off as much of the inevitable culture shock I will experience when I return.
Now while this is high on my list of priorities, this doesn’t hold true for the people I have left behind. I never really understood what communication of this nature meant until I moved to Togo to live in a painted mud house with no electricity, no running water, no plumbing and far, far, FAR too much time on my hands. I’m guessing that the people I left behind, people I thought I was close to, people I thought would make the extra effort to stay in touch, really have no idea what it is like to be here, to exist here, to live here day in and day out. I mean… how could I expect them to understand? They are obviously not here. Duh. They can imagine all day long, but unless they’ve been here themselves or had an experience similar to this one, they just don’t get it. So, I guess I can’t reasonably be too mad or upset when the only people from “home” that contact me on my birthday are my Father and Brother. I also find it remarkable that people I’ve only grazed the surface of friendship with are the ones that send me birthday wishes, letters and even packages, whereas the people I’ve known for years, some all my life, I never hear from, ever. Such insights have left me with nothing to say via phone calls, letters or my blog these past few months. Note the last entry on my blog was in April. It was only after the passing of my birthday that the pungent odor of neglect began to suffocate me. Perhaps, I am being a bit dramatic, but none-the-less, I was hurt. It is these moments of acceptance that the thought of coming “home” is revolting. And yet how can I blame them when I have been guilty of the same thing. I have forgotten birthdays, never sent letters to friends abroad, never called my family, and I am sorry for it. But such apologies feel empty when really I have no good excuse for my negligence. Life gets busy is not, I repeat, is not an acceptable excuse. Saying I think about you often is worthless when the person of whom you are thinking never knows it. If you never bother to tell that person you miss them, or think about them, you might as well take those thoughts and shove them you-know-where.
I can see it now… Some of you reading this might protest, “But I have called! I have sent letters! You just never get them!” Well my dears thank you for your half-assed efforts, but that is exactly my problem. I never get them and hence never know. If you send me letters and don’t put those letters in padded envelopes or packages, quit wasting your money on postage. If you tried calling me, can’t ever get through and are frustrated. I empathize, I really do. Remember I live in Togo. But, I have been in Togo nine months now and have managed to find a way to contact people. Am I making accusations towards one or many? No, not really. Although I admit I am disappointed, I write this simply as a statement of fact, a state of the union if-you-will, and I wish for those people leaving for the Peace Corps or Togo or both to be aware of the possible side effects of doing so. Or, you might be one of those lucky (or unlucky) volunteers who receives too much contact from friends and family. However, more often than not, this is your journey, your adventure, your torture, your whatever and therefore a solitary one. In as much as joining the Peace Corps is a selfless act, in the same instance, it ought to be a selfish one. So know that friends stop writing (or never started), family stops calling, and this time is yours and yours alone. And, it is hard.
I give you fair warning this blog is not all peaches and cream.
I am one, single person with a laundry list of people near and far that require relative consistent communication. I try to write letters every quarter, sometimes every month if I am feeling conversational. But at approximately $1.50 for postage for each letter I send, it becomes rather expensive on my simple salary. I always respond to emails. It takes time (think in months) and more money to use the internet. There have only been three people I have not emailed responses to because they sent me horrifically long emails, which I printed out and hold close. I am planning to respond to those emails via letter. I also call. I spend the most money on phone credit, which just never seems to last as long as I would like. And, there’s the problem of charging my phone’s battery, but that is a different issue. I am explaining all of this to you because I want you to understand two important points: 1) I am making efforts and finding ways (that are effective) to establish consistent communication and 2) that by doing so, I am showing you that I value your presence in my life. Such mundane things are valuable to me, not only for my sanity here in Togo, but also to ward off as much of the inevitable culture shock I will experience when I return.
Now while this is high on my list of priorities, this doesn’t hold true for the people I have left behind. I never really understood what communication of this nature meant until I moved to Togo to live in a painted mud house with no electricity, no running water, no plumbing and far, far, FAR too much time on my hands. I’m guessing that the people I left behind, people I thought I was close to, people I thought would make the extra effort to stay in touch, really have no idea what it is like to be here, to exist here, to live here day in and day out. I mean… how could I expect them to understand? They are obviously not here. Duh. They can imagine all day long, but unless they’ve been here themselves or had an experience similar to this one, they just don’t get it. So, I guess I can’t reasonably be too mad or upset when the only people from “home” that contact me on my birthday are my Father and Brother. I also find it remarkable that people I’ve only grazed the surface of friendship with are the ones that send me birthday wishes, letters and even packages, whereas the people I’ve known for years, some all my life, I never hear from, ever. Such insights have left me with nothing to say via phone calls, letters or my blog these past few months. Note the last entry on my blog was in April. It was only after the passing of my birthday that the pungent odor of neglect began to suffocate me. Perhaps, I am being a bit dramatic, but none-the-less, I was hurt. It is these moments of acceptance that the thought of coming “home” is revolting. And yet how can I blame them when I have been guilty of the same thing. I have forgotten birthdays, never sent letters to friends abroad, never called my family, and I am sorry for it. But such apologies feel empty when really I have no good excuse for my negligence. Life gets busy is not, I repeat, is not an acceptable excuse. Saying I think about you often is worthless when the person of whom you are thinking never knows it. If you never bother to tell that person you miss them, or think about them, you might as well take those thoughts and shove them you-know-where.
I can see it now… Some of you reading this might protest, “But I have called! I have sent letters! You just never get them!” Well my dears thank you for your half-assed efforts, but that is exactly my problem. I never get them and hence never know. If you send me letters and don’t put those letters in padded envelopes or packages, quit wasting your money on postage. If you tried calling me, can’t ever get through and are frustrated. I empathize, I really do. Remember I live in Togo. But, I have been in Togo nine months now and have managed to find a way to contact people. Am I making accusations towards one or many? No, not really. Although I admit I am disappointed, I write this simply as a statement of fact, a state of the union if-you-will, and I wish for those people leaving for the Peace Corps or Togo or both to be aware of the possible side effects of doing so. Or, you might be one of those lucky (or unlucky) volunteers who receives too much contact from friends and family. However, more often than not, this is your journey, your adventure, your torture, your whatever and therefore a solitary one. In as much as joining the Peace Corps is a selfless act, in the same instance, it ought to be a selfish one. So know that friends stop writing (or never started), family stops calling, and this time is yours and yours alone. And, it is hard.
Monday, April 28, 2008
3 is the magic number
4/28/2008
Last Tuesday I was in my first moto accident. I was on my way home from a soccer tournament and was approximately two to three kilometers from my village when the moto driver or zed man, as they are known here, slipped on some loose gravel/sand maneuvering between the potholes. It was his first time on that particular route and was unfamiliar with the ins and outs of the road. I should have been a little more diligent in telling him the slow f*&% down. Alas, I did not and for that, the moto fell on my foot. Fortunately, there were no other motos or vehicles involved and we weren’t going that fast, so the driver and I only received some scrapes and bumps. You could literally see the bump grow on my foot though. The funny thing is that I think the zed man was more upset than I was, especially for dropping the fragile, white woman. Heh. I called Peace Corps Med Unit to notify them of the incident and to see if they felt I should go to the dispensaire (medical clinic), to which I was opposed. There was probably nothing they could have done there that I couldn’t do with my medical supplies in my house. So I went home.
The other funny thing or not so funny thing is that two days later my Homologue/Counterpart got into a head-on collision with his moto 50 feet from my house after dropping me off. Again, only some corporeal and mechanical cuts and scratches were suffered.
Then the very next day (this makes 3), some girl students at my middle school were cementing a new brick wall at the school and the wall collapsed on them. Also, nothing serious was inflicted, but they were taken to the hospital to get checked out.
All in all, a rather hazardous week au village.
Last Tuesday I was in my first moto accident. I was on my way home from a soccer tournament and was approximately two to three kilometers from my village when the moto driver or zed man, as they are known here, slipped on some loose gravel/sand maneuvering between the potholes. It was his first time on that particular route and was unfamiliar with the ins and outs of the road. I should have been a little more diligent in telling him the slow f*&% down. Alas, I did not and for that, the moto fell on my foot. Fortunately, there were no other motos or vehicles involved and we weren’t going that fast, so the driver and I only received some scrapes and bumps. You could literally see the bump grow on my foot though. The funny thing is that I think the zed man was more upset than I was, especially for dropping the fragile, white woman. Heh. I called Peace Corps Med Unit to notify them of the incident and to see if they felt I should go to the dispensaire (medical clinic), to which I was opposed. There was probably nothing they could have done there that I couldn’t do with my medical supplies in my house. So I went home.
The other funny thing or not so funny thing is that two days later my Homologue/Counterpart got into a head-on collision with his moto 50 feet from my house after dropping me off. Again, only some corporeal and mechanical cuts and scratches were suffered.
Then the very next day (this makes 3), some girl students at my middle school were cementing a new brick wall at the school and the wall collapsed on them. Also, nothing serious was inflicted, but they were taken to the hospital to get checked out.
All in all, a rather hazardous week au village.
Side Effects
4/9/2008
My happiest moments in Togo are when I’m riding my bike. There’s really nothing like it here. Today I was gulping the fresh air to fuel my endorphin kick. It’s these moments, despite their fleeting nature, that I thank my lucky stars that I am here and not suffocating in the re-circulated, moldy air of some office tucked away beneath mounds of yellowed paper and antenna-like electrical cables. I know my body, physically, has thanked me for the change of lifestyle. My skin has never been clearer. I’ve never been thinner, except for maybe when I was in 8th grade. I’ve never sported a healthier glow, although to some, that’s not necessarily a good thing. My internal organs have never known such organic, pesticide-free nourishment. In many ways, Africa has done me well. But as I sweat my way through the dusty paths of Dankpen (Dankpen is the Prefecture in which I live) on my bike, of course, I either zone out to my iPOD or have flashes of heightened consciousness. In this case, I had a thought. I’ve always aspired to some romanticized ideal of myself. I think it is a fair assumption that most people desire some level of self-improvement. I’m no exception. But in my pursuit of a more intelligent, more witty, more cultured, sexier, edgier state of existence, such goals implicitly imply that I cannot be satisfied with myself as it currently survives. Subsequently, I cannot subscribe to the new age mentality of loving myself as I am. If I were to attempt such a feat, I would be logically impossible. Who said humans weren’t confused, complex beings? The result is some kind of psychological struggle with our selves (well, at least me). I’m sure there are some optimists out there that believe there’s a way to peacefully coexist with two opposing ideologies. Whatever. I’m still at a loss as to how I can resolve and pacify my tortured soul. Fortunately for me, I’ve got the wind in my face and nothing but trees before me.
My next thought relates these same sentiments to other people. I read somewhere that women, in particular, tend to see the potential in prospective romantic conquests and not see the reality before their eyes. If we, as people, were constantly living in a space with the expectation that others will change, improve themselves, be all that they can be, then, tell me, how exactly can we appreciate, love, accept others as they are right now in this very moment? Let’s take Togo for example. Do I appreciate and accept Togo as it is right now? Or what I see it could become? The students I work with today frustrate me to no end because I see, I practically taste, what they could have, so easily, if just a few small (according to me) barriers were removed. So if, I don’t accept them as they currently exist, doesn’t that mean I must harbor an eternal state of dissatisfaction because this so-called ideal of their potential is definitely beyond my time here and probably beyond my lifetime? Not-to-mention, this glorified vision of their future is totally and completely subjective and ignorant of numerous variables in their life. Perhaps, I can let those hopes and desires go for people I really have no control over in the first place and avoid being incessantly disappointed with their inadequacies to measure up. But such acceptance risks the stagnant abyss of complacency. I suppose we could compartmentalize the facets that we like and dislike about ourselves and others, as I am sure many of us already do, but we are still in the quandary of loving and accepting half a person. I only like you partly. I like your hands, but not your feet. I like your eyes, but not your nose. We are all walking around in parts and pieces in the eyes of ourselves and others.
So my dears, I pose this question rhetorically: Where do we go from here?
At least, I have a tight butt and a tan, right?
My happiest moments in Togo are when I’m riding my bike. There’s really nothing like it here. Today I was gulping the fresh air to fuel my endorphin kick. It’s these moments, despite their fleeting nature, that I thank my lucky stars that I am here and not suffocating in the re-circulated, moldy air of some office tucked away beneath mounds of yellowed paper and antenna-like electrical cables. I know my body, physically, has thanked me for the change of lifestyle. My skin has never been clearer. I’ve never been thinner, except for maybe when I was in 8th grade. I’ve never sported a healthier glow, although to some, that’s not necessarily a good thing. My internal organs have never known such organic, pesticide-free nourishment. In many ways, Africa has done me well. But as I sweat my way through the dusty paths of Dankpen (Dankpen is the Prefecture in which I live) on my bike, of course, I either zone out to my iPOD or have flashes of heightened consciousness. In this case, I had a thought. I’ve always aspired to some romanticized ideal of myself. I think it is a fair assumption that most people desire some level of self-improvement. I’m no exception. But in my pursuit of a more intelligent, more witty, more cultured, sexier, edgier state of existence, such goals implicitly imply that I cannot be satisfied with myself as it currently survives. Subsequently, I cannot subscribe to the new age mentality of loving myself as I am. If I were to attempt such a feat, I would be logically impossible. Who said humans weren’t confused, complex beings? The result is some kind of psychological struggle with our selves (well, at least me). I’m sure there are some optimists out there that believe there’s a way to peacefully coexist with two opposing ideologies. Whatever. I’m still at a loss as to how I can resolve and pacify my tortured soul. Fortunately for me, I’ve got the wind in my face and nothing but trees before me.
My next thought relates these same sentiments to other people. I read somewhere that women, in particular, tend to see the potential in prospective romantic conquests and not see the reality before their eyes. If we, as people, were constantly living in a space with the expectation that others will change, improve themselves, be all that they can be, then, tell me, how exactly can we appreciate, love, accept others as they are right now in this very moment? Let’s take Togo for example. Do I appreciate and accept Togo as it is right now? Or what I see it could become? The students I work with today frustrate me to no end because I see, I practically taste, what they could have, so easily, if just a few small (according to me) barriers were removed. So if, I don’t accept them as they currently exist, doesn’t that mean I must harbor an eternal state of dissatisfaction because this so-called ideal of their potential is definitely beyond my time here and probably beyond my lifetime? Not-to-mention, this glorified vision of their future is totally and completely subjective and ignorant of numerous variables in their life. Perhaps, I can let those hopes and desires go for people I really have no control over in the first place and avoid being incessantly disappointed with their inadequacies to measure up. But such acceptance risks the stagnant abyss of complacency. I suppose we could compartmentalize the facets that we like and dislike about ourselves and others, as I am sure many of us already do, but we are still in the quandary of loving and accepting half a person. I only like you partly. I like your hands, but not your feet. I like your eyes, but not your nose. We are all walking around in parts and pieces in the eyes of ourselves and others.
So my dears, I pose this question rhetorically: Where do we go from here?
At least, I have a tight butt and a tan, right?
Il y a toujours l'argent pour le Tchouk!
3-28-2008
12:23 in the afternoon. I’m buzzed. Wait… probably more like drunk at this point. It’s the day after the local market and everyone’s shooting the shit and having a calabash…or two…or three. In the effort of integrating into my community, I accept an invitation to go drinking. I have no idea what the conversation is about since it is all in the local language, so I am left to caress my calabash of local brew. All sorts of silly things enter my cranium when I drink, including and not limited to an unnatural sense of “Cut the bullshit. Give it to me straight. I’m tired of the games.” If only I was drunk more of the time. I can’t help but feel like one of the boys seeing as how I was the only female drinking in the mud hut with 10 other males. But I’m white, so I don’t count. God damn it. They keep refilling my calabash before I can even make it half way through my first. Somewhere in the middle of my drunken daze, they bring out a bow (as in: bow and arrow). I tell these men I can shoot, determined to show them statistically females have better aim than males. My motivation is renewed to master the art of archery! Huzzah!
I almost forgot to tell you about my adventures in rodent extermination! Actually, I didn’t forget at all. I was simply waiting for the perfect opportunity to relay the events of this morning, and what better time than after a couple calabashes of Tchouk! I speared my prey with the dexterity of hidden ninja prowess, lacerating his hind leg and cackling at his cries of pain. I trapped him under my trusty Tupperware instrument of torture and fed the little bastard to the dogs, all the while feeling especially accomplished. After all, it had taken me 3 days this time to incapacitate the vermin. Sometimes I wish I had drawn blood… perhaps next time.
So these ramen noodles I’ve prepared taste like plastic. I only say this so you can appreciate how I suffer. I’ve been reduced to drinking before noon and eating plastic pasta.
The ants (and lizards) in my house provide a valuable service to me. They clean up the droppings of food abandoned on my floor. They are like the shrimp of my underwater abode. The lizards eat the insects and the daddy long legs catch the flies, but they are doing a terrible job. So they may face demotion soon.
It’s time for a little repose.
I have taken to carrying around a handkerchief wherever I go to wipe the sweat from my brow. You will too if you people ever decide to come visit me.
(In case it wasn’t clear, this blog was written while intoxicated. I have kept everything as I originally wrote it, even if it doesn’t quite make sense.)
12:23 in the afternoon. I’m buzzed. Wait… probably more like drunk at this point. It’s the day after the local market and everyone’s shooting the shit and having a calabash…or two…or three. In the effort of integrating into my community, I accept an invitation to go drinking. I have no idea what the conversation is about since it is all in the local language, so I am left to caress my calabash of local brew. All sorts of silly things enter my cranium when I drink, including and not limited to an unnatural sense of “Cut the bullshit. Give it to me straight. I’m tired of the games.” If only I was drunk more of the time. I can’t help but feel like one of the boys seeing as how I was the only female drinking in the mud hut with 10 other males. But I’m white, so I don’t count. God damn it. They keep refilling my calabash before I can even make it half way through my first. Somewhere in the middle of my drunken daze, they bring out a bow (as in: bow and arrow). I tell these men I can shoot, determined to show them statistically females have better aim than males. My motivation is renewed to master the art of archery! Huzzah!
I almost forgot to tell you about my adventures in rodent extermination! Actually, I didn’t forget at all. I was simply waiting for the perfect opportunity to relay the events of this morning, and what better time than after a couple calabashes of Tchouk! I speared my prey with the dexterity of hidden ninja prowess, lacerating his hind leg and cackling at his cries of pain. I trapped him under my trusty Tupperware instrument of torture and fed the little bastard to the dogs, all the while feeling especially accomplished. After all, it had taken me 3 days this time to incapacitate the vermin. Sometimes I wish I had drawn blood… perhaps next time.
So these ramen noodles I’ve prepared taste like plastic. I only say this so you can appreciate how I suffer. I’ve been reduced to drinking before noon and eating plastic pasta.
The ants (and lizards) in my house provide a valuable service to me. They clean up the droppings of food abandoned on my floor. They are like the shrimp of my underwater abode. The lizards eat the insects and the daddy long legs catch the flies, but they are doing a terrible job. So they may face demotion soon.
It’s time for a little repose.
I have taken to carrying around a handkerchief wherever I go to wipe the sweat from my brow. You will too if you people ever decide to come visit me.
(In case it wasn’t clear, this blog was written while intoxicated. I have kept everything as I originally wrote it, even if it doesn’t quite make sense.)
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