My last day as a Peace Corps Volunteer: 11/11/2009!
But, I won't be back in America until just before Jesus Christo BDay.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Material Dreams
8/24/09
My host sister Freesia is about 13 years old; age can be an abstract thing here where the day of the week is often more important than the year in which you were born. For the most part, aside from a migration from Ghana to Togo when she was just a wee tot, Freesia hasn’t ever really left the Dankpen prefecture. A prefecture is similar to a county. In fact, she’s never really left my village. So copying her older brother’s trip to the regional capital two years ago, courtesy of my predecessor, I wanted to offer his hard working, slightly timid, younger sister the same opportunity to see the bustling city of Kara, the regional capital. We spent two days in Kara meandering the streets and avoiding kamikaze moto drivers and one day in Guerin-Kouka, the prefectural capital of Dankpen, serving a nice transition back to village life. My purpose for doing this was to have her see for herself and possibly imagine a life and future filled with more than water pumps and mud huts. The tall buildings, the paved roads, the electricity, the running water, relative ease of transportation and access to resources all help to keep her focused on her goals, to know that there is more out there. It’s strange to say it, but they give hope for a brighter future and to avoid catastrophes like HIV/AIDS, early pregnancy and abandoning school. If girls like Freesia can see that their dreams are real, tangible, it makes them more inclined to pursue and realize those dreams.
During our plunge into the urban jungle, I was most excited to witness Freesia’s reactions to various scenarios. It was her first time eating in a restaurant, it was her first time staying in a hotel, it was her first time using a flushing toilet and running water, it was her first time eating Fanmilk (think ice cream) and it was her first time seeing and using a computer. She giggled throughout the Microsoft Word and Paint demonstrations. I don’t think she’s ever eaten so well in her life, meat or protein with every meal. We slept in. We gazed at people, taking in all the sights, sounds and smells of big city life. She remarked at how large everything was: the city, the hospital, the market. She noticed all the women riding around on motorcycles, some even driving cars. Where she comes from, girls are lucky to even own a bike. I gave her some money and made her go into the market to buy presents to bring back to her family, teaching to navigate a market five times the size of her village’s as well as managing the funds to buy gifts for five people. Despite all this, what made me happiest was when we finally returned home. Amidst the signature belly laughs of her mother, Kossia, and squeals from her cousin, Hannah, I heard her recounting all of her experiences to her family. Freesia is not the most expressive person at times, but the perma-grin told me a lot. I was and am just happy I could do something like this for her and I am guessing she is too.
My host sister Freesia is about 13 years old; age can be an abstract thing here where the day of the week is often more important than the year in which you were born. For the most part, aside from a migration from Ghana to Togo when she was just a wee tot, Freesia hasn’t ever really left the Dankpen prefecture. A prefecture is similar to a county. In fact, she’s never really left my village. So copying her older brother’s trip to the regional capital two years ago, courtesy of my predecessor, I wanted to offer his hard working, slightly timid, younger sister the same opportunity to see the bustling city of Kara, the regional capital. We spent two days in Kara meandering the streets and avoiding kamikaze moto drivers and one day in Guerin-Kouka, the prefectural capital of Dankpen, serving a nice transition back to village life. My purpose for doing this was to have her see for herself and possibly imagine a life and future filled with more than water pumps and mud huts. The tall buildings, the paved roads, the electricity, the running water, relative ease of transportation and access to resources all help to keep her focused on her goals, to know that there is more out there. It’s strange to say it, but they give hope for a brighter future and to avoid catastrophes like HIV/AIDS, early pregnancy and abandoning school. If girls like Freesia can see that their dreams are real, tangible, it makes them more inclined to pursue and realize those dreams.
During our plunge into the urban jungle, I was most excited to witness Freesia’s reactions to various scenarios. It was her first time eating in a restaurant, it was her first time staying in a hotel, it was her first time using a flushing toilet and running water, it was her first time eating Fanmilk (think ice cream) and it was her first time seeing and using a computer. She giggled throughout the Microsoft Word and Paint demonstrations. I don’t think she’s ever eaten so well in her life, meat or protein with every meal. We slept in. We gazed at people, taking in all the sights, sounds and smells of big city life. She remarked at how large everything was: the city, the hospital, the market. She noticed all the women riding around on motorcycles, some even driving cars. Where she comes from, girls are lucky to even own a bike. I gave her some money and made her go into the market to buy presents to bring back to her family, teaching to navigate a market five times the size of her village’s as well as managing the funds to buy gifts for five people. Despite all this, what made me happiest was when we finally returned home. Amidst the signature belly laughs of her mother, Kossia, and squeals from her cousin, Hannah, I heard her recounting all of her experiences to her family. Freesia is not the most expressive person at times, but the perma-grin told me a lot. I was and am just happy I could do something like this for her and I am guessing she is too.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
I Win You!
6/26/2009
You would be surprised how much heat one little bandana will trap on a person’s head. At least, I am -- surprised by many things here.
Today it rained a solid three hours and for once, I am feeling cool instead sopping my face with a sweat rag. If you decide to brave this world, these little handkerchiefs will be your new best friend.
Seems I have found myself something of a new best friend, that’s not to say an old best friend got replaced. Never fear. Shortly after my last blog was written 4/21/09, not published mind you, I welcomed a visitor into my home for an undetermined amount of time, which to my astonishment turned into about five weeks. I like to think that I was the first person to have ruled out the possibility of finding any local romantic interests while in Africa -- for many reasons. But naturally, I was forced to eat my words in a very hearty helping of never say never. After all, living together is not exactly an appetizer. Seems stereotypes are social constructs set up to make us look the fool… The challenges, or let’s face it, the problems I thought I would encounter never materialized the way other issues I assumed to be non-issues turned into major epidemics. Even now as I am sitting here alone in my house in the middle of the Togolese bush, I feel beaten, but thankfully not vanquished by all that has transpired. If anything, I am curious to see what the future holds for me and, well, for us.
Shifting gears a bit, there was an event or an incident that occurred on Friday, May 1st, 2009 that I, for myself, need to document. If you look back in my blog archives you will read that historically May 1st in Togo has been a bit stressful. 2009 did not disappoint. This momentous day happened to be the second day of my boyfriend’s visit in my village and it was a national holiday, Labor Day. Holidays are essentially excuses to eat and drink and drink and drink some more -- a favorite pastime of many villagers. Also the day before, Thursday, was my village’s market day, another opportunity to drown your sorrows in calabashes of Tchouk. So imagine, by Friday night two full days of festive inebriation coming to a close. Normally, this kind of debauchery is fine when one sticks to one kind of alcohol, such as the local brew, but when people start hitting the moonshine, the spirits change. This is not anything new; people turn from happy drunks to aggressive ones; this happens anywhere and everywhere. It just happened to be here in my village that my host father Yao chose to drink gin on the first of May that resulted in one of the most fucked up nights of my existence to date.
It went down like this: my boyfriend Amed and I were enjoying a relaxing evening lounging in my private backyard. The hour was somewhere around nine o’clock at night. My host mother Kossia was home with the baby and as far as I could tell, all the other kids were out studying at school or at the video club. The evening was pleasant, until my host father showed up piss drunk. Africans are known to speak with a certain amount of passion and heat in their voices, at least when compared with Americans, so that what I often think is a fight is just a discussion. My host parents have lots of discussions. This night I thought the same thing at first; they would talk it out and everything would be fine, go back to normal.
For all intents and purposes, they were yelling at each other, which was par for the course. Then I hear what sounds like a strike, not a slap which has its own distinct sound. Initially, I was too shocked at what I was hearing to really process it. Was I actually hearing what I thought I was hearing? Or was it my imagination? I do remember Kossia crying at one point and calling Yao the equivalent of “asshole.” They were in their bedroom at this point. There was some silence and I remember thinking it was over. I turned to Amed and told him this wasn’t normal. He held my hand as the arguing resumed. I have never been around domestic violence, so I felt like it took me too long to register what was happening. As Yao started beating Kossia again, she started crying and shouting more loudly and calling, at first, for her eldest son, Georges. I was paralyzed with shock or disbelief and this sickening feeling. I tried to block it out by holding onto Amed, wishing and praying for it to be over, reliving childhood memories of my own parents fighting. Then Kossia started screaming my name, my village name. When she started yelling for me to help her, I knew without a doubt I had to do something. I had to.
I ran out of my house and into the family courtyard. I turned for half a second to look at the door to my host parent’s bedroom, knowing I didn’t have the strength to go in there seeing Yao beat Kossia with a belt, as it turned out later. So instead, I started screaming at the top of my lungs, “HELP ME!” with the notion that people would come running. How often does the white girl run screaming through village? No one came running, so I did. I ran all over my neighborhood screaming and crying “HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME!” in french of course. All I thought is that I can’t do this alone, I need help. One girl from the middle school asked what was wrong, so I asked where her father was; I needed help at my house. She looked at me blankly. It felt like forever, but in reality it was probably more like one or two minutes before I ran toward my chief’s house and caught his brother. All I said was, “Yao, Kossia!” and he ran off in the direction of my house. By the time I made it back to my house, to my astonishment, a crowd of people had arrived and in the middle was Amed, sitting with Yao, trying to calm him down. Relieved, I started to cry for real, until a neighbor came up to me and told me to essentially stop crying. Perhaps culturally that was normal to say, but I was left feeling angry. I walked out of the courtyard and sat under the tree to cry silently to myself. A different neighbor came over to sit with me. I am guessing to make sure I was okay. He was surprised as I was about the whole incident. Never would I have taken Yao as someone who would do such a thing. He may be a lot of things but I never would have guessed this from him. And, for what? He came home drunk to a child-free house and wanting to take advantage of the situation have sex with his wife. My conjecture is that she refused him, so he forced himself on her. Whether he was successful or not, I do not know. I do know she started calling him names, insulting him, naturally. So for insulting him, he decides to beat her??? I am getting these bits and pieces from what I heard and what my neighbor was telling me under the tree. By this point, I was sufficiently numb, as more neighbors began to surround me. Amed came over and sat next to me as Yao asked for my pardon. My pardon??? He should be apologizing to his wife! I could have said so many things at that point. It was really tempting, but instead I said that I just wanted to go to bed and deal with it in the morning. All I wanted was for the nightmare to end, to go to sleep instead of wake up.
Amed told me later that after I had ran off screaming into the night, he went in the bedroom to stop Yao. The room I was too afraid to go into. He said the sight was basically how I had imagined it: Yao, in his underwear, arm raised with a black leather belt in hand, Kossia crying, clutching the baby. He was beating her while she was holding the baby; I am not sure who’s in the wrong here… Luckily when Amed entered, it shocked Yao back to reality and he stopped. Amed separated the two by taking Yao outside to calm him down while help arrived.
So what the hell is wrong with people? Even writing about this causes me to feel sick. It was strange and bizarre and awful, like an episode of the Twilight Zone. I thank my lucky stars that Amed was there; I am just sorry that was his introduction to my village. Needless to say, it is difficult to look at Yao the same way and I have come to dread the Thursdays and Fridays that he is perpetually drunk since now it seems like anything can happen. Most of all I feel bad for their kids. Amed told me that Freeshia, their 13 year old daughter did come home at one point during the commotion; I just don’t know how much she saw. RPCV’s have told me that it is in your last six months of service that you start to see people for who they really are for better or worse.
You would be surprised how much heat one little bandana will trap on a person’s head. At least, I am -- surprised by many things here.
Today it rained a solid three hours and for once, I am feeling cool instead sopping my face with a sweat rag. If you decide to brave this world, these little handkerchiefs will be your new best friend.
Seems I have found myself something of a new best friend, that’s not to say an old best friend got replaced. Never fear. Shortly after my last blog was written 4/21/09, not published mind you, I welcomed a visitor into my home for an undetermined amount of time, which to my astonishment turned into about five weeks. I like to think that I was the first person to have ruled out the possibility of finding any local romantic interests while in Africa -- for many reasons. But naturally, I was forced to eat my words in a very hearty helping of never say never. After all, living together is not exactly an appetizer. Seems stereotypes are social constructs set up to make us look the fool… The challenges, or let’s face it, the problems I thought I would encounter never materialized the way other issues I assumed to be non-issues turned into major epidemics. Even now as I am sitting here alone in my house in the middle of the Togolese bush, I feel beaten, but thankfully not vanquished by all that has transpired. If anything, I am curious to see what the future holds for me and, well, for us.
Shifting gears a bit, there was an event or an incident that occurred on Friday, May 1st, 2009 that I, for myself, need to document. If you look back in my blog archives you will read that historically May 1st in Togo has been a bit stressful. 2009 did not disappoint. This momentous day happened to be the second day of my boyfriend’s visit in my village and it was a national holiday, Labor Day. Holidays are essentially excuses to eat and drink and drink and drink some more -- a favorite pastime of many villagers. Also the day before, Thursday, was my village’s market day, another opportunity to drown your sorrows in calabashes of Tchouk. So imagine, by Friday night two full days of festive inebriation coming to a close. Normally, this kind of debauchery is fine when one sticks to one kind of alcohol, such as the local brew, but when people start hitting the moonshine, the spirits change. This is not anything new; people turn from happy drunks to aggressive ones; this happens anywhere and everywhere. It just happened to be here in my village that my host father Yao chose to drink gin on the first of May that resulted in one of the most fucked up nights of my existence to date.
It went down like this: my boyfriend Amed and I were enjoying a relaxing evening lounging in my private backyard. The hour was somewhere around nine o’clock at night. My host mother Kossia was home with the baby and as far as I could tell, all the other kids were out studying at school or at the video club. The evening was pleasant, until my host father showed up piss drunk. Africans are known to speak with a certain amount of passion and heat in their voices, at least when compared with Americans, so that what I often think is a fight is just a discussion. My host parents have lots of discussions. This night I thought the same thing at first; they would talk it out and everything would be fine, go back to normal.
For all intents and purposes, they were yelling at each other, which was par for the course. Then I hear what sounds like a strike, not a slap which has its own distinct sound. Initially, I was too shocked at what I was hearing to really process it. Was I actually hearing what I thought I was hearing? Or was it my imagination? I do remember Kossia crying at one point and calling Yao the equivalent of “asshole.” They were in their bedroom at this point. There was some silence and I remember thinking it was over. I turned to Amed and told him this wasn’t normal. He held my hand as the arguing resumed. I have never been around domestic violence, so I felt like it took me too long to register what was happening. As Yao started beating Kossia again, she started crying and shouting more loudly and calling, at first, for her eldest son, Georges. I was paralyzed with shock or disbelief and this sickening feeling. I tried to block it out by holding onto Amed, wishing and praying for it to be over, reliving childhood memories of my own parents fighting. Then Kossia started screaming my name, my village name. When she started yelling for me to help her, I knew without a doubt I had to do something. I had to.
I ran out of my house and into the family courtyard. I turned for half a second to look at the door to my host parent’s bedroom, knowing I didn’t have the strength to go in there seeing Yao beat Kossia with a belt, as it turned out later. So instead, I started screaming at the top of my lungs, “HELP ME!” with the notion that people would come running. How often does the white girl run screaming through village? No one came running, so I did. I ran all over my neighborhood screaming and crying “HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME!” in french of course. All I thought is that I can’t do this alone, I need help. One girl from the middle school asked what was wrong, so I asked where her father was; I needed help at my house. She looked at me blankly. It felt like forever, but in reality it was probably more like one or two minutes before I ran toward my chief’s house and caught his brother. All I said was, “Yao, Kossia!” and he ran off in the direction of my house. By the time I made it back to my house, to my astonishment, a crowd of people had arrived and in the middle was Amed, sitting with Yao, trying to calm him down. Relieved, I started to cry for real, until a neighbor came up to me and told me to essentially stop crying. Perhaps culturally that was normal to say, but I was left feeling angry. I walked out of the courtyard and sat under the tree to cry silently to myself. A different neighbor came over to sit with me. I am guessing to make sure I was okay. He was surprised as I was about the whole incident. Never would I have taken Yao as someone who would do such a thing. He may be a lot of things but I never would have guessed this from him. And, for what? He came home drunk to a child-free house and wanting to take advantage of the situation have sex with his wife. My conjecture is that she refused him, so he forced himself on her. Whether he was successful or not, I do not know. I do know she started calling him names, insulting him, naturally. So for insulting him, he decides to beat her??? I am getting these bits and pieces from what I heard and what my neighbor was telling me under the tree. By this point, I was sufficiently numb, as more neighbors began to surround me. Amed came over and sat next to me as Yao asked for my pardon. My pardon??? He should be apologizing to his wife! I could have said so many things at that point. It was really tempting, but instead I said that I just wanted to go to bed and deal with it in the morning. All I wanted was for the nightmare to end, to go to sleep instead of wake up.
Amed told me later that after I had ran off screaming into the night, he went in the bedroom to stop Yao. The room I was too afraid to go into. He said the sight was basically how I had imagined it: Yao, in his underwear, arm raised with a black leather belt in hand, Kossia crying, clutching the baby. He was beating her while she was holding the baby; I am not sure who’s in the wrong here… Luckily when Amed entered, it shocked Yao back to reality and he stopped. Amed separated the two by taking Yao outside to calm him down while help arrived.
So what the hell is wrong with people? Even writing about this causes me to feel sick. It was strange and bizarre and awful, like an episode of the Twilight Zone. I thank my lucky stars that Amed was there; I am just sorry that was his introduction to my village. Needless to say, it is difficult to look at Yao the same way and I have come to dread the Thursdays and Fridays that he is perpetually drunk since now it seems like anything can happen. Most of all I feel bad for their kids. Amed told me that Freeshia, their 13 year old daughter did come home at one point during the commotion; I just don’t know how much she saw. RPCV’s have told me that it is in your last six months of service that you start to see people for who they really are for better or worse.
Friday, July 24, 2009
7/24/09
I live!
Just haven't really had a good opportunity to sit down and write any interesting facts and figures for you.
I just finished pretending to be a camp counselor for Camp Espoir. All I am going to say is that I am glad that's over. I am rethinking my position on having children.
My health is... let's say... above average for Togo. Cheers.
Work? Ha! What work. Everyday is like Saturday! Best 2 years ever!
I have a really juicy blog written. It just needs to be typed up and posted. You are going to love it!
Good times.
Peace.
I live!
Just haven't really had a good opportunity to sit down and write any interesting facts and figures for you.
I just finished pretending to be a camp counselor for Camp Espoir. All I am going to say is that I am glad that's over. I am rethinking my position on having children.
My health is... let's say... above average for Togo. Cheers.
Work? Ha! What work. Everyday is like Saturday! Best 2 years ever!
I have a really juicy blog written. It just needs to be typed up and posted. You are going to love it!
Good times.
Peace.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Moving and Shaking
4/21/2009
The end of March and beginning of April was spent in Ghana, specifically Accra and Cape Coast. Accra provided an extra 5lbs of delicious food and drama like only Ghanaian men can create. Cape Coast which followed Accra, was a relief on multiple levels. Some of the highlights included a couple 3am prostitute fights and illegal driving. And, sure we saw the slave castle and Kakum National Park, the unavoidable tourist attractions, but I would say it was the friendly locals we met that truly made the experience memorable. I can’t wait to go back.
The second week of my voyage was the necessary but excruciating return to work, spent in Lome. It was necessary as a transition back to village after so much development in Ghana. The end of my vacation was punctuated with a fake wedding for two lovely volunteers and their host-families from PST in Agou. Since I hadn’t been back since I swore-in in December 2007, I took the opportunity to visit my host family too. It was heartening to discover that they hadn’t forgotten about me either.
In my last blog, I mentioned an incident regarding child trafficking. When I finally managed to make it back to my village, I inquired as to what happened after I left. Through multiple parties, I learned that a meeting was called with all concerned parties, the chief, the elders, the father of the kidnapped girl, the president of the village development committee-canton and the guy responsible for arranging the kidnapping who, by the way, lives in my village. I found out that the kidnapper apologized, brought everyone local brew and agreed to bring the girl back when faced with possible imprisonment. The girl was retrieved and returned to her family, and when I asked what happened to the kidnapper, I was informed that nothing was left to do. Nothing?! They let him off the hook essentially, and he’s currently residing in my village as a free man with no real consequences to speak of. I immediately asked why and part of the reason for the inaction was the result of shame. Turns out the president CVD’s sister is married to the kidnapper, thus making him family. Shame and family are two very strong influences in Togo and I might venture to say West Africa as well. I was also led to believe that he may be a repeat offender although unconfirmed, so I was furious nothing had been done in terms of real punishment for the man. What kind of precedent or example does that set for the community? I was set on notifying the Gendarmerie and having the kidnapper thrown in prison, but after further discussion with my chief and the girl’s father, I decided I would only notify Social Affairs and another NGO, called Cor Afrique; two organizations that deal with these kinds of issues all the time. Ideally, it should have been someone from my village, a Togolese person to do the reporting, but since in their eyes the problem had already been settled, no one was planning on it. I informed the authorities and I left the decision how to respond in their hands. I’m not sure when or if they will do something. My only concern at this point is retaliation on behalf of the kidnapper since he does live in my village, and I would be the one responsible if he is eventually imprisoned. I’m not too worried though; I have the support of my chief, community members and the people who work for Social Affairs and Cor Afrique, but you never know…
The end of March and beginning of April was spent in Ghana, specifically Accra and Cape Coast. Accra provided an extra 5lbs of delicious food and drama like only Ghanaian men can create. Cape Coast which followed Accra, was a relief on multiple levels. Some of the highlights included a couple 3am prostitute fights and illegal driving. And, sure we saw the slave castle and Kakum National Park, the unavoidable tourist attractions, but I would say it was the friendly locals we met that truly made the experience memorable. I can’t wait to go back.
The second week of my voyage was the necessary but excruciating return to work, spent in Lome. It was necessary as a transition back to village after so much development in Ghana. The end of my vacation was punctuated with a fake wedding for two lovely volunteers and their host-families from PST in Agou. Since I hadn’t been back since I swore-in in December 2007, I took the opportunity to visit my host family too. It was heartening to discover that they hadn’t forgotten about me either.
In my last blog, I mentioned an incident regarding child trafficking. When I finally managed to make it back to my village, I inquired as to what happened after I left. Through multiple parties, I learned that a meeting was called with all concerned parties, the chief, the elders, the father of the kidnapped girl, the president of the village development committee-canton and the guy responsible for arranging the kidnapping who, by the way, lives in my village. I found out that the kidnapper apologized, brought everyone local brew and agreed to bring the girl back when faced with possible imprisonment. The girl was retrieved and returned to her family, and when I asked what happened to the kidnapper, I was informed that nothing was left to do. Nothing?! They let him off the hook essentially, and he’s currently residing in my village as a free man with no real consequences to speak of. I immediately asked why and part of the reason for the inaction was the result of shame. Turns out the president CVD’s sister is married to the kidnapper, thus making him family. Shame and family are two very strong influences in Togo and I might venture to say West Africa as well. I was also led to believe that he may be a repeat offender although unconfirmed, so I was furious nothing had been done in terms of real punishment for the man. What kind of precedent or example does that set for the community? I was set on notifying the Gendarmerie and having the kidnapper thrown in prison, but after further discussion with my chief and the girl’s father, I decided I would only notify Social Affairs and another NGO, called Cor Afrique; two organizations that deal with these kinds of issues all the time. Ideally, it should have been someone from my village, a Togolese person to do the reporting, but since in their eyes the problem had already been settled, no one was planning on it. I informed the authorities and I left the decision how to respond in their hands. I’m not sure when or if they will do something. My only concern at this point is retaliation on behalf of the kidnapper since he does live in my village, and I would be the one responsible if he is eventually imprisoned. I’m not too worried though; I have the support of my chief, community members and the people who work for Social Affairs and Cor Afrique, but you never know…
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
A Quickie
The last three weeks have been particularly stressful. My International Women's Day event didn't go as I had planned. The Girl's Soccer Tournament finished, but not without it's share of frustrations. One of my Moringa trainings was really quite, well, pathetic and I have another one that has yet to even happen. My Maifoun Cooperative forced me to give them an ultimatum. I had a teacher try to sabotage both of the Girl's Sleepovers I organized. As far as work and projects go, I have hit an all-time low of discouragement. I have shed many tears these past few weeks, and I am not sure how the future of my work experience will play out.
I wonder a lot about my effectiveness in Togo. Who am I doing this for and what do I expect to get out of it?
Just before I left my village a neighbor came to me and told me that some Nigerian had kidnapped his daughter to take her to Nigeria. Yet instead of notifying the authorities, he chose to spend the day after the kidnapping vaccinating other children against polio. I reprimanded him and the morning I left he told me a meeting had been called. I will be curious to see how this one plays out.
There was also the news of the Benin Peace Corps Volunteer who was murdered in her village by four Ebo men. This volunteer's village is on the Togo/Benin border, near Kara, my regional capital. It is overwhelmingly tragic and I feel the most for her parents.
I am reading a book on Pranic Healing (sounds a bit new age, I know). I am really intrigued, and I curious to see if it will work for me. I am also reading about Chakras and meditation.
I am in Ghana this week, soaking up a well-appreciated vacation.
I wonder a lot about my effectiveness in Togo. Who am I doing this for and what do I expect to get out of it?
Just before I left my village a neighbor came to me and told me that some Nigerian had kidnapped his daughter to take her to Nigeria. Yet instead of notifying the authorities, he chose to spend the day after the kidnapping vaccinating other children against polio. I reprimanded him and the morning I left he told me a meeting had been called. I will be curious to see how this one plays out.
There was also the news of the Benin Peace Corps Volunteer who was murdered in her village by four Ebo men. This volunteer's village is on the Togo/Benin border, near Kara, my regional capital. It is overwhelmingly tragic and I feel the most for her parents.
I am reading a book on Pranic Healing (sounds a bit new age, I know). I am really intrigued, and I curious to see if it will work for me. I am also reading about Chakras and meditation.
I am in Ghana this week, soaking up a well-appreciated vacation.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Two Steps Forward, One Step Back
1/25/2009
I mentioned in a previous blog that my middle school burned down. Well, it’s sad but true. It happened a few days before New Years. As it is was told to me, some kids were playing with matches… And I am sure you can guess the rest. The school was not yet state-sponsored, meaning it lacked a proper building. The two classrooms for grades 5 and 6 (these grades do not really correlate with American grade levels) are housed in a separate structure than grades 4 and 3. Actually, the classroom for grade 3 hasn’t even been built yet; that’s next year. The structures are made of wooden posts and straw roofs and walls. This year three mud walls were constructed for the chalkboards in the classrooms in question. In both classrooms combined there were about 50 wooden benches/desks. So you can imagine the havoc fire would do to a school built primarily of wood and straw. Everything was destroyed except for parts of the mud walls. I found about this four or five days after it happened. My counterpart told me and was shocked that no one had bothered to mention to me previously, especially since I hold all my club there so I kind of, sort of work there. I was told that maybe the reason no one said anything was due to shame, but I have no idea if this was the case. My counterpart told me also that the beginning of the second trimester would be delayed in order to reconstruct the building. He told me that rebuilding the walls and roof wasn’t such a big deal as the materials are pretty cheap, especially this time of year. The concern rested the desks. Desks or more accurately the wood for desks is not only hard to find but also very expensive. This poor school already has a hard enough time raising money to fund its normal expenses let alone the additional sum of rebuilding 50 new desks. But, they persevere and somehow manage to find a way. And the while my counterpart is telling me this I can’t stop smiling and even snicker a little – like what else can go wrong.
Friday, January 16th my village received a very special visit from the only female government minister. Oddly enough, she happens to come from my area of Togo, which is a testament to her strength and ambition since I live in one of the least female-friendly areas of Togo. She found out that the school burned down, so she went out and bought enough tin to build a roof. The 16th was the day she came to my village to present her gifts and see the school. My village went crazy. Of course, all my work got canceled for the afternoon. School was let out. The village ladies all brought out their Tchouk (local beer) and Soja (soy cheese) to sell. A whole ceremony was organized for the Minister’s arrival including speeches, singing, dancing, drums, marching and more speeches. It was actually really nice to see not only a Togolese person being generous, but a government official at that. She not brought the tin for the school, but brought soccer balls, and notebooks and calendars and chalk. I thought well maybe it was a good thing the school burned down because they never would have received this otherwise. The Minister even gave 20,000 francs CFA (about $40) to the community, but didn’t stipulate what it was to be used for, so of course people wanted it to drink. I think the Prefet was even called in the mediate that situation. I made an appearance at this ceremony as it would have been rude not to come, but I thankfully for one of the times got to hang back in the crowd, blend in and be apart of the masses.
So last Tuesday I went to the school to say hello, to see how things were going. The students were rebuilding the mud walls. I asked my school director when they were going to put up the roof. He said probably not until next year. Next year?! Why, I asked. Because the Minister only bought the tin, she didn’t buy any of the nails or braces or the wood for the beams/rafters nor did she pay for the labor it will cost to put the roof on. My director informed that all of these things cost and cost a lot, and the school still doesn’t have all the desks replaced yet. So, students are squished together on these benches three and four to a bench instead of the normal two and are expected to continue to learn. I guess, at least, they not sitting on the dirt floor.
I feel terrible laughing about all this, but it is just to a point of absurdity and ridiculousness. This poor school can’t seem to catch a brake, and the person I feel the most for is my counterpart who works tirelessly not just with one school but both the middle and primary schools and he works with the village development committee not to mention with me – Peace Corps.
I mentioned in a previous blog that my middle school burned down. Well, it’s sad but true. It happened a few days before New Years. As it is was told to me, some kids were playing with matches… And I am sure you can guess the rest. The school was not yet state-sponsored, meaning it lacked a proper building. The two classrooms for grades 5 and 6 (these grades do not really correlate with American grade levels) are housed in a separate structure than grades 4 and 3. Actually, the classroom for grade 3 hasn’t even been built yet; that’s next year. The structures are made of wooden posts and straw roofs and walls. This year three mud walls were constructed for the chalkboards in the classrooms in question. In both classrooms combined there were about 50 wooden benches/desks. So you can imagine the havoc fire would do to a school built primarily of wood and straw. Everything was destroyed except for parts of the mud walls. I found about this four or five days after it happened. My counterpart told me and was shocked that no one had bothered to mention to me previously, especially since I hold all my club there so I kind of, sort of work there. I was told that maybe the reason no one said anything was due to shame, but I have no idea if this was the case. My counterpart told me also that the beginning of the second trimester would be delayed in order to reconstruct the building. He told me that rebuilding the walls and roof wasn’t such a big deal as the materials are pretty cheap, especially this time of year. The concern rested the desks. Desks or more accurately the wood for desks is not only hard to find but also very expensive. This poor school already has a hard enough time raising money to fund its normal expenses let alone the additional sum of rebuilding 50 new desks. But, they persevere and somehow manage to find a way. And the while my counterpart is telling me this I can’t stop smiling and even snicker a little – like what else can go wrong.
Friday, January 16th my village received a very special visit from the only female government minister. Oddly enough, she happens to come from my area of Togo, which is a testament to her strength and ambition since I live in one of the least female-friendly areas of Togo. She found out that the school burned down, so she went out and bought enough tin to build a roof. The 16th was the day she came to my village to present her gifts and see the school. My village went crazy. Of course, all my work got canceled for the afternoon. School was let out. The village ladies all brought out their Tchouk (local beer) and Soja (soy cheese) to sell. A whole ceremony was organized for the Minister’s arrival including speeches, singing, dancing, drums, marching and more speeches. It was actually really nice to see not only a Togolese person being generous, but a government official at that. She not brought the tin for the school, but brought soccer balls, and notebooks and calendars and chalk. I thought well maybe it was a good thing the school burned down because they never would have received this otherwise. The Minister even gave 20,000 francs CFA (about $40) to the community, but didn’t stipulate what it was to be used for, so of course people wanted it to drink. I think the Prefet was even called in the mediate that situation. I made an appearance at this ceremony as it would have been rude not to come, but I thankfully for one of the times got to hang back in the crowd, blend in and be apart of the masses.
So last Tuesday I went to the school to say hello, to see how things were going. The students were rebuilding the mud walls. I asked my school director when they were going to put up the roof. He said probably not until next year. Next year?! Why, I asked. Because the Minister only bought the tin, she didn’t buy any of the nails or braces or the wood for the beams/rafters nor did she pay for the labor it will cost to put the roof on. My director informed that all of these things cost and cost a lot, and the school still doesn’t have all the desks replaced yet. So, students are squished together on these benches three and four to a bench instead of the normal two and are expected to continue to learn. I guess, at least, they not sitting on the dirt floor.
I feel terrible laughing about all this, but it is just to a point of absurdity and ridiculousness. This poor school can’t seem to catch a brake, and the person I feel the most for is my counterpart who works tirelessly not just with one school but both the middle and primary schools and he works with the village development committee not to mention with me – Peace Corps.
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