1/6/2009
Despite what you may have heard, people here love getting their picture taken, especially when there’s the instant gratification of digital cameras. I delight in the squeals of excitement and laughter I get when I can turn my camera around and show them their very own pixilated image so much so that I often throw my head back in laughter too. I romanticize the day when I can send my fellow villagers hard copies of these photos and they can continue to goggle at the wonderment of technology.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The Beginning of the End
12/30/2008
I am more excited to welcome this New Year’s celebration than any other in resent memory. It marks a milestone for me, one I’ve waited for in great anticipation. This January 1st will not simply be another party and all its spoils it will be the light at the end of the tunnel. And now, I get to savor these moments since their demise is imminent and make them all that more precious.
I am more excited to welcome this New Year’s celebration than any other in resent memory. It marks a milestone for me, one I’ve waited for in great anticipation. This January 1st will not simply be another party and all its spoils it will be the light at the end of the tunnel. And now, I get to savor these moments since their demise is imminent and make them all that more precious.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
The Questions Game
12/13/2008
I’ve hit a writer’s block, not for lack of material but rather how to express it. Shall I discuss the wonders of the Moringa tree? Or perhaps, why I’ve begun to hate fowl? Would you like me to capture the beauties of dusk in my village? May I rant upon the atrocities of bureaucracy or the futilities of modern-day development work? Would you mind terribly if I gloat about how I have the best latrine in Peace Corps Togo? Do you want to hear how I went to my village market yesterday and within 30 seconds of entering was harassed about buying some woman baby clothes or some man saying, “blah blah marriage blah blah” (those are the days that put me in a nasty mood!)? Are you interested in the massive brush fire I witnessed last night from my courtyard and how I visited the snowy ruins today? May I expound on poverty and what that means exactly because there seems to be a discrepancy?
Every time I try to begin, I end up scratching out my remarks in disgust, in embarrassment. Maybe it has something to do with my fear of committing these words to digital permanency, but whatever ails me and retards my ability to express myself, I will try to do better in the future. It is part of my job.
I am no writer.
I’ve hit a writer’s block, not for lack of material but rather how to express it. Shall I discuss the wonders of the Moringa tree? Or perhaps, why I’ve begun to hate fowl? Would you like me to capture the beauties of dusk in my village? May I rant upon the atrocities of bureaucracy or the futilities of modern-day development work? Would you mind terribly if I gloat about how I have the best latrine in Peace Corps Togo? Do you want to hear how I went to my village market yesterday and within 30 seconds of entering was harassed about buying some woman baby clothes or some man saying, “blah blah marriage blah blah” (those are the days that put me in a nasty mood!)? Are you interested in the massive brush fire I witnessed last night from my courtyard and how I visited the snowy ruins today? May I expound on poverty and what that means exactly because there seems to be a discrepancy?
Every time I try to begin, I end up scratching out my remarks in disgust, in embarrassment. Maybe it has something to do with my fear of committing these words to digital permanency, but whatever ails me and retards my ability to express myself, I will try to do better in the future. It is part of my job.
I am no writer.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Alternative Preoccupations
12/8/2008
Much has happened in these last two months since I’ve been back. Busy, busy, busy. Despite all the opportunities to share my tasty tidbits and juicy African anecdotes, my desire to write has only waned.
My most startling observation is my feelings in relation to home, America. My first year here was plagued by the desire of home, enticing familiarity. I felt as though I kept looking back, over my shoulder and across the world. Whereas now, I am, at least, facing forward and seeing my world with more appreciative eyes, no longer blurred with tears of homesickness. Two years, believe it or not, probably not if you‘re a new volunteer, goes quite fast and I was fearful that it would be over before I could rid myself of preoccupations and enjoy it. So presently, I am not particularly interested in returning physically or mentally back to America, which is why I haven’t written in so long. My apologies; I am still alive and well... for the most part.
October was AIDS Ride. A national event, but divided regionally, volunteers pumped lactic acid through their thighs and sweated heaping spoonfuls of salt all across Togo in an effort to educate the more rural villages about everything HIV and AIDS. It was a relief to come back and have a project waiting for me, especially one in which I was with a group of fellow volunteers and friends and all that was required of me was to pedal my little bike and show people how to put on a condom. I am quite skilled at the condom demonstration now.
I opted to skip Halloween this year. It’s very easy to bypass American holidays here. I felt obligated to feel sad about not celebrating All Hollow’s Eve, but I wasn’t. I chose to go to Lome to watch the election coverage instead. Nothing against Halloween, but watching Barack Obama give his acceptance speech as the first black president of the United States while I am sitting in Togo, West Africa… well, there’s no contest. It was quite possibly one of the best moments of my life, definitely the most historic. I still can’t really wrap my head around it.
I don’t think I have ever mentioned that I am the Chair of the 2008-2009 Gender and Development (GAD) Committee for Peace Corps Togo??? This is not prestigious; it is simply a position that I have filled. Every Peace Corps country has a GAD or Women in Development Committee. The idea is to promote and support gender-related projects. So currently, we fund the Karren Waid Scholarship Program, which sends qualifying Togolese girls to school beginning from middle school up to university, and we fund Leve-Toi Jeune Fille quarterly magazine. I wanted to start a small project fund for volunteers, so that I could recycle the money we earn from fundraising back to volunteers’ projects. All of our fundraising here is through Volunteers, so when the Administration told us in September that they were cancelling our biggest fundraiser, the All Volunteer Conference, our jaws dropped. Our second biggest fundraiser, Tour Du Togo, is a bike ride for volunteers from Cinkase (northern most city in Togo) to Lome (southern most city in Togo) was also postponed by the Administration for “security reasons” and it looks like it too will be canceled if we cannot find a compromise soon. Needless to say this year’s GAD Committee received a fundraising debacle on our laps, and I have spent the last month traveling to Lome, to Dapaong (other end of the country), to Atakpame (other end of the country) and then back to Lome, trying to get a handle on how we are going to move forward and support our current projects let alone any new ones. I will be honest; I would rather be in my village working with my Girl’s Club, Study Skills Club and prepping for my Moringa training session than dealing with politics and bureaucracy. But, my innate sense of responsibility kicks in and I do what needs to be done or what I think needs to be done.
On a lighter note, I have rescheduled my soccer tournament for the first weekend in February. I just need to make sure I have enough volunteers who want to play…
I am also excited to report my new found motivation for my second year here. I have all kinds of ideas for new projects and I have already started some of them. So wish me luck.
Happy holidays.
Much has happened in these last two months since I’ve been back. Busy, busy, busy. Despite all the opportunities to share my tasty tidbits and juicy African anecdotes, my desire to write has only waned.
My most startling observation is my feelings in relation to home, America. My first year here was plagued by the desire of home, enticing familiarity. I felt as though I kept looking back, over my shoulder and across the world. Whereas now, I am, at least, facing forward and seeing my world with more appreciative eyes, no longer blurred with tears of homesickness. Two years, believe it or not, probably not if you‘re a new volunteer, goes quite fast and I was fearful that it would be over before I could rid myself of preoccupations and enjoy it. So presently, I am not particularly interested in returning physically or mentally back to America, which is why I haven’t written in so long. My apologies; I am still alive and well... for the most part.
October was AIDS Ride. A national event, but divided regionally, volunteers pumped lactic acid through their thighs and sweated heaping spoonfuls of salt all across Togo in an effort to educate the more rural villages about everything HIV and AIDS. It was a relief to come back and have a project waiting for me, especially one in which I was with a group of fellow volunteers and friends and all that was required of me was to pedal my little bike and show people how to put on a condom. I am quite skilled at the condom demonstration now.
I opted to skip Halloween this year. It’s very easy to bypass American holidays here. I felt obligated to feel sad about not celebrating All Hollow’s Eve, but I wasn’t. I chose to go to Lome to watch the election coverage instead. Nothing against Halloween, but watching Barack Obama give his acceptance speech as the first black president of the United States while I am sitting in Togo, West Africa… well, there’s no contest. It was quite possibly one of the best moments of my life, definitely the most historic. I still can’t really wrap my head around it.
I don’t think I have ever mentioned that I am the Chair of the 2008-2009 Gender and Development (GAD) Committee for Peace Corps Togo??? This is not prestigious; it is simply a position that I have filled. Every Peace Corps country has a GAD or Women in Development Committee. The idea is to promote and support gender-related projects. So currently, we fund the Karren Waid Scholarship Program, which sends qualifying Togolese girls to school beginning from middle school up to university, and we fund Leve-Toi Jeune Fille quarterly magazine. I wanted to start a small project fund for volunteers, so that I could recycle the money we earn from fundraising back to volunteers’ projects. All of our fundraising here is through Volunteers, so when the Administration told us in September that they were cancelling our biggest fundraiser, the All Volunteer Conference, our jaws dropped. Our second biggest fundraiser, Tour Du Togo, is a bike ride for volunteers from Cinkase (northern most city in Togo) to Lome (southern most city in Togo) was also postponed by the Administration for “security reasons” and it looks like it too will be canceled if we cannot find a compromise soon. Needless to say this year’s GAD Committee received a fundraising debacle on our laps, and I have spent the last month traveling to Lome, to Dapaong (other end of the country), to Atakpame (other end of the country) and then back to Lome, trying to get a handle on how we are going to move forward and support our current projects let alone any new ones. I will be honest; I would rather be in my village working with my Girl’s Club, Study Skills Club and prepping for my Moringa training session than dealing with politics and bureaucracy. But, my innate sense of responsibility kicks in and I do what needs to be done or what I think needs to be done.
On a lighter note, I have rescheduled my soccer tournament for the first weekend in February. I just need to make sure I have enough volunteers who want to play…
I am also excited to report my new found motivation for my second year here. I have all kinds of ideas for new projects and I have already started some of them. So wish me luck.
Happy holidays.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Blip on the Screen
10/10/2008
I’ve returned. After three weeks of visiting the U.S. I find myself back in a familiar space. Quite literally on the anniversary of my year in Togo, I flew out. To my delight and surprise, my brother thought of the brilliant plan to fly me home to surprise my mother for her 60th birthday party. So as of July when I received my flight confirmation, I had been anticipating, planning and fantasizing about my trip home. Both my brother and I couldn’t stop dreaming of the perfect plan to squeeze the maximum amount of tears out of our mother. Every time I thought about it, I got a little weepy. I also couldn’t stop thinking about the amenities I would be privy to again. The hot showers, the dishwasher, the washing machine and dryer, the supermarkets, the restaurants, the beds-- oh, the luxurious beds and most importantly, the dancing. And there was my friends to see of course. So I was pretty pumped to come home. This trip was going to be a nice way to break up my two years here in Togo.
So the plan was to fly to Portland with my two brothers since that was where my mother was celebrating her birthday. The family knew that my brothers were coming to surprise my mother, but no one had any idea that I was going to be there. So when I walked in and saw my aunts for the first time, I couldn’t hold it in any longer and we all started crying. The surprise was set up so that my mom was out shopping and when she came home she would first meet two friends from school, also a surprise. Then my aunt handed my mom a card from the three of us (her children) wishing her well and sorry we couldn’t be there to help celebrate. At which point, my oldest brother walked in, and she was happy to see him and gave him a big hug, but would kind of expect this sort of thing out of him. Then my middle brother walked in, and she was slightly more shocked since it is somewhat out of character for my middle brother to do something in that nature. She was getting a little more emotional and teetering on the point of tears. I was around the corner asking people, “Should I go? Should I go?” I was nervous, on the brink of losing it myself, and walked out. As soon as we saw each other, we both started crying. Her face was flushed red, tears streaming down her face and her hands were on her knees. We embraced. It was priceless, worth every minute of the 21-hour flight, and hopefully every penny my brother spent to get me out there. I am not sure if I will ever be able to repay him; it was beyond generous.
The entire trip was something of a marathon of visiting family and friends, running around trying to see, well, everything. It was a blur of lunches, dinners, parties, dancing, hanging out, drinking, eating, shopping, talking, blah, blah, blah. People kept asking me how I liked it, meaning Peace Corps, Togo, all of it. That was and is a difficult question to answer. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I hate it. I have good days and bad days. This thing is a bit of a rollercoaster, and we, as volunteers, can only hope that with time the valleys and the peaks of this wild ride become less and less intense and extreme. I think I have said this before that this Peace Corps thing is hard. Probably one of the hardest things I have ever done, only because there are very few breaks from it. We live it day after day, 24/7 for two years, more or less. Not many people can do this and I was saddened to learn upon my return to Togo that four new volunteers ET’ed (or Early Terminated), meaning resigned, another good friend of mine was medically separated, and three or four stagiaires or trainees left before they even became volunteers. The night I returned to Africa, after another 21-hour plane ride and severely sleep deprived, I wept. Mostly likely the cause of my angst was due to fatigue and stress, but I was suddenly stricken with the familiar dread I experienced when I first got to Togo. I thought, “Oh no. I can’t go through this again. I won’t make it.” The pain of homesickness here is like nothing I have ever experienced before and it can be crippling. That first night back I sat on the edge of the bed a sobbing, shuddering heap of self-pity thinking of only of how I wanted to jump back on the plane and go home. Fortunately, I had good enough sense to realize I probably just needed sleep, and sure enough as soon as I got back to Togo and saw my friends, I felt, well, excited to be back.
I woke up this morning happy, content with no sign of sadness in sight. I am relieved, disconcerted by the fact that so many volunteers are leaving (which totally sucks, btw), but nonetheless relieved. These next three months are going to be busy with getting back into the swing of things, starting my Girl’s Club again, doing the AIDS Bike Ride Tour, Halloween, Elections, Post Visit, GAD Meetings, Cinkase-To-Lome Girl’s Bike Ride, Thanksgiving, the new GEE/NRM Swear-In, Christmas and New Years. I am actually wondering when I am going to have time to hang out and start working in my village, but you know there’s always time in Africa. Ca va venir.
I’ve returned. After three weeks of visiting the U.S. I find myself back in a familiar space. Quite literally on the anniversary of my year in Togo, I flew out. To my delight and surprise, my brother thought of the brilliant plan to fly me home to surprise my mother for her 60th birthday party. So as of July when I received my flight confirmation, I had been anticipating, planning and fantasizing about my trip home. Both my brother and I couldn’t stop dreaming of the perfect plan to squeeze the maximum amount of tears out of our mother. Every time I thought about it, I got a little weepy. I also couldn’t stop thinking about the amenities I would be privy to again. The hot showers, the dishwasher, the washing machine and dryer, the supermarkets, the restaurants, the beds-- oh, the luxurious beds and most importantly, the dancing. And there was my friends to see of course. So I was pretty pumped to come home. This trip was going to be a nice way to break up my two years here in Togo.
So the plan was to fly to Portland with my two brothers since that was where my mother was celebrating her birthday. The family knew that my brothers were coming to surprise my mother, but no one had any idea that I was going to be there. So when I walked in and saw my aunts for the first time, I couldn’t hold it in any longer and we all started crying. The surprise was set up so that my mom was out shopping and when she came home she would first meet two friends from school, also a surprise. Then my aunt handed my mom a card from the three of us (her children) wishing her well and sorry we couldn’t be there to help celebrate. At which point, my oldest brother walked in, and she was happy to see him and gave him a big hug, but would kind of expect this sort of thing out of him. Then my middle brother walked in, and she was slightly more shocked since it is somewhat out of character for my middle brother to do something in that nature. She was getting a little more emotional and teetering on the point of tears. I was around the corner asking people, “Should I go? Should I go?” I was nervous, on the brink of losing it myself, and walked out. As soon as we saw each other, we both started crying. Her face was flushed red, tears streaming down her face and her hands were on her knees. We embraced. It was priceless, worth every minute of the 21-hour flight, and hopefully every penny my brother spent to get me out there. I am not sure if I will ever be able to repay him; it was beyond generous.
The entire trip was something of a marathon of visiting family and friends, running around trying to see, well, everything. It was a blur of lunches, dinners, parties, dancing, hanging out, drinking, eating, shopping, talking, blah, blah, blah. People kept asking me how I liked it, meaning Peace Corps, Togo, all of it. That was and is a difficult question to answer. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I hate it. I have good days and bad days. This thing is a bit of a rollercoaster, and we, as volunteers, can only hope that with time the valleys and the peaks of this wild ride become less and less intense and extreme. I think I have said this before that this Peace Corps thing is hard. Probably one of the hardest things I have ever done, only because there are very few breaks from it. We live it day after day, 24/7 for two years, more or less. Not many people can do this and I was saddened to learn upon my return to Togo that four new volunteers ET’ed (or Early Terminated), meaning resigned, another good friend of mine was medically separated, and three or four stagiaires or trainees left before they even became volunteers. The night I returned to Africa, after another 21-hour plane ride and severely sleep deprived, I wept. Mostly likely the cause of my angst was due to fatigue and stress, but I was suddenly stricken with the familiar dread I experienced when I first got to Togo. I thought, “Oh no. I can’t go through this again. I won’t make it.” The pain of homesickness here is like nothing I have ever experienced before and it can be crippling. That first night back I sat on the edge of the bed a sobbing, shuddering heap of self-pity thinking of only of how I wanted to jump back on the plane and go home. Fortunately, I had good enough sense to realize I probably just needed sleep, and sure enough as soon as I got back to Togo and saw my friends, I felt, well, excited to be back.
I woke up this morning happy, content with no sign of sadness in sight. I am relieved, disconcerted by the fact that so many volunteers are leaving (which totally sucks, btw), but nonetheless relieved. These next three months are going to be busy with getting back into the swing of things, starting my Girl’s Club again, doing the AIDS Bike Ride Tour, Halloween, Elections, Post Visit, GAD Meetings, Cinkase-To-Lome Girl’s Bike Ride, Thanksgiving, the new GEE/NRM Swear-In, Christmas and New Years. I am actually wondering when I am going to have time to hang out and start working in my village, but you know there’s always time in Africa. Ca va venir.
Monday, September 15, 2008
La Fete Des Ignames
9/8/2008
Friday, the fifth of September, seven thirty a.m. I’m late. I am biking my ass off to beat the rain and get to Guerin-Kouka no later than nine a.m. to catch the car to Bassar. Why am I going to Bassar you ask? For La Fete Des Ignames, of course. Save La Bonne Année (New Years), this is the major P-A-R-T-Y in my petite region of Togo. It is to celebrate the ignames (or yams) that have just been harvested since this region is known for their edible roots. Every even year the festival is in Bassar and every odd year it is Guerin-Kouka. Curse the shoddy construction of bridges and roads in this country because the President called off any national celebrations due to large gaps in the pavement and concrete. So this year, everyone was just kinda doing their own thing. I was voyaging to Bassar not so much for the Fete but for the resulting Fire Dancing, as known in the region of Bassar, that would ensue. Don’t get all excited. It’s not the same fire dancing that we are familiar with. I’ve already seen the dance, but failed to document it hence the reason for my return.
So the early morning of that September day, I rode. I rode with the wind in my hair and the rain in my face. I arrived at nine o’clock on the dot to witness my cluster mate in the bush taxi leaving me sweaty and wide-eyed in the dust. No worries though. There were five other bush taxis to choose from. So, timetable: cluster mate, Krissy, leaves Guerin-Kouka at nine a.m. traveling as-fast-as-they-can-drive kilometers per hour. Marie waits an hour and leaves Guerin-Kouka at approximately ten a.m., traveling as-fast-as-we-can-possibly-go-on-a-pothole-ridden-dirt-road-until-the-engine-starts-to-smoke kilometers per hour. WAIT!
My vehicle doesn’t even exit Kouka before the engine starts to smoke wildly. For your frame of reference, in Togolese bush taxis the engine is located directly under the front seats. There are a total of five bench seats, intended for three people each, but in Togo, it is four or five per bench. The brakes throw us all forward as the taxi comes to stop, the front seat passengers throw open the passenger door and pile out. As soon as the passengers in the rear of the vehicle see the grey smoke, they don’t ask questions, they run, clamor, crawl, climb over seats and other passengers. Never ever have I had the pleasure or displeasure to be submerged in such an intense panic-stricken situation. I sat in the middle of the very back seat of this deteriorating semblance of a van, calming observing the woman next to me step all over me to get out. I’ve also never really felt like I was in any danger of death or dismemberment inside or outside of Togo, until this very moment. I just kept wondering if we were going to blow up. The gas tank is right there. What would I do? Did I have time to get out and make it to safety? My body became really numb and I remember only feeling and hearing the beating of my heart. Beat. Beat. Beat. Suddenly, I am high on adrenaline. I would rather perish completely than survive disfigured, deformed. Just my choice. Strange. The guy next to me didn’t move either; he just sat there smiling. It made me feel better. Sooner rather than later, we learn that all it was was smoke. The passengers laughed it off like it was nothing, and the worst, most horrible thought fluttered across my mind: why were you so eager to get out, you seem to be so miserable with your lives here. Why bother to save it. Shocked at myself for even thinking this, I reprimand myself. Don’t be stupid.
Reload. We get approximately five more kilometers and we stop again, but not for us, another bush taxi. Who do I see but poor dear Krissy stranded on the side of the road for probably the last hour, not more than five kilometers from Kouka. So far off to a bad start. This second disruption delivers us a Gendarme (military-like police) plus one handcuffed, wounded criminal. The rest my journey, I sat with my eyeballs stuck, staring at the huge gaping wound on the back of this lawbreaker’s head, wondering just how tight those handcuffs were.
At this point, I was not feeling so hot. I hadn’t consumed much nourishment that morning and was feeling a little ill, a little lightheaded from my 25 kilometer ride, and with my life flashing before my eyes and the latest addition to the passenger roster, I prayed to a god, any god, the forces of the universe or nature to just get me to Bassar safely and in one, very much alive, piece.
Eight hours later, I am at a bar in Bassar with ten or so other volunteers getting our drink on. And very much in line with my reputation, I break out with my fiercest booty-shaking moves, so much so, that I drew a crowd with the help of two male counterparts and a small child. We have pictures. Somewhere. Oh girl, I rocked it. I say this with the utmost humility. Good times. It’s disappointing that the Togolese were (and are) not really as enthusiastic about dancing as I would have hoped. All I heard about Africa was how much they loved music and dance, but this is not really proving to be the case with Togo. Even the fire dancing was a little anti-climatic. Essentially, all they do is walk around in a circle, shaking metal legwarmers and horsehair wands. Occasionally, they walk over a log fire. That’s pretty much it. But I guess you have to at least see it once, right. We were all in bed by 12:30 am.
Day two, Saturday, was all about eating, resting, eating, resting, eating some more, traveling to Kabou to rest some more and then gorge ourselves on more food. I only wish I had taken more pictures of the fufu we ate because it was damn good! All hail to the ignames. But really, it’s all about the sauce. Isn’t it always about the juice though? Yum yum!
Sunday, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I did both. Some things are just so ridiculous.
Today was my return to village. I am always happy to go back to my village. It is my sanctuary from all the $h!t that happens elsewhere in Togo. Fortunately or unfortunately for me, my return was welcomed by a new addition to my host-family. My dear host-mother gave birth the previous Saturday to a little baby boy, named Donné. I was just upset that I couldn’t witness the live birth, which was held at the house, in what is technically the kitchen. My plan is to spend a lot of time with Donné so that he never cries at the sight of me, which happens a lot here with small children. It’s the skin. I will always be a stranger here because of it.
But, I do what I can and the rest is left up to you.
Friday, the fifth of September, seven thirty a.m. I’m late. I am biking my ass off to beat the rain and get to Guerin-Kouka no later than nine a.m. to catch the car to Bassar. Why am I going to Bassar you ask? For La Fete Des Ignames, of course. Save La Bonne Année (New Years), this is the major P-A-R-T-Y in my petite region of Togo. It is to celebrate the ignames (or yams) that have just been harvested since this region is known for their edible roots. Every even year the festival is in Bassar and every odd year it is Guerin-Kouka. Curse the shoddy construction of bridges and roads in this country because the President called off any national celebrations due to large gaps in the pavement and concrete. So this year, everyone was just kinda doing their own thing. I was voyaging to Bassar not so much for the Fete but for the resulting Fire Dancing, as known in the region of Bassar, that would ensue. Don’t get all excited. It’s not the same fire dancing that we are familiar with. I’ve already seen the dance, but failed to document it hence the reason for my return.
So the early morning of that September day, I rode. I rode with the wind in my hair and the rain in my face. I arrived at nine o’clock on the dot to witness my cluster mate in the bush taxi leaving me sweaty and wide-eyed in the dust. No worries though. There were five other bush taxis to choose from. So, timetable: cluster mate, Krissy, leaves Guerin-Kouka at nine a.m. traveling as-fast-as-they-can-drive kilometers per hour. Marie waits an hour and leaves Guerin-Kouka at approximately ten a.m., traveling as-fast-as-we-can-possibly-go-on-a-pothole-ridden-dirt-road-until-the-engine-starts-to-smoke kilometers per hour. WAIT!
My vehicle doesn’t even exit Kouka before the engine starts to smoke wildly. For your frame of reference, in Togolese bush taxis the engine is located directly under the front seats. There are a total of five bench seats, intended for three people each, but in Togo, it is four or five per bench. The brakes throw us all forward as the taxi comes to stop, the front seat passengers throw open the passenger door and pile out. As soon as the passengers in the rear of the vehicle see the grey smoke, they don’t ask questions, they run, clamor, crawl, climb over seats and other passengers. Never ever have I had the pleasure or displeasure to be submerged in such an intense panic-stricken situation. I sat in the middle of the very back seat of this deteriorating semblance of a van, calming observing the woman next to me step all over me to get out. I’ve also never really felt like I was in any danger of death or dismemberment inside or outside of Togo, until this very moment. I just kept wondering if we were going to blow up. The gas tank is right there. What would I do? Did I have time to get out and make it to safety? My body became really numb and I remember only feeling and hearing the beating of my heart. Beat. Beat. Beat. Suddenly, I am high on adrenaline. I would rather perish completely than survive disfigured, deformed. Just my choice. Strange. The guy next to me didn’t move either; he just sat there smiling. It made me feel better. Sooner rather than later, we learn that all it was was smoke. The passengers laughed it off like it was nothing, and the worst, most horrible thought fluttered across my mind: why were you so eager to get out, you seem to be so miserable with your lives here. Why bother to save it. Shocked at myself for even thinking this, I reprimand myself. Don’t be stupid.
Reload. We get approximately five more kilometers and we stop again, but not for us, another bush taxi. Who do I see but poor dear Krissy stranded on the side of the road for probably the last hour, not more than five kilometers from Kouka. So far off to a bad start. This second disruption delivers us a Gendarme (military-like police) plus one handcuffed, wounded criminal. The rest my journey, I sat with my eyeballs stuck, staring at the huge gaping wound on the back of this lawbreaker’s head, wondering just how tight those handcuffs were.
At this point, I was not feeling so hot. I hadn’t consumed much nourishment that morning and was feeling a little ill, a little lightheaded from my 25 kilometer ride, and with my life flashing before my eyes and the latest addition to the passenger roster, I prayed to a god, any god, the forces of the universe or nature to just get me to Bassar safely and in one, very much alive, piece.
Eight hours later, I am at a bar in Bassar with ten or so other volunteers getting our drink on. And very much in line with my reputation, I break out with my fiercest booty-shaking moves, so much so, that I drew a crowd with the help of two male counterparts and a small child. We have pictures. Somewhere. Oh girl, I rocked it. I say this with the utmost humility. Good times. It’s disappointing that the Togolese were (and are) not really as enthusiastic about dancing as I would have hoped. All I heard about Africa was how much they loved music and dance, but this is not really proving to be the case with Togo. Even the fire dancing was a little anti-climatic. Essentially, all they do is walk around in a circle, shaking metal legwarmers and horsehair wands. Occasionally, they walk over a log fire. That’s pretty much it. But I guess you have to at least see it once, right. We were all in bed by 12:30 am.
Day two, Saturday, was all about eating, resting, eating, resting, eating some more, traveling to Kabou to rest some more and then gorge ourselves on more food. I only wish I had taken more pictures of the fufu we ate because it was damn good! All hail to the ignames. But really, it’s all about the sauce. Isn’t it always about the juice though? Yum yum!
Sunday, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I did both. Some things are just so ridiculous.
Today was my return to village. I am always happy to go back to my village. It is my sanctuary from all the $h!t that happens elsewhere in Togo. Fortunately or unfortunately for me, my return was welcomed by a new addition to my host-family. My dear host-mother gave birth the previous Saturday to a little baby boy, named Donné. I was just upset that I couldn’t witness the live birth, which was held at the house, in what is technically the kitchen. My plan is to spend a lot of time with Donné so that he never cries at the sight of me, which happens a lot here with small children. It’s the skin. I will always be a stranger here because of it.
But, I do what I can and the rest is left up to you.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Trudging Through Mud
9/3/2008
I’ve been in a funk of late. Most of that funkiness originating from an unrealized soccer tournament, but as with most things, there are underlying strings of tension pulled out by more overt disappointments. I find myself wondering and wrestling with my purpose here. The latest trend in international development work as seen through the limited lens of Peace Corps Togo, is not to help people but to show people how to help themselves, which echoes the famous proverb of the horse and water. But suppose for a minute that the general mentality of the community is that you will help them and even fewer people around you interpret “help” as something other than monetary donations.
Just yesterday a middle school student came to my house and recounted the tale of how his father had too many children and could no longer afford to send him to school. Two and a half weeks before the Rentree or start of school, this student is facing the all too common situation of abandoning school. So what does he do? He comes to my house, of course, to ask me to pay for his school fees. I told him that I didn’t have the money (which is actually true) and that even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to him. I instruct him that he needs to find a way to earn, raise or work for the money. After all, there are hundreds of children here in my small mound of earth that not only abandon school all the time due to lack of funds but never set foot in a classroom on account of financial strain. I want this boy to go to school and I fight the urge to just give him the money because that would be the easiest thing to do. I informed him that there are lots of things he could do to make money and I asked him to come back so we could discuss it and make a plan. He agreed and told me he would come back tomorrow (today).
He didn’t show.
I can only speculate as to why he didn’t come—there are all kinds of reasons. But I can’t help but think that he didn’t want to do the extra work even though he admitted to me he understood the importance of continuing his education.
::Pause for dinner::
Perhaps, I spoke too soon. I ate dinner with my host family tonight. The menu was fufu and pork. Yum! Yum! Quite literally after I finished eating, who strolls up, but my student-in-need. I remind him of the hour (after eight o’clock), far too late for a single woman in the bush to be receiving male visitors in the eyes of the community. People talk here. If I am to be taken seriously or given any kind of respect, there are certain things I cannot do. Plus, I don’t “work” after seven o’clock. So, he says he’s coming back tomorrow morning.
Maybe there’s hope after all; I certainly hope so.
I’ve been in a funk of late. Most of that funkiness originating from an unrealized soccer tournament, but as with most things, there are underlying strings of tension pulled out by more overt disappointments. I find myself wondering and wrestling with my purpose here. The latest trend in international development work as seen through the limited lens of Peace Corps Togo, is not to help people but to show people how to help themselves, which echoes the famous proverb of the horse and water. But suppose for a minute that the general mentality of the community is that you will help them and even fewer people around you interpret “help” as something other than monetary donations.
Just yesterday a middle school student came to my house and recounted the tale of how his father had too many children and could no longer afford to send him to school. Two and a half weeks before the Rentree or start of school, this student is facing the all too common situation of abandoning school. So what does he do? He comes to my house, of course, to ask me to pay for his school fees. I told him that I didn’t have the money (which is actually true) and that even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to him. I instruct him that he needs to find a way to earn, raise or work for the money. After all, there are hundreds of children here in my small mound of earth that not only abandon school all the time due to lack of funds but never set foot in a classroom on account of financial strain. I want this boy to go to school and I fight the urge to just give him the money because that would be the easiest thing to do. I informed him that there are lots of things he could do to make money and I asked him to come back so we could discuss it and make a plan. He agreed and told me he would come back tomorrow (today).
He didn’t show.
I can only speculate as to why he didn’t come—there are all kinds of reasons. But I can’t help but think that he didn’t want to do the extra work even though he admitted to me he understood the importance of continuing his education.
::Pause for dinner::
Perhaps, I spoke too soon. I ate dinner with my host family tonight. The menu was fufu and pork. Yum! Yum! Quite literally after I finished eating, who strolls up, but my student-in-need. I remind him of the hour (after eight o’clock), far too late for a single woman in the bush to be receiving male visitors in the eyes of the community. People talk here. If I am to be taken seriously or given any kind of respect, there are certain things I cannot do. Plus, I don’t “work” after seven o’clock. So, he says he’s coming back tomorrow morning.
Maybe there’s hope after all; I certainly hope so.
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