Why It's Easier to be a Togolese Man

Zenabou was a ninth-grade student in Sagbiebou. She was one of the three girls on my six-person Women’s Day committee. She came to clubs, ran with the “footing” group every Saturday, and was one of the more talented girls on our newly formed soccer team. Two weeks ago, she gave me a little local language lesson while we waited for the car to take us to the team’s first real game in Gando. That Wednesday, on the sidelines at a boys’ game, she was kicking a ball around with her friend Adjara .

This Monday morning at our training in Pagala, my counterpart, Bila, told me that Zenabou died Sunday night. He didn’t know why, so during the day, I came up with my own answers. Young people who have died in my life died from meningitis, Long Q-T Syndrome (a heart condition) and car accidents, so I grouped Zenabou into the random deaths club, blaming maybe meningitis, maybe some other viral infection. These were situations I could handle.

Bila caught me on my way to dinner that evening, and once again, corrected my idealistic assumptions. Zenabou took pills to give herself an abortion. And she succeeded all too well.

I have so many questions. Did her friends know she was pregnant? Did she tell anyone what she was going to do? Was she already dead when they took her to the clinic on Sunday night? Who’s the father? What will happen to him? What could I have done to help her?

In the very back of my brain, I feel like I should have done more – made it clear to the girls on the soccer team and in the clubs that I was available if they needed to talk. Had club meetings on more than just HIV/AIDS. Started sex-ed classes. The irony of the situation is that the day I learned all this, we were talking about family planning and sex-ed classes in schools. Now I’m definitely going to address the situation, but it shouldn’t have taken a failed abortion for me to realize that there was a situation that needed addressing.

So. That’s life in Togo, because unfortunately, this isn’t a unique incident. Abortion in Togo is only legal in cases of rape and incest, so girls will take herbs (or pills) to self-abort. The volunteer who led our sex-ed session said she found that in her classes, girls really didn’t make the connection between sex and pregnancy. So condom demonstrations and encouraging abstinence are probably a waste of time unless you start from the very beginning, which it seems is what I’ll have to do.

That’s the bad news. The good news is that Women’s Day went ok, even though we started three hours late, and the chief’s representative didn’t really know what he was attending (“Today on the International Day of… Nutrition? What is it?”). We had a crowd at the soccer game, and in organizing a student vs. apprentice game, I also started a Sagbiebou girls team.

I wish we hadn’t just lost one of our stars.

It Takes Some Getting Used To

Although I’ve been in Togo for almost nine months, there are certain parts of the culture that still surprise or irritate me and that I have yet to fully appreciate. The two that stand out most are touch and observations.

Most Togolese and I have vastly different concepts of personal space. I like personal space; they like to share my personal space. Obviously, in overcrowded bush taxis, there is no option but to acquaint your thighs with your neighbors’. But about a month ago, I got a ride from a counterpart’s friend. I had the back of this Mercedes to myself until we picked up a lady heading home for a funeral. We talked a little, and then she started stroking my hair. I realize my hair is different, and I didn’t really mind. My friend’s counterpart regularly puts her hand somewhere on my friend’s person – thigh, butt, shoulder – and leaves it there throughout the meeting or car ride. So I can handle a little hair-stroking.

The touching seems to be restricted to same sex (again, aside from bush taxis, aggressive street vendors and creepy men). I rarely see public displays of affection between men and women out of adolescence. But boys and men will hold hands or put their arms around each other and no one blinks an eye. In the States, if your son was holding hands with the neighbor boy, you might wonder. Here, it’s a sign of friendship. But if a dude tries to hold my hand, he’s not trying to be friends.

So the touching surprises me; what irritates my politically correct background is the statement of the obvious. Not just things like, “It’s hot,” but the speaking aloud of things we, as Americans, observe and keep to ourselves. If we meet someone overweight, we see that; here, he or she is called “le gros/la grosse” (the fat boy or girl). If you’re white, you’re “The White Man/Woman” and if you’re Asian, you’re “the Chinese”. If you suffer from acne, you will be reminded of this and questioned why you have those “buttons” on your face, and do they hurt? This week, a man asked what was going on with my chest (I have little bumps, probably from the heat, that show if I wear a tank top). I told him I didn’t know, but it was ok.

"Du courage!” he said. Have courage, a common Togolese phrase. I burst out laughing, which is probably rude, but usually I just get angry.

In Lome in December, I walked into a bookstore. It was hot outside (surprise!) and I was sweaty (surprise!). The doorman, who makes sure you check your bag into a cubby, instructed me to do so, giving me the once-over. Noting the sweat droplets and stains on my shirt, he shared his assessment with me.

“You are really suffering from the heat.”

“And you are very observant,” I said, which does not translate (“observant” is NOT a French word).

Anyway, those are the main things that get me. Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes frustrating. It usually depends on if you’re the first or tenth person telling me I’m a white, sweaty person.

The Unfortunate Tale of the Cat in the Latrine... and other stuff

Since I arrived in Sagbiebou, my landlord has gradually expanded the compound. We have an almost completed wall enclosing the yard, and behind my neighbors’ house (the ones across the yard with the two little girls), he’s built a shower stall and the beginnings of a latrine. The latrine is currently only a 10-foot hole with cement walls. A wall with a small square window in the middle divides the hole into two compartments. I don’t know why. I’m not that well-versed in latrine construction.

Up until last week, I threw my food waste behind the house, so I passed the latrine hole daily. I always checked to see if anything was new in the hole – lizards fall in frequently and bake to death since cement walls are kind of hard to climb. Then last Monday, there was something new: a black and white cat. I’m fairly sure this was the same cat I’d occasionally seen dodging around in the field behind my house. It’s probably the only cat in Sagbiebou, and I doubt it belonged to anyone.

Pet or not, I wanted the cat out of the latrine. Lizards can bake, but I didn’t want a baked, starved cat on my head. I also thought little would be more fun for children than tormenting a trapped animal. Mission Rescue the Cat (and make a friend?) began. I thought maybe if I saved it, it might hang out and eat rodents.

It wasn’t much of a mission. All I did was find a plank of wood and lower it into the hole so that it rested on the window of the dividing wall. My neighbor helped, and then we left, hoping the cat would figure that out. We checked throughout the day, but it stayed in a corner. I thought maybe it would take a chance at night, when we were quiet and sleeping.

The next morning the cat and plank were gone. Excellent. The cat climbed out and my neighbor removed the plank. As I turned to go back to my house, Alima, my neighbor’s wife, corrected my idealistic assumptions.

“Les enfants l’ont tué,” she said. The kids killed the cat.

“No. It’s not there anymore, it climbed out,” I told her.

“No. The kids killed it. Look, there’s blood.”

Oh. Indeed. There was blood.

So, apparently, these “kids” (I’m thinking they were probably young adults, because that is a deep hole for children) climbed down and killed the cat with a knife.

“Why?”

“To eat.”

I didn’t like Togo very much that day.

Other than that, the last few weeks have been more good than bad. We’re still doing HIV/AIDS in health club, and the English club met for the third time this Wednesday. I think the students enjoy it, although I don’t know if tongue-twisters and the “Hokey-Pokey” will do much for their English. Last Wednesday, they listened to the Voice of America’s “Special English” news broadcast at my house for the first time. They understood “Monday”. We’ll work on that.

Last Friday, I met with three women and three female students to discuss activities for International Women’s Day. We decided to hold a girls’ soccer match with a message given prior to the game. This will be Sagbiebou’s first Women’s Day celebration, and I hope it begins both a tradition and a girls’ soccer team. The men who lead the Saturday morning runs (totally out of my hands now, which is great) have been talking about a team. My counterpart is among this group, and he told me they want to pick the best players from that game to form a team.

Last Sunday, I went to Mango and rode my bike to see the hippos. There’s a dam about five kilometers outside Mango, and that’s where the hippos hang. Other volunteers said that when they visited, some boys were singing and the hippos seemed to love it. So we tried to sing to them. They were shy and stayed out in the water, poking up their heads to see if we were still there. I suppose shy hippos are better than hungry hippos. Next time I want to see more than eyes and ears, though. Maybe we have to learn the African hippo-calling song, since “Hippos! Hippos!” and a “Whole New World” failed.

one photo from South Africa

I meant to upload pictures yesterday but forgot the camera cable at home. The original title of this post was "Two Photos from South Africa", but then the internet stopped working. Not that exciting, but if I don't post this, I'll just have wasted an hour. Just be happy I resisted the urges to photograph walls of yogurt in the grocery store, fancy furniture display windows and all the food I ate.










The backyard at the Rose Guest House in Pretoria.

Why I'm the Worst Teacher Ever

This month’s update drought comes from distraction, not a lack of electricity or internet.

When I last updated, I was about to start teaching. After a dull New Year’s in village – my fault for failing to seek out the parties – I taught three classes. Then I went to South Africa.

I knew before Christmas that I would have to go sometime in January for certain health expertise unavailable in Togo. I expected more notice. Peace Corps called on a Tuesday afternoon, and by Wednesday evening, my travel buddy (who was actually in physical pain, whereas I was in vacation mode) and I were on a plane from Accra, Ghana to Johannesburg.

I spent exactly a week in Pretoria, living every Peace Corps Togo volunteer’s dream – a painless med-evac to “Africa Lite”. The Peace Corps houses med-evacs in a luxurious guesthouse, and I mean luxurious by American, not Togolese standards. I took hot showers, watched many bad movies on TV, ate granola and yogurt AND an egg dish every morning and swam in the pool twice. Between doctor and hospital visits, we frequented two malls, a flea market, the Peace Corps’ internet and Pretoria’s “White House,” the Union Building. I went to the Botanical Gardens, and I ate almost everything I’ve missed in Togo, except for a cream cheese bagel. Apparently, “cream cheese” in South Africa means something different from American cream cheese. So I had a bagel with melted cheddar. Also tasty.

I believe I actually had more language mishaps speaking English in Pretoria than French in Togo. At the Pick ‘N’ Pay grocery store, I heard the man at the check-out ask me if I wanted a packet (I think he actually said, “Plastic”).

“A what?”

“A packet (or plastic)… gestures at plastic bag. What do you call it?”

“Oh. A bag.”

A few days later, another incident at a different grocery store. I asked an employee at the entrance if there was a toilet. He went outside, and I followed him, expecting him to direct me to another store. He grabbed a shopping cart, went back inside and pushed it through the turnstile. I was still following him, thinking it was kind of rude to decide to clean up and then answer my question. He pointed at the cart.

“You can use that.”

I must have given him a WHAT-are-you-talking-about face.

“You wanted a trolley, no?” Um. No.

After making an idiot of myself all around Pretoria, I headed back to Togo in time for CHAP’s three day Project Development and Management (PDM) seminar. It took place at the Peace Corps Training Center in Pagala. It’s basically a retreat center with bucket showers instead of running water.

I got back to village Friday, went to a prefectural cultural fest in Mango on Saturday, cleaned my filthy house on Sunday and quit teaching on Tuesday. During the three classes I taught, I quickly realized that I can’t teach grammar. Maybe with training I could, but I feel it’s unfair to the students to have me teach instead of the director, who knows what he’s doing and is good at it. I realize it’s also unfair (and pitiful) to agree to teach, and then quit after three rounds, and I feel rotten about it. So I’m going to try out an English club and tutoring instead. Maybe we can have more than three meetings.

After recovering from biking most of November, I spent December in and out of village, accomplishing very little. I had a brief jaunt down to Lome for doctors’ appointments at the beginning of the month, then convinced myself it was silly to start new projects before the New Year. I’m a great volunteer.

About two weeks ago, I had my first running meeting with maybe 10 kids. Six of them started with me at the primary school, and we picked up others along the way. We ran through village on the national highway, and at someone’s yelled request, the students started singing. The song and our two-line formation deteriorated by the end of the 20 minute run. No one showed up last Saturday, so I just ran alone. I’m going to blame the school holiday on the lack of students and hope it’s not because they changed their minds about running on Saturday mornings. They picked the day.

On the 19th, we celebrated the feast of Tabaski (sheep festival) in village. It’s a Muslim holiday commemorating God giving Abraham a sheep to sacrifice in lieu of his son, Isaac. To celebrate, everyone kills and eats sheep.

I was a little nervous about a sheep-slaughtering festival, but it wasn’t too terrible. I only saw three dying sheep and watched my homologue wash his sheep’s intestines and cut up innards. I visited my market lady friends, and in the evening, I participated in dancing. Yes, this means I danced, but mostly I watched. The next day the chief, in the holiday spirit, gave me something in a black plastic bag. I thought it was more rice and cooked meat, because everyone sends each other food on feast days. I got home, eager to eat the rice for lunch. I opened the bag, and it was full of raw meat. I gave it to my neighbors.

On the 23rd, I biked up to Dapaong. I think it’s about 102k, and I’ve biked from Dapaong to village before, but getting here this time was really difficult. There is a long stretch of barely discernible incline leading to the city, and about five kilometers out, I had to stop and walk. This is very frustrating after pushing my bike up real mountains. But I got here, and Amanda said she’d stopped in the same place. She only had a 40k ride from her village.

Christmas passed without all the usual hype, which may be why it didn’t really feel like Christmas. We exchanged small gifts, made lots of food (bread, lots of desserts, pasta salad, chicken, fries, fruit salad, deviled eggs and crazy Scottish baked things by Helen) and ate it at Paul the Lebanese guy’s house. Helen, Amanda and I intended to go to a 9 p.m. mass on Christmas Eve, but we were in pajamas by 7:00. Then Helen said it would last two hours, so we watched Borat instead.

I begin teaching next week when school starts again. I’ll teach third year English three to four times a week. The books I received from the school director provide less guidance than I expected, so I visited the head of school inspection in Dapaong. He’s going to give me a grammar book before I go back to village. I know correct grammar when I hear and see it (usually), but I doubt I could tell you what the present perfect or past progressive is without reference. So I’m a little nervous about trying to teach it with just a student’s book and a course syllabus. Teaching should make for interesting future updates.

I’m trying to get back to village tomorrow, but that would require me to pack my bags, and I’m very lazy. Maybe I’ll get a burst of energy soon.

Happy New Year to all, and celebrate safely.

Merry Christmas

The subject line basically covers everything I want to address. I'm in Dapaong, it doesn't feel like Christmas, and I'm ok with that. However, I hope everyone has a lovely holiday, with or without snow, whatever you prefer.

A more interesting update will follow in the next few days.

Joyeux Noel (wow, I hope I spelled that correctly or my French teachers and my parents will send me mocking emails).