The Grass is Always Greener

After four days in Benin, three of which were largely spent in a hotel conference room, I’ve decided that Benin is a more advanced version of Togo. Then again, the Benin volunteers heard Togo was a better version of Benin, but I bet none of them ever tried to get from the south to the north of Togo in one day. And we did that almost effortlessly in their country.

The conference was interesting, and I’d like to incorporate some of what I learned in my work. One afternoon we prepared recipes we created, which had to contain a certain amount of calories and protein. My group made mango porridge, which is less delicious than it sounds, but better than I expected.

The evening the conference ended, some Benin volunteers took us to see hippos. One of the volunteers, Holley, works with a guide there who does these tours. For about $2.00 (not including the roundtrip moto ride), the guide leads you down a path to a lake, then escorts you around in a large canoe for as long as you want. It’s so peaceful and beautiful, especially in the evening, that I didn’t care if we saw the hippos. We did, but again, I have no pictures, as it’s unwise to get close enough for pictures (at least with the zoom on my camera). At the end of the tour, the guide gives everyone a shot of sodabi (local liquor that feels like it’s burning holes in your esophagus) and the chance to sign the “livre d’or” – the Book of Gold, which is a school notebook.

On Friday morning, we left Lokossa around 8:00 a.m. in a bush taxi organized by two Benin PCVs. We arrived in Bohicon just in time to catch a bus north to Natitingou, where we took another taxi to the Togolese border. The whole trip was amazingly easy, with minimal harassment and only one long wait for a taxi in Natitingou, which we spent at an internet café.

So that was a fun and educational little trip. Coming back to Savanes was amazing, because it rained a few times, and it looks like spring, all green everywhere. It still feels like summer, though, and my heat rash came back in all its prickly redness the first night in Togo. I just keep telling myself it’s going to cool down soon. I’ll let you know how that works out.

Photo update

Since I'm now in Lome, on the way to that conference in Benin, I have speedy internet access. Here are some photos... from months ago.

Koudapani (cultural festival for the Oti prefecture - that's where I live) festival in Mango in January.

With Heidi at the reservoir outside Mango where the hippos live (no hippo pics, sorry, they were too far away for any good pictures)

The girls who played in the Gando vs Sagbiebou game on March 9th - no, those are not our uniforms, we borrowed them.

The girls who didn't get to play in that game.

Saturday morning runners.

Hello Again

My father told me on the phone last week that my “readership awaits”. Apologies, readers. When I was in Dapaong two weekends ago, I had little motivation to write about my activities in village. I think I’m at the stage in my service called What Am I Doing Here? At least, I hope it’s a stage.

I spent a lot of mornings at the clinic this month, recording kids’ weights and names. Then Bila, one of the clinic workers, and I visited some of the kids at home to conduct surveys with their mothers. All this is in preparation for a Hearth program seminar in Benin next week. More on the Hearth program if I can actually get it to work in village. It’s basically a program that teaches mothers how to prepare various nutritious meals for their children. And as we’re in the famine season, now would be a great time to do this. Unfortunately, the rain is also starting. Rain means fieldwork and fieldwork probably means everyone stops coming to any activities I plan.

Not that attendance is high in the first place. I finally had eight girls show up for a sex-ed class this Wednesday. Perhaps I could get a bigger crowd if I said, “We’re going to talk about sex!” Or maybe it would scare everyone away.

Bila and I gave a talk on family planning to about 27 women in the market. Three or four ran away when I showed a picture of man putting on a condom. The ones who stayed until the very end, though, were very adamant about the benefits of birth control. Then this week, the imam’s wife, who missed that talk but apparently heard about it, came and asked me about natural methods. I told her what I could but encouraged her to visit the mid-wife for more info.

Life in my compound has been… troubled. The younger girl, Hanatou, decided she no longer loved me this month. And she started whine-crying (not real, I Just Fell and Hurt Myself Crying, no, I’m Not Getting My Way Crying) at everything. Lately, she’s started greeting me again and has stopped crying when I say her name. There’s still the occasional wailing incident, though. I like it best when that happens around 1 a.m.

Two weeks, ago, the village soccer team spent the night in our courtyard. The school director, who lives in the compound, coaches the team. He also helps out with the girls’ team, which has now fallen aside since the men’s team seems to be in season. Thanks a lot. Anyway, the guys had a game on a Wednesday, so that Tuesday night the whole team plus many more men crowded the compound. I’ve been sleeping on a cot on my porch because it’s too hot to sleep inside, but I spent that night in the house. They had a game again yesterday, but Saibou (nurse counterpart) told me he told them that they couldn’t sleep at people’s houses. So they slept at the school.

Finally, Hanatou’s parents have taken to extended shouting matches. One took place just before my last trip to Dapaong. At the time, I suspected Mr. might have hit his wife, Alima. This Tuesday evening, they started up again. They shout for a while, he leaves, she rants at him in his absence. On Wednesday morning, they were at it again, full force. I have NO idea what they’re saying, because it’s all in local language, and not a local language I know.

So I had just bucket-bathed and was getting ready to go to the clinic when I heard scuffling. Because I’m nosy (let’s call it concerned), I peeked out the door. She was holding a wash basin over her head, threatening or defending, but definitely yelling. He was walking away. Then she yelled something, he 180ed, knocked her on the ground and his arms started flying. I ran out in only my pagne wrap (so, basically a towel), yelling, “Hey! Hey! Stop!” and what I think is his name. The old lady in the hut next door also ran over, and after a small eternity, he stopped, walked towards me and said, “Awa, c’est fini” (it’s finished) over his wife’s yelling and my, “I don’t know what you’re fighting about! C’est pas bon! I don’t understand!”

I still don’t know what they’re fighting about, but even if she’s saying terrible things about his mother, it’s not ok to beat your wife. I know I should probably mind my own business, but when it takes place in my courtyard in broad daylight, it becomes my business. Fortunately, he’s been traveling to Lome a lot, giving us some peace.
And that’s the news from Sagbiebou, where there are more mangoes than the women can sell, but still no toilet paper.

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.