13 Nov 2008
I’ve been procrastinating on writing updates. Then I realized that once I move to Lomé, I will probably have less interesting stories to tell. Now it’s time to play catch-up.
The World AIDS Day presentation the peer educators prepared went… it happened. It was at the elementary school, and our crowd consisted of students, teachers and a few random men. I invited a guy who’d helped train the peer educators, hoping he’d bring other men and women from the village. Instead, he commandeered the presentation, interrupting to explain and add information, then telling a dirty joke he told at my party at the end of the talk (it’s not even funny a joke). I just sat back and let things proceed, interjecting only to transition themes.
I thought it would be fun to have freebies, so I requested t-shirts, caps, key chains, bottle openers and condoms from PSI. This was actually a stupid idea, because it perpetuates the idea that if you go to a talk, you’ll get something. And everyone mobs and scrambles to get their “gift”, which can be disruptive. Then they complain when they get nothing. I gave t-shirts and hats to peer educators and certain people who helped prepare the activities. Peer educators who rarely attended meetings and were absent both at stuff-distribution and for World AIDS Day got nothing. They were very upset (“But we’re peer educators!”). Strangers are still asking me for key chains.
Further evidence that free stuff draws crowds: last week, the Togolese government held a mosquito net campaign and the women came in hordes. The nets are free for anyone with children age five or younger. The children get a vitamin A pill and a pill for parasites. But the women are all there for the nets. We have nets for sale at the clinic, but who comes then? If they’re free, though, women will stand in the sun all day and push, wrestle and yell to get a net. I was at the clinic from 8 a.m. until 4:50 p.m. on Tuesday, feeding kids pills, something children love eating. The clinic staff had to beat people back on multiple occasions.
On Wednesday morning, we ran out of nets around nine. Staff told women to go home, and some did. But when a truck arrived with more nets, I looked outside and could see women with their children running from the huts, paths and the bush surrounding the clinic. It was insane.
After World AIDS Day, I organized reproductive health talks at the middle school. I persuaded four other volunteers to come to Sagbiebou and help me. We each had our own classroom – four rooms of boys and one for all the girls (83 of 363 students). We talked about reproductive organs, sex, contraceptives and alternatives to sex. With a teacher’s assistance, I went into more detail than I feel I could have comfortably gone into in an American classroom. My theory is that French acts as a barrier and I’m more comfortable with certain subjects because it’s not my first language. Or perhaps I just have no shame.
Today I took my neighbor, Alima, to the Gando market (Gando is 17k away and home to my closest neighbor, Andrew). She’d never been, so I said we would go before I left. I imagined strolling around, looking at cloth, maybe having lunch. We arrived, went to Andrew’s, then hit the market. She shopped for a mat until she found an acceptable price, which took about 10 minutes.
“Ok, do you need anything? I’m finished.”
I tried to do the stroll-and-shop thing, but it was almost impossible to walk through the crowds. So I got what I needed and we left. I think we spent maybe two hours in Gando, max, including the wait for the car. But now Alima can say she’s been to the Gando market.
I move to Lomé on the 22nd and am already nostalgic for village. When I catch myself thinking, “How can I leave?” I respond by reminding myself of heat rash, peer educator meetings, overbearing mothers at the clinic and the wildlife just waiting to take over my house. But I’m still eyeing the calendar for three day weekends when I could come visit.
Please send any mail to the original address in Lomé. Email me if you don’t know what that is.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Happy Thanksgiving update
21 Nov 2008
No death or disaster in the last few weeks, so I promise only good, interesting stories today.
I got the PSI job! I’m waiting for the official letter, but last week, the Peace Corps country director heard me complaining about my state of limbo (do I start new projects or am I moving?) on the ride to Dapaong in the air-conditioned Peace Corps car. She called Lomé and confirmed my invitation to begin at PSI in January. I haven’t told anyone village yet, but the Peace Corps community knows. Our rumor mill is so effective: tell two people, and complete strangers congratulate you on your way back to village.
I’m sad to leave Sagbiebou and “Madame Awa.” Children will not shout my name and run up to touch or grab my hand each time I pass. Lomé means anonymity, but that’s ok – less of a readjustment to make when I return to the States. Finishing my service in the capital will also be less satisfying than completing two years in village. But every time people come late, if at all, to a meeting, I look forward to working with Togolese in a professional setting (where I will also probably be made to wait for meetings to start). Maybe I’ll hate it. Lomé is certainly more stressful than village – more harassment, more filth, more traffic. And it’s dangerous, but so are New Orleans and East St. Louis. I’ll just make friends, watch my back and hope for the best.
Volunteers say everything in Togo is more intense, especially our emotions, our ups and downs. So it’s difficult to say if all the coin-flipping and deliberating preceding the PSI news was my own indecisiveness or that compounded with the Togo intensity factor. It’s also hard to say whether my reaction to the following incident was normal Linda or Linda+Togo.
Yesterday, for the first time, someone who is neither Gabe nor my parents called me from the States. One of my college roommates got engaged on November 9th and finally succeeded in reaching me on the phone. Logically, I reacted by squealing, laughing, crying, dancing and jumping around my house, even after hanging up. I realize this is old news to the rest of the world, but congrats to Katie and Kris, and thanks for making my day.
That day was proceeding bizarrely, as days in Togo tend to do. I spent an hour at the middle school waiting for someone who never showed. Then I moved on the clinic, stopping at the Catholic deacon’s house to drink tchakba (millet beer, which is gross. Also, he may not be a deacon, but he helps leads services) and eat soja, which is basically tofu. I had been checking on their youngest daughter, who had diarrhea for weeks, but I think she’s ok now. I still check now and then, and sometimes I time my visits for Thursday mornings, tchakba and soja day. (Update on 11/27/08 - actually, I went by again yesterday and found out Irene, the little girl, died on Tuesday in Mango. I just love when my assumptions are so off-base).
I arrived at the clinic just as the mid-wife received a little boy who had fallen and bitten through his lower lip. They sent him to Bila for stitches, and because blood and needles make me all twitchy, I watched. Bila asked me to “help”, so I held the kid’s hand and tried to distract him by trickling cool water on his burning forehead. Either the anesthetic the clinic uses doesn’t work or they don’t wait long enough for it to settle in, because the kid cried the whole time. Granted, the needle looks like a curved industrial staple and Bila shoved it through the boy’s face six times. I wanted to cry. He was a very brave boy, because he could have screamed and fought, but opted just to cry. If the clinic had lollipops, I would have given him one.
That evening, it rained, which is absolutely freakish. We’re in harmattan, the dry, windy period that falls between the hot and rainy seasons. The last rain fell mid-October, and it’s really not supposed to rain again until May or June. I liked it, but it’s not good for people’s cotton. Andrew, my neighbor, also picked exactly this hour of the day to bike back to his village. When going for a bike ride, never believe a Togolese when he says it’s not going to rain.
The day before the rain and stitches, the landlord celebrated his son’s baptism, or naming ceremony. They call it baptism, but since they’re Muslim, I’m sure it’s different. I can’t actually describe the ceremony, since I missed it. No one called me, and I was taking my cue from the women who were sitting in the compound courtyard. I kept an eye on them while I baked a cake, planning to join them when they went outside the gate, where the ceremony was to be held. Then all the men came back and I was told, “Baptism’s over, time to party!”
Despite carrying the baby for nine months and then delivering it (you know, like the mail, no big deal), the wife doesn’t participate in the naming ceremony. None of the women do. They just get up at four in the morning and cook all day for the men, then sit around waiting to serve them. WHAT?
I did get to go to the dance party that night, but after dancing with all my little kid friends, who insisted that at least four of them hold my hands at all times, I was pooped. Then the dance party turned into a dance show, with everyone else watching two to four people show off unimpressive dance moves. I need more than that to keep me from my bed.
Anyway, the kid has a name now, which I forgot. His sister, a few weeks older and born to the other wife, the one I didn’t know was a wife, is Rachida. And for the record, my landlord has three wives. That’s a lot of wives.
25 Nov 2008
On Sunday, I celebrated my 25th birthday by organizing a small party for friends and co-workers in village. I invited about 17 people. I was worried that all the uninvited would be angry with me and that the party would be a disaster (I’m a pessimistic worrier when it comes to my own plans and projects). Instead, it went better than expected and only one person has commented about his non-invitation.
During the week before the party, I bought ingredients for the dinner, following Saibou’s wife’s instructions. I gave money to a clinic employee to buy 10 guinea fowl. We decided he could probably get a better deal than me with my Caucasian disadvantage (white=rich=higher prices). On Sunday morning, Falila, Saibou’s wife (la grosse, “the fat one”, as opposed to “the one who works for the microfinance”), prepared the food. In a text message, I asked Saibou what time I should come over to help.
“The cooking starts at noon.”
When I arrived at 12:20, the cooking was nearly finished, and I doubt Falila would have allowed me to do anything anyway. They let me buy and transport the kaffa, the white startch we ate with the sauce. Then they fed me fufu for lunch.
After all Falila’s work, I hoped she would come to dinner. I told Saibou to bring a wife, but as usual, the women stayed home. Still, the male to female ratio was pretty close (7:5) – Madeleine and Yendar from the clinic came, and Maïmouna, my market friend, and Moulika, the seamstress, were also there.
We had dinner at the bar, crowding into one of the round, thatched-roof pavilions (“pavilion” is really too grandiose a word for what the Togolese call a paillot. It’s not a hut, because it doesn’t have walls. It’s a paillot. Best word there is for it). Everyone ordered beer, or soda for the more observant Muslims, and then we ate our kaffa, sauce and guinea fowl.
While waiting for the eating to begin, people told histoires drôles, or “funny stories” – jokes. Some PG, but mostly really dirty jokes, with gestures. Some of them were funny, but perhaps I should have provided music for dancing, instead.
Before the night ended, my guests surprised me. While we rested before second helpings, Saibou, who I assumed was on his cell phone in the bar’s yard, stuck his head into the paillot:
“You know we’re not here for a funeral. Santa Claus is arriving soon.”
Then Bila came in carrying a plate with four candles and a “cake”, a pile of Animal Cracker-like cookies. Everyone sang “Happy Birthday” in French, I got teary-eyed and then failed at blowing out only four candles at once.
And that was my party. We ate watermelon for dessert, and then people went home. I’ve had better parties, but this certainly beat last year’s 50k bike ride and warm Coke. Plus, some volunteer friends are spending the night Wednesday, and I expect there will be more celebration then and on Thanksgiving.
On that note, I wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving (sorry if this is late, I’m not sure when I’ll get to functioning internet). Thanks to all who’ve read and commented on my rambling notes all year.
No death or disaster in the last few weeks, so I promise only good, interesting stories today.
I got the PSI job! I’m waiting for the official letter, but last week, the Peace Corps country director heard me complaining about my state of limbo (do I start new projects or am I moving?) on the ride to Dapaong in the air-conditioned Peace Corps car. She called Lomé and confirmed my invitation to begin at PSI in January. I haven’t told anyone village yet, but the Peace Corps community knows. Our rumor mill is so effective: tell two people, and complete strangers congratulate you on your way back to village.
I’m sad to leave Sagbiebou and “Madame Awa.” Children will not shout my name and run up to touch or grab my hand each time I pass. Lomé means anonymity, but that’s ok – less of a readjustment to make when I return to the States. Finishing my service in the capital will also be less satisfying than completing two years in village. But every time people come late, if at all, to a meeting, I look forward to working with Togolese in a professional setting (where I will also probably be made to wait for meetings to start). Maybe I’ll hate it. Lomé is certainly more stressful than village – more harassment, more filth, more traffic. And it’s dangerous, but so are New Orleans and East St. Louis. I’ll just make friends, watch my back and hope for the best.
Volunteers say everything in Togo is more intense, especially our emotions, our ups and downs. So it’s difficult to say if all the coin-flipping and deliberating preceding the PSI news was my own indecisiveness or that compounded with the Togo intensity factor. It’s also hard to say whether my reaction to the following incident was normal Linda or Linda+Togo.
Yesterday, for the first time, someone who is neither Gabe nor my parents called me from the States. One of my college roommates got engaged on November 9th and finally succeeded in reaching me on the phone. Logically, I reacted by squealing, laughing, crying, dancing and jumping around my house, even after hanging up. I realize this is old news to the rest of the world, but congrats to Katie and Kris, and thanks for making my day.
That day was proceeding bizarrely, as days in Togo tend to do. I spent an hour at the middle school waiting for someone who never showed. Then I moved on the clinic, stopping at the Catholic deacon’s house to drink tchakba (millet beer, which is gross. Also, he may not be a deacon, but he helps leads services) and eat soja, which is basically tofu. I had been checking on their youngest daughter, who had diarrhea for weeks, but I think she’s ok now. I still check now and then, and sometimes I time my visits for Thursday mornings, tchakba and soja day. (Update on 11/27/08 - actually, I went by again yesterday and found out Irene, the little girl, died on Tuesday in Mango. I just love when my assumptions are so off-base).
I arrived at the clinic just as the mid-wife received a little boy who had fallen and bitten through his lower lip. They sent him to Bila for stitches, and because blood and needles make me all twitchy, I watched. Bila asked me to “help”, so I held the kid’s hand and tried to distract him by trickling cool water on his burning forehead. Either the anesthetic the clinic uses doesn’t work or they don’t wait long enough for it to settle in, because the kid cried the whole time. Granted, the needle looks like a curved industrial staple and Bila shoved it through the boy’s face six times. I wanted to cry. He was a very brave boy, because he could have screamed and fought, but opted just to cry. If the clinic had lollipops, I would have given him one.
That evening, it rained, which is absolutely freakish. We’re in harmattan, the dry, windy period that falls between the hot and rainy seasons. The last rain fell mid-October, and it’s really not supposed to rain again until May or June. I liked it, but it’s not good for people’s cotton. Andrew, my neighbor, also picked exactly this hour of the day to bike back to his village. When going for a bike ride, never believe a Togolese when he says it’s not going to rain.
The day before the rain and stitches, the landlord celebrated his son’s baptism, or naming ceremony. They call it baptism, but since they’re Muslim, I’m sure it’s different. I can’t actually describe the ceremony, since I missed it. No one called me, and I was taking my cue from the women who were sitting in the compound courtyard. I kept an eye on them while I baked a cake, planning to join them when they went outside the gate, where the ceremony was to be held. Then all the men came back and I was told, “Baptism’s over, time to party!”
Despite carrying the baby for nine months and then delivering it (you know, like the mail, no big deal), the wife doesn’t participate in the naming ceremony. None of the women do. They just get up at four in the morning and cook all day for the men, then sit around waiting to serve them. WHAT?
I did get to go to the dance party that night, but after dancing with all my little kid friends, who insisted that at least four of them hold my hands at all times, I was pooped. Then the dance party turned into a dance show, with everyone else watching two to four people show off unimpressive dance moves. I need more than that to keep me from my bed.
Anyway, the kid has a name now, which I forgot. His sister, a few weeks older and born to the other wife, the one I didn’t know was a wife, is Rachida. And for the record, my landlord has three wives. That’s a lot of wives.
25 Nov 2008
On Sunday, I celebrated my 25th birthday by organizing a small party for friends and co-workers in village. I invited about 17 people. I was worried that all the uninvited would be angry with me and that the party would be a disaster (I’m a pessimistic worrier when it comes to my own plans and projects). Instead, it went better than expected and only one person has commented about his non-invitation.
During the week before the party, I bought ingredients for the dinner, following Saibou’s wife’s instructions. I gave money to a clinic employee to buy 10 guinea fowl. We decided he could probably get a better deal than me with my Caucasian disadvantage (white=rich=higher prices). On Sunday morning, Falila, Saibou’s wife (la grosse, “the fat one”, as opposed to “the one who works for the microfinance”), prepared the food. In a text message, I asked Saibou what time I should come over to help.
“The cooking starts at noon.”
When I arrived at 12:20, the cooking was nearly finished, and I doubt Falila would have allowed me to do anything anyway. They let me buy and transport the kaffa, the white startch we ate with the sauce. Then they fed me fufu for lunch.
After all Falila’s work, I hoped she would come to dinner. I told Saibou to bring a wife, but as usual, the women stayed home. Still, the male to female ratio was pretty close (7:5) – Madeleine and Yendar from the clinic came, and Maïmouna, my market friend, and Moulika, the seamstress, were also there.
We had dinner at the bar, crowding into one of the round, thatched-roof pavilions (“pavilion” is really too grandiose a word for what the Togolese call a paillot. It’s not a hut, because it doesn’t have walls. It’s a paillot. Best word there is for it). Everyone ordered beer, or soda for the more observant Muslims, and then we ate our kaffa, sauce and guinea fowl.
While waiting for the eating to begin, people told histoires drôles, or “funny stories” – jokes. Some PG, but mostly really dirty jokes, with gestures. Some of them were funny, but perhaps I should have provided music for dancing, instead.
Before the night ended, my guests surprised me. While we rested before second helpings, Saibou, who I assumed was on his cell phone in the bar’s yard, stuck his head into the paillot:
“You know we’re not here for a funeral. Santa Claus is arriving soon.”
Then Bila came in carrying a plate with four candles and a “cake”, a pile of Animal Cracker-like cookies. Everyone sang “Happy Birthday” in French, I got teary-eyed and then failed at blowing out only four candles at once.
And that was my party. We ate watermelon for dessert, and then people went home. I’ve had better parties, but this certainly beat last year’s 50k bike ride and warm Coke. Plus, some volunteer friends are spending the night Wednesday, and I expect there will be more celebration then and on Thanksgiving.
On that note, I wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving (sorry if this is late, I’m not sure when I’ll get to functioning internet). Thanks to all who’ve read and commented on my rambling notes all year.
Friday, November 7, 2008
More gloom and doom
6 Nov 2008
I learned somewhere that it’s best to end things on a positive note, so I’ll give my depressing news first, then end on what I consider a fantastic note.
Last week, a village acquaintance died in Mango. He was good friends with my neighbors and spent many hours in our compound. He and I joked that when I taught his kid English, he would give me motorcycle lessons, which is against Peace Corps rules so not something I could do anyway. He had an accident a few months ago that put him on crutches, and when Alima (Mrs. Neighbor) told me he died, I realized I hadn’t seen him for a while. I assumed this was because I’d been running around Togo, but he’d gone to Mango and Kara for treatment. In Kara, they sent him home to his family in Mango, I guess to die. Alima said he had a liver problem. Saibou, my nurse counterpart, guessed a tumor. He’s probably right – the man was always extremely thin. I was still surprised, because I didn’t know he was sick.
On Tuesday I heard more sad news. While I was visiting the new volunteer in Mango, his counterpart, Mr. N (“N” because his name is long and I’ll only butcher the spelling), came by to explain why he could not take the volunteer to see his village that day. His son had drowned in the Oti River. Mr. N had called the new guy to tell him the night before, but New Guy only understood “accident”. I’ve talked to Mr. N frequently in the last months because he was coordinating the construction of New Guy’s house. He said a few kids decided to go out in a canoe and it flipped. Some of them could swim, but not his son.
“Why wouldn’t you teach your kids to swim if you live near water?” I thought, and for once I only thought it. He was composed for a father who’s just lost a child, but people react to death differently than we do in the States. I haven’t seen many adults cry since I’ve been here. Maybe people are just more accustomed to death.
And now the positive note. On Wednesday morning, I woke up and from various radio stations, pieced together that America elected its first black president. I listened to the stories on the BBC all day (based on the broadcasts, all other current events took a holiday to celebrate Obama’s elections), breaking up my listening with excursions around Sagbiebou, where everything was exactly same. United States what?
I got a little thrill out of delivering the news to Mr. Neighbor, with my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth (what a messenger). He thought that was great, but now comes the real test: will Obama govern well? He compared getting elected to getting married – good job, you got married, but now let’s see if you can manage your family. Then he went off on Bush and how America has wasted lives and billions of dollars on the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Someone’s done his homework.
Saibou and I also had an interesting conversation. I asked him if he’d heard the news and he said, yes, that’s why he was tired. He’d stayed up watching television in Mango while the American fell asleep by 10:45 in village. He asked why so many people were crying. Again with the crying – what adult cries in public, especially at election results?
“They’re happy. He’s America’s first black president. This means a lot for many people,” I explained. “I cried a little when I heard. I’m about to cry now! It’s a big deal.”
“Ok. Is he really considered black, though? He’s really light-skinned. But his dad’s from Kenya, right?”
“Yes. Some people said that he wasn’t ‘black enough’, but yes, he’s black.”
Later he asked if in the States, people call out, “Black man! Black man!” or “White man!” like the kids here yell, “Yovo!” at any light-skinned person here. I said no, that would cause problems in most situations.
Finally, he asked why the rest of Africa was so thrilled.
“What do they think Obama is going to do for them? He’s America’s president, not Africa’s.”
I decided that was a rhetorical question, but I think he’s right. No matter what foreign policy or international aid changes occur in the next four years, I doubt places like Sagbiebou will see much change.
And now I’ve totally failed my goal to end positively.
I learned somewhere that it’s best to end things on a positive note, so I’ll give my depressing news first, then end on what I consider a fantastic note.
Last week, a village acquaintance died in Mango. He was good friends with my neighbors and spent many hours in our compound. He and I joked that when I taught his kid English, he would give me motorcycle lessons, which is against Peace Corps rules so not something I could do anyway. He had an accident a few months ago that put him on crutches, and when Alima (Mrs. Neighbor) told me he died, I realized I hadn’t seen him for a while. I assumed this was because I’d been running around Togo, but he’d gone to Mango and Kara for treatment. In Kara, they sent him home to his family in Mango, I guess to die. Alima said he had a liver problem. Saibou, my nurse counterpart, guessed a tumor. He’s probably right – the man was always extremely thin. I was still surprised, because I didn’t know he was sick.
On Tuesday I heard more sad news. While I was visiting the new volunteer in Mango, his counterpart, Mr. N (“N” because his name is long and I’ll only butcher the spelling), came by to explain why he could not take the volunteer to see his village that day. His son had drowned in the Oti River. Mr. N had called the new guy to tell him the night before, but New Guy only understood “accident”. I’ve talked to Mr. N frequently in the last months because he was coordinating the construction of New Guy’s house. He said a few kids decided to go out in a canoe and it flipped. Some of them could swim, but not his son.
“Why wouldn’t you teach your kids to swim if you live near water?” I thought, and for once I only thought it. He was composed for a father who’s just lost a child, but people react to death differently than we do in the States. I haven’t seen many adults cry since I’ve been here. Maybe people are just more accustomed to death.
And now the positive note. On Wednesday morning, I woke up and from various radio stations, pieced together that America elected its first black president. I listened to the stories on the BBC all day (based on the broadcasts, all other current events took a holiday to celebrate Obama’s elections), breaking up my listening with excursions around Sagbiebou, where everything was exactly same. United States what?
I got a little thrill out of delivering the news to Mr. Neighbor, with my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth (what a messenger). He thought that was great, but now comes the real test: will Obama govern well? He compared getting elected to getting married – good job, you got married, but now let’s see if you can manage your family. Then he went off on Bush and how America has wasted lives and billions of dollars on the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Someone’s done his homework.
Saibou and I also had an interesting conversation. I asked him if he’d heard the news and he said, yes, that’s why he was tired. He’d stayed up watching television in Mango while the American fell asleep by 10:45 in village. He asked why so many people were crying. Again with the crying – what adult cries in public, especially at election results?
“They’re happy. He’s America’s first black president. This means a lot for many people,” I explained. “I cried a little when I heard. I’m about to cry now! It’s a big deal.”
“Ok. Is he really considered black, though? He’s really light-skinned. But his dad’s from Kenya, right?”
“Yes. Some people said that he wasn’t ‘black enough’, but yes, he’s black.”
Later he asked if in the States, people call out, “Black man! Black man!” or “White man!” like the kids here yell, “Yovo!” at any light-skinned person here. I said no, that would cause problems in most situations.
Finally, he asked why the rest of Africa was so thrilled.
“What do they think Obama is going to do for them? He’s America’s president, not Africa’s.”
I decided that was a rhetorical question, but I think he’s right. No matter what foreign policy or international aid changes occur in the next four years, I doubt places like Sagbiebou will see much change.
And now I’ve totally failed my goal to end positively.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Vote for CNN Heros
Hello, all -
Ok, I apologize for writing again so soon after that painfully long update yesterday, but here I am anyway. I just got the following email Liz McCartney, my former supervisor at the St. Bernard Project in Louisiana, where I volunteered for about six months before Peace Corps. Here's her email:
"I am writing to ask you a strange favor. I was selected as one of
CNN's Top 10 Heroes of the Year. This came with a $25,000 award that I
donated to SBP. I am now in the running for the $100,000 prize which
will determined through online voting. And there is no limit to the
number of times you can vote. So, I am writing to ask if you will go
to cnn.com/heroes and vote for me. (Louisiana style -- early and
often!) If you could spread the word and encourage your family and
friends to do the same, I would really appreciate it. As you can
imagine, SBP could really use the $100,000 prize!
Things at SBP are going well. We celebrated the completion of house
151 last week. We are moments away from opening a mental health
clinic, developing affordable rental housing for seniors and, most
likely, opening operations in New Orleans..."
So you can see they have come a LONG way from eight volunteers a week and operating out of two rooms in an old appliances repair shop (although they might still be there, I'm not sure). Please take the two minutes it will take your speedy internet to get you to the website and vote. And then tell your friends!
Thanks,
Linda
Ok, I apologize for writing again so soon after that painfully long update yesterday, but here I am anyway. I just got the following email Liz McCartney, my former supervisor at the St. Bernard Project in Louisiana, where I volunteered for about six months before Peace Corps. Here's her email:
"I am writing to ask you a strange favor. I was selected as one of
CNN's Top 10 Heroes of the Year. This came with a $25,000 award that I
donated to SBP. I am now in the running for the $100,000 prize which
will determined through online voting. And there is no limit to the
number of times you can vote. So, I am writing to ask if you will go
to cnn.com/heroes and vote for me. (Louisiana style -- early and
often!) If you could spread the word and encourage your family and
friends to do the same, I would really appreciate it. As you can
imagine, SBP could really use the $100,000 prize!
Things at SBP are going well. We celebrated the completion of house
151 last week. We are moments away from opening a mental health
clinic, developing affordable rental housing for seniors and, most
likely, opening operations in New Orleans..."
So you can see they have come a LONG way from eight volunteers a week and operating out of two rooms in an old appliances repair shop (although they might still be there, I'm not sure). Please take the two minutes it will take your speedy internet to get you to the website and vote. And then tell your friends!
Thanks,
Linda
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The Worst Week Ever/Longest Update Ever
After a great weekend of work and play in Dapaong, I joined six other volunteers and six Togolese counterparts on Savanes’ AIDS Ride 2008. We biked out of Dapaong on Monday morning at 7:30 a.m., and thus began the worst week I’ve had in Togo.
I’m afraid this update may come off as nothing but complaints and whining, but at least some of it is legitimate. Bear with me.
The first day went fine, with the exception of an hour-long lunch delay. The AIDS talks went well all week, although we had to cancel a few due to logistics. We stopped for the night at a school in Namoundjoga, somewhere south-east of Dapaong, showered, ate dinner, then relaxed while the counterparts met with our coordinators (two volunteers).
This is where things began racing downhill. The counterparts expected per diem, which was not in the budget. The coordinators promised to try to make arrangements. I learned about this later, as we weren’t invited to the meeting and I was busy falling into a Benadryl-induced sleep. I had nearly crossed over into unconsciousness when I heard what sounded like bikes falling. It took a few minutes, but I eventually convinced myself that I should get up and try to help with whatever was happening.
What happened did involve bikes and falling: one of our coordinators passed out while moving a bike, then had some kind of a seizure. The chase car driver drove the other coordinator and I out until we found cell phone coverage and could call Lomé. Our medical officers decided our friend should go back to Dapaong that night, then down to Lomé the next morning, accompanied by another volunteer. So in one night we lost two volunteers, and our second coordinator was left to deal with budget issues, food arrangements, village chiefs, volunteers and difficult counterparts – with only my weak attempts at assistance as comfort (Coordinator #1 is now in the States for medical examination, and we sincerely hope she’ll be rejoining us soon).
So, terrible start to the week there. The next day was OK, but of course, Coordinator #2 was stressed all week, and I was stressed for her. Wednesday was the worst for me. I woke up tired, then thought I was going to faint or vomit before the first presentation. I did neither. Instead, after one of our skits, I turned to exit the “stage” and slammed my head into a beam with such force that I ended up on the floor. Everyone panicked. A counterpart nearly pushed a desk on me trying to help. Very, very embarrassing – I shed tears for my dignity, but I wish I had a video tape of this so I could watch it and laugh.
Lunch was disappointingly disgusting that day – even the Togolese didn’t like it (and oh, how they complained about it in our final meeting). Then, on the bike to Mango, our sleep-over spot, I decided to drive through the middle of a puddle. It was a very deep puddle that soaked my shoes and half my bike bag. Granted, this and the following incident are due to my own stupidity (who drives through the middle of the puddle?!).
Certain people will remember an accident in 2005 involving a new digital point-and-shoot and sledding outside Geneva. It appears I do not learn from my dumb mistakes. I recently purchased (finally) a lovely digital SLR Nikon camera that I had to take on AIDS ride (I did lose my little camera’s charger, and we had to have photos for the sponsor, so I did actually have to bring it). I was very careful all week – very careful, that is, until Wednesday night in Mango when I walked away and the bike fell on the cement. And the camera was on the top… and the lens broke (not the glass). It still works well enough so that I can take pictures, but it’s certainly broken. I am still berating myself for being an idiot and now have to figure out how to repair this from West Africa.
So, in addition to my friend seizing, I gave myself another reason to be blue. Then, on Thursday morning, a counterpart flipped his bike and split his large toenail in half. That evening, a volunteer crashed and lost a camera. Amazingly, two villagers found and returned it the next day.
After dinner Thursday, the counterparts tricked Coordinator #2 and I into a meeting. We wanted to play with numbers that night and meet the next morning to give them their money. That afternoon, I’d given the driver money to buy watermelon, so we thought we’d eat ours with them. Instead of a fun chat, we had a serious complaint session.
It started out with someone, representing the group, reminding the coordinator that they were still very concerned about per diem (as if she’d forgotten and hadn’t stressed every day over how to get them something) and that they couldn’t go back to village empty-handed. This is a valid point – they could all have been doing something else that week, and Peace Corps events usually include per diem. Still, certain counterparts had been told that there would be no money, that this was volunteer work, that if they had other things to do, they should do those activities. But they came anyway and acted surprised when they heard there was no money.
They complained about the food, how it was often late in arriving and how it was terrible on Wednesday.
“We only tried it because we didn’t want to hurt your feelings. It gave us diarrhea. That’s not ok.”
“Do you think I wanted to eat that?” I replied. “Will and I ate more than anyone, and we don’t have diarrhea.” What I thought was, “Do you think I enjoy leaving pizza for doughy food with gluey sauce that gives me diarrhea for TWO YEARS? Many things could have caused the diarrhea.”
After many more complaints (pain, fatigue, heat, lack of “encouragement,” which means money), our coordinator spoke. She explained that it was very hard losing a close friend and co-worker to a seizure at the beginning of the week. She hadn’t been in charge of money, so now she was trying to figure that out, as well as everything else. She mentioned that it was discouraging to run around doing everything and never hear a “thank you”. Finally, she said that for Americans, volunteer work means free, and we didn’t realize that it’s not the same here, even if you tell someone there’s no money.
The responses to her show of feelings were, “Volunteer work is for rich people,” and “God will thank you.” This is where I left to cry out of frustration and rage.
Volunteer work is easier the more comfortable you are – if you work three jobs, it’s difficult to find time to work for free. I also think that any time I’ve volunteered, I’ve gotten something more than warm feelings out of it – credit hours, resume padders, experience. In Togo, it’s money. So I shouldn’t judge. But I did, and all I’m left with is, “Why am I wasting two years here, when I could be doing other work that interests me somewhere more comfortable?”
Anyway, we gave them about $8.00 each, plus their travel costs, mostly out of the coordinator’s wallet. The majority of them were still displeased and grumbly and almost refused to sign a shirt the volunteers gave to the coordinator as a “thank you”. After our morning presentations, I came back to find Coordinator #2 lying on a mat, finally knocked out from severe dehydration. She recovered enough to oversee the final presentation, which is grand, as I didn’t know exactly what to do.
So, that was my discouraging week. It’s unfair to let this effect my feelings toward my village, but I can’t help thinking that anyone who’s worked with me has been disgruntled because I didn’t give them any money. I have never wanted to go home as much as this week, but I’m sticking it out in Togo. Just maybe not in my village…
In September, I applied for a position with the organization Population Services International (PSI) in Lomé. They hire a volunteer or two each year to help with their various programs (you can check them out at psi.org). So I would still be a Peace Corps volunteer but with a 9-5 job. I applied to work in their the HIV/AIDS education program, especially with youth and women. There is a chance I’d get to do photo and design work. I had my interview today and I think it went well. Before the interview, I was unsure about taking the job – I feel guilty about leaving village. But I think I can get over it. I’ve always wanted to work with an organization in the HIV/AIDS sector, and I think this would be great experience. I do, however, welcome any advice.
Until next time, and happy elections to all!
I’m afraid this update may come off as nothing but complaints and whining, but at least some of it is legitimate. Bear with me.
The first day went fine, with the exception of an hour-long lunch delay. The AIDS talks went well all week, although we had to cancel a few due to logistics. We stopped for the night at a school in Namoundjoga, somewhere south-east of Dapaong, showered, ate dinner, then relaxed while the counterparts met with our coordinators (two volunteers).
This is where things began racing downhill. The counterparts expected per diem, which was not in the budget. The coordinators promised to try to make arrangements. I learned about this later, as we weren’t invited to the meeting and I was busy falling into a Benadryl-induced sleep. I had nearly crossed over into unconsciousness when I heard what sounded like bikes falling. It took a few minutes, but I eventually convinced myself that I should get up and try to help with whatever was happening.
What happened did involve bikes and falling: one of our coordinators passed out while moving a bike, then had some kind of a seizure. The chase car driver drove the other coordinator and I out until we found cell phone coverage and could call Lomé. Our medical officers decided our friend should go back to Dapaong that night, then down to Lomé the next morning, accompanied by another volunteer. So in one night we lost two volunteers, and our second coordinator was left to deal with budget issues, food arrangements, village chiefs, volunteers and difficult counterparts – with only my weak attempts at assistance as comfort (Coordinator #1 is now in the States for medical examination, and we sincerely hope she’ll be rejoining us soon).
So, terrible start to the week there. The next day was OK, but of course, Coordinator #2 was stressed all week, and I was stressed for her. Wednesday was the worst for me. I woke up tired, then thought I was going to faint or vomit before the first presentation. I did neither. Instead, after one of our skits, I turned to exit the “stage” and slammed my head into a beam with such force that I ended up on the floor. Everyone panicked. A counterpart nearly pushed a desk on me trying to help. Very, very embarrassing – I shed tears for my dignity, but I wish I had a video tape of this so I could watch it and laugh.
Lunch was disappointingly disgusting that day – even the Togolese didn’t like it (and oh, how they complained about it in our final meeting). Then, on the bike to Mango, our sleep-over spot, I decided to drive through the middle of a puddle. It was a very deep puddle that soaked my shoes and half my bike bag. Granted, this and the following incident are due to my own stupidity (who drives through the middle of the puddle?!).
Certain people will remember an accident in 2005 involving a new digital point-and-shoot and sledding outside Geneva. It appears I do not learn from my dumb mistakes. I recently purchased (finally) a lovely digital SLR Nikon camera that I had to take on AIDS ride (I did lose my little camera’s charger, and we had to have photos for the sponsor, so I did actually have to bring it). I was very careful all week – very careful, that is, until Wednesday night in Mango when I walked away and the bike fell on the cement. And the camera was on the top… and the lens broke (not the glass). It still works well enough so that I can take pictures, but it’s certainly broken. I am still berating myself for being an idiot and now have to figure out how to repair this from West Africa.
So, in addition to my friend seizing, I gave myself another reason to be blue. Then, on Thursday morning, a counterpart flipped his bike and split his large toenail in half. That evening, a volunteer crashed and lost a camera. Amazingly, two villagers found and returned it the next day.
After dinner Thursday, the counterparts tricked Coordinator #2 and I into a meeting. We wanted to play with numbers that night and meet the next morning to give them their money. That afternoon, I’d given the driver money to buy watermelon, so we thought we’d eat ours with them. Instead of a fun chat, we had a serious complaint session.
It started out with someone, representing the group, reminding the coordinator that they were still very concerned about per diem (as if she’d forgotten and hadn’t stressed every day over how to get them something) and that they couldn’t go back to village empty-handed. This is a valid point – they could all have been doing something else that week, and Peace Corps events usually include per diem. Still, certain counterparts had been told that there would be no money, that this was volunteer work, that if they had other things to do, they should do those activities. But they came anyway and acted surprised when they heard there was no money.
They complained about the food, how it was often late in arriving and how it was terrible on Wednesday.
“We only tried it because we didn’t want to hurt your feelings. It gave us diarrhea. That’s not ok.”
“Do you think I wanted to eat that?” I replied. “Will and I ate more than anyone, and we don’t have diarrhea.” What I thought was, “Do you think I enjoy leaving pizza for doughy food with gluey sauce that gives me diarrhea for TWO YEARS? Many things could have caused the diarrhea.”
After many more complaints (pain, fatigue, heat, lack of “encouragement,” which means money), our coordinator spoke. She explained that it was very hard losing a close friend and co-worker to a seizure at the beginning of the week. She hadn’t been in charge of money, so now she was trying to figure that out, as well as everything else. She mentioned that it was discouraging to run around doing everything and never hear a “thank you”. Finally, she said that for Americans, volunteer work means free, and we didn’t realize that it’s not the same here, even if you tell someone there’s no money.
The responses to her show of feelings were, “Volunteer work is for rich people,” and “God will thank you.” This is where I left to cry out of frustration and rage.
Volunteer work is easier the more comfortable you are – if you work three jobs, it’s difficult to find time to work for free. I also think that any time I’ve volunteered, I’ve gotten something more than warm feelings out of it – credit hours, resume padders, experience. In Togo, it’s money. So I shouldn’t judge. But I did, and all I’m left with is, “Why am I wasting two years here, when I could be doing other work that interests me somewhere more comfortable?”
Anyway, we gave them about $8.00 each, plus their travel costs, mostly out of the coordinator’s wallet. The majority of them were still displeased and grumbly and almost refused to sign a shirt the volunteers gave to the coordinator as a “thank you”. After our morning presentations, I came back to find Coordinator #2 lying on a mat, finally knocked out from severe dehydration. She recovered enough to oversee the final presentation, which is grand, as I didn’t know exactly what to do.
So, that was my discouraging week. It’s unfair to let this effect my feelings toward my village, but I can’t help thinking that anyone who’s worked with me has been disgruntled because I didn’t give them any money. I have never wanted to go home as much as this week, but I’m sticking it out in Togo. Just maybe not in my village…
In September, I applied for a position with the organization Population Services International (PSI) in Lomé. They hire a volunteer or two each year to help with their various programs (you can check them out at psi.org). So I would still be a Peace Corps volunteer but with a 9-5 job. I applied to work in their the HIV/AIDS education program, especially with youth and women. There is a chance I’d get to do photo and design work. I had my interview today and I think it went well. Before the interview, I was unsure about taking the job – I feel guilty about leaving village. But I think I can get over it. I’ve always wanted to work with an organization in the HIV/AIDS sector, and I think this would be great experience. I do, however, welcome any advice.
Until next time, and happy elections to all!
Sunday, October 19, 2008
A Week of AIDS activities
18 October 2008
I’m in Dapaong again, and it’s all for work.
On Thursday, my program director, Tchao, visited me in village. After quizzing me about my activities, eating watermelon (they’re back!) and visiting Saibou at the clinic, we went to Dapaong in a Peace Corps car. Life in Togo must be so different if you have a private, air-conditioned car.
Today we had our first “AIDS club” meeting, and I think it went really well. A little refresher: the club consists of eight volunteers who will meet once a month with between 50 and 100 kids from a Dapaong AIDS association, Vivre dans l’esperance. The kids are all “infected or affected by AIDS” and some are as young as seven, others as old as 20. The plan is to play games and have fun but also teach them useful information like income-generating activities, reproductive health practices, budgeting and so on. The seven-year-olds may just get games and songs.
Our first meeting consisted of ice breakers and group work. In the small groups, the kids were meant to brainstorm activities they’d like to do in the club. We got everything from playing soccer, dancing and singing to learning computer skills and teaching children to read. Then we had them think of potential names for the club and held an election. “Children’s Club” won, but since there are some very old children, we might combine it with “Leaders of Tomorrow”. Children and Leaders’ Club.
I think one thing I could have improved was the introduction of the club. The kids were a little unclear about why they were there, and I just launched into volunteer introductions without explaining Peace Corps or our vision for the club. Hopefully they’ll forgive me and come back next month.
AIDS Ride starts on Monday from Dapaong. This is the bike tour that volunteers do throughout Togo’s regions. We bike through villages and stop to do AIDS presentations, spending the nights in schools. Last year I got dehydrated and spent a whole day in the chase car and sleeping on a school bench. This year, I plan to avoid that by drinking ORS (oral rehydration salts, pretty disgusting) every day.
This will be my only bike tour this year. I decided to pass on Tour de Togo – biking the whole country once is enough, I think. However, it will take place again this November, and if anyone would like to donate a second time for girls’ education, we’re collecting. Let me know.
I’m in Dapaong again, and it’s all for work.
On Thursday, my program director, Tchao, visited me in village. After quizzing me about my activities, eating watermelon (they’re back!) and visiting Saibou at the clinic, we went to Dapaong in a Peace Corps car. Life in Togo must be so different if you have a private, air-conditioned car.
Today we had our first “AIDS club” meeting, and I think it went really well. A little refresher: the club consists of eight volunteers who will meet once a month with between 50 and 100 kids from a Dapaong AIDS association, Vivre dans l’esperance. The kids are all “infected or affected by AIDS” and some are as young as seven, others as old as 20. The plan is to play games and have fun but also teach them useful information like income-generating activities, reproductive health practices, budgeting and so on. The seven-year-olds may just get games and songs.
Our first meeting consisted of ice breakers and group work. In the small groups, the kids were meant to brainstorm activities they’d like to do in the club. We got everything from playing soccer, dancing and singing to learning computer skills and teaching children to read. Then we had them think of potential names for the club and held an election. “Children’s Club” won, but since there are some very old children, we might combine it with “Leaders of Tomorrow”. Children and Leaders’ Club.
I think one thing I could have improved was the introduction of the club. The kids were a little unclear about why they were there, and I just launched into volunteer introductions without explaining Peace Corps or our vision for the club. Hopefully they’ll forgive me and come back next month.
AIDS Ride starts on Monday from Dapaong. This is the bike tour that volunteers do throughout Togo’s regions. We bike through villages and stop to do AIDS presentations, spending the nights in schools. Last year I got dehydrated and spent a whole day in the chase car and sleeping on a school bench. This year, I plan to avoid that by drinking ORS (oral rehydration salts, pretty disgusting) every day.
This will be my only bike tour this year. I decided to pass on Tour de Togo – biking the whole country once is enough, I think. However, it will take place again this November, and if anyone would like to donate a second time for girls’ education, we’re collecting. Let me know.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Another vacation!
9 October 9 2008
Remember when I said I would write more frequent updates? I’ve done really well so far on that promise, no?
I’ve just finished another vacation (I plan to return to village soon). My parents arrived in Ghana on September 25th and leave from Accra tomorrow. During their time here, I ran the marathon, then we went to the beach for five days, and then we spent a few brief days in Togo.
The marathon was basically what one would expect in West Africa. I spent the night with the three other Togo PCVs running the full marathon. Garth and Maureen, a couple who work in Ghana, both former PCVs, opened their house to us, which was super generous and very helpful. We woke up at 3 a.m. for our supposed 5:30 start in Pram-Pram. A van full of other PCVs picked us up on the side of the road around 3:30 and drove us to the village. Except we weren’t starting in the village, but at the Ghana Man Center. We eventually found that and at 4:30 were the first people there. No race officials. No one else.
Eventually more people showed up, but by 6 we started walking back in the direction we came. A bus pulled up, and a man leaned out and yelled, “You have gone too far! Did you see the white line? The starting line?”
We turned around and walked back, to find the white line that the guy drew about 10 minutes after asking us about it (the starting point had been marked by a pile of leaves and rocks). Once everyone else arrived by bus and van, we started – at seven, an hour and a half late.
Things went well for the first 10 miles or so. I stuck to my very slow pace and took advantage of the infrequent water stops. Fortunately, my parents and another couple, the Iwans, drove the course and gave everyone water when there were no stations. Without their help and cheering, those 26.2 miles would have been a lot more difficult and lonely. Except for that part where we ran through a market, along a traffic-clogged, two lane road. That wasn’t lonely, just extra challenging, especially since by then, everything hurt and I wanted to cry.
Anyway, we all finished and then ate lots of food that evening. I had a falafel, and about an hour later, when everyone else arrived, I had my margarita and nachos. And a brownie with ice cream. There were also chocolate bars in there somewhere.
The next morning, my parents and I drove five hours west to the Green Turtle Lodge, an eco-friendly paradise, basically. IT WAS SO NICE! They operate on solar-energy, have self-composting toilets (glorified latrines), hire local people in all kinds of capacities, and lead canoe trips, hikes and tours around the area. We went on the mangrove swamp tour, and I saw a monkey and a very large reptile (mom and dad were looking in the wrong direction both times). I went swimming every day, ate excellent food, wrote letters and read. I’m going back for Christmas.
We only spent a few days in Togo – went up on the “Lomé Limo” on Monday, spent a day in village, then came back to Lomé yesterday. My parents really liked my village, and a guy I work with treated them to guinea fowl and beers (I got beer, but no guinea fowl – even though it looked delicious. Still a strictly seafood “vegetarian”). The middle school president gave them a school tour, which means they visited all five classrooms and saw all 500 or so students. I think one day in Sagbiebou was exactly enough time.
Yesterday, a driver from Lomé picked us up to drive us back. Not 50 kilometers from my village, he hit a pothole and got two flat tires. I don’t think he knew how to change his tires – he didn’t know where to find any of the tire-changing tools in the car – because Dad and a guy on a bike did most of the work. Then Francis the Driver disappeared for an hour looking for a second tire, or getting it fixed, I don’t know. We made it to Lomé around 5 p.m., so it all worked out. Mom and Dad left for Accra around noon, and it’s back to normal life in Togo for me. So write me a letter, cause you know I get lonely.
Pictures from marathon are at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2031439&l=10944&id=66700997 and pictures from Green Turtle are at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2031442&l=e6f54&id=66700997. I hope those work for you.
Remember when I said I would write more frequent updates? I’ve done really well so far on that promise, no?
I’ve just finished another vacation (I plan to return to village soon). My parents arrived in Ghana on September 25th and leave from Accra tomorrow. During their time here, I ran the marathon, then we went to the beach for five days, and then we spent a few brief days in Togo.
The marathon was basically what one would expect in West Africa. I spent the night with the three other Togo PCVs running the full marathon. Garth and Maureen, a couple who work in Ghana, both former PCVs, opened their house to us, which was super generous and very helpful. We woke up at 3 a.m. for our supposed 5:30 start in Pram-Pram. A van full of other PCVs picked us up on the side of the road around 3:30 and drove us to the village. Except we weren’t starting in the village, but at the Ghana Man Center. We eventually found that and at 4:30 were the first people there. No race officials. No one else.
Eventually more people showed up, but by 6 we started walking back in the direction we came. A bus pulled up, and a man leaned out and yelled, “You have gone too far! Did you see the white line? The starting line?”
We turned around and walked back, to find the white line that the guy drew about 10 minutes after asking us about it (the starting point had been marked by a pile of leaves and rocks). Once everyone else arrived by bus and van, we started – at seven, an hour and a half late.
Things went well for the first 10 miles or so. I stuck to my very slow pace and took advantage of the infrequent water stops. Fortunately, my parents and another couple, the Iwans, drove the course and gave everyone water when there were no stations. Without their help and cheering, those 26.2 miles would have been a lot more difficult and lonely. Except for that part where we ran through a market, along a traffic-clogged, two lane road. That wasn’t lonely, just extra challenging, especially since by then, everything hurt and I wanted to cry.
Anyway, we all finished and then ate lots of food that evening. I had a falafel, and about an hour later, when everyone else arrived, I had my margarita and nachos. And a brownie with ice cream. There were also chocolate bars in there somewhere.
The next morning, my parents and I drove five hours west to the Green Turtle Lodge, an eco-friendly paradise, basically. IT WAS SO NICE! They operate on solar-energy, have self-composting toilets (glorified latrines), hire local people in all kinds of capacities, and lead canoe trips, hikes and tours around the area. We went on the mangrove swamp tour, and I saw a monkey and a very large reptile (mom and dad were looking in the wrong direction both times). I went swimming every day, ate excellent food, wrote letters and read. I’m going back for Christmas.
We only spent a few days in Togo – went up on the “Lomé Limo” on Monday, spent a day in village, then came back to Lomé yesterday. My parents really liked my village, and a guy I work with treated them to guinea fowl and beers (I got beer, but no guinea fowl – even though it looked delicious. Still a strictly seafood “vegetarian”). The middle school president gave them a school tour, which means they visited all five classrooms and saw all 500 or so students. I think one day in Sagbiebou was exactly enough time.
Yesterday, a driver from Lomé picked us up to drive us back. Not 50 kilometers from my village, he hit a pothole and got two flat tires. I don’t think he knew how to change his tires – he didn’t know where to find any of the tire-changing tools in the car – because Dad and a guy on a bike did most of the work. Then Francis the Driver disappeared for an hour looking for a second tire, or getting it fixed, I don’t know. We made it to Lomé around 5 p.m., so it all worked out. Mom and Dad left for Accra around noon, and it’s back to normal life in Togo for me. So write me a letter, cause you know I get lonely.
Pictures from marathon are at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2031439&l=10944&id=66700997 and pictures from Green Turtle are at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2031442&l=e6f54&id=66700997. I hope those work for you.
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