JT makes pizza and rarely wears a shirt; and our awesome porch.
(from top to bottom) My bedroom, the guest room and the living room.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
photos of my new home
Here are the photos I meant to post with the last entry. I hate the way this thing does photos and can't figure out how to make it look better. From now on, I'll be posting in Facebook and providing the link.
JT makes pizza and rarely wears a shirt; and our awesome porch.
(from top to bottom) My bedroom, the guest room and the living room.
JT makes pizza and rarely wears a shirt; and our awesome porch.
(from top to bottom) My bedroom, the guest room and the living room.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Expat Life and Office Hours
Life in village seems so very long ago and far away.
Last week, JT and I got monthly passes to the outdoor pool at the British School of Lomé. We went twice last week, and this week, we got up early on Monday, Wednesday and Friday to swim before work. JT swam on swim teams and can give me tips, which is very helpful. Beyond the breaststroke, I feel like a drowning person, but my freestyle is already getting better. I swim now to get my exercise, since biking around Lomé is stressful and I’m still giving my knee a break from running. I think another three months should do it.
Despite the traffic, I have been riding my bike, mostly to the pool and work. Sometimes I’ll ride it to the Peace Corps office. Traffic is scary and is a huge change from the two-lane, empty national highway up north. I’m getting used to it and just have to remember to pay attention.
Last night, we saw Thierry Nkéli Faha in concert at the French Cultural Center (FCC or CCF, in French). He’s Togolese and sings in local languages and French. He’s been on tour around Asia and will go to Europe after he finishes his Africa tour. I haven’t been to a concert in I-can’t-remember-how-long, so I was excited about this opportunity. The FCC is a like an entertainment goldmine. They do movies, concerts and lectures, and they also have a library.
Lomé also has other great things, like cheese. The supermarkets here are expensive for Peace Corps volunteers, and so is cheese, but I bought some last week. JT made quiche and pizza. I cook, too, but less ambitiously (think pasta salad and pancakes).
Work is still pretty slow, and I’m still working on that pamphlet. It’s in its final stages, though. I wrote three summaries for it, and when I gave it to a co-worker, the paper came back bleeding blue. It wasn’t even French corrections, just the way I’d written it. She told me we needed more active verbs and journalistic style, which was all true. I haven’t written much in French since college, so now, I can’t even write a sentence without looking up a word. I wanted to say, “I’m a good writer! Just not in French.” Next time I’ll pay more attention to my active voice.
I’ve run into a few Togolese-style incidents in the last few weeks. At work, our hours are 8 to 12:30, then 2:30 to 6. One would think that if someone worked through their two hour lunch break, she could come in an hour late and leave an hour early. Our Peace Corps predecessors warned us that this creates office tension. Apparently, our co-workers don’t like people leaving early, which I can understand but not completely, since you’re working the same hours. I noticed the time thing the very first day, when I packed my computer up at 5:45, forgetting that quitting time is six, not 5:30.
“You’re going home already? It’s not six yet,” the guy who shares my office said.
“Oh,” I replied, looking at my empty desk and saying in English, “but I don’t have anything to do.”
So, despite his permission to go home early that day, since it was my first, I restarted my computer and chatted online for 15 more minutes.
Today at the bank, I thought the bankers would withhold my money because my withdrawal slip signature didn’t match my ID signature. On the ID, I signed on one line. On the front and back of the withdrawal slip, I signed my last name under my first. Don’t ask why, I just did. They asked why. Then they compared the signatures long enough for me to worry about whether I would get money today.
It’s good to have these run-ins to remind me that despite cheese and concerts, I’m still in Togo. Because the unpaved streets and cries of “Yovo, yovo!” are sometimes just not enough.
Thanks to everyone who’s been sending mail, especially all the Christmas cards from the Anadarko folks! Merci beaucoup.
...I was going to upload photos, but it doesn't look like it's in the cards today. Maybe next time.
Last week, JT and I got monthly passes to the outdoor pool at the British School of Lomé. We went twice last week, and this week, we got up early on Monday, Wednesday and Friday to swim before work. JT swam on swim teams and can give me tips, which is very helpful. Beyond the breaststroke, I feel like a drowning person, but my freestyle is already getting better. I swim now to get my exercise, since biking around Lomé is stressful and I’m still giving my knee a break from running. I think another three months should do it.
Despite the traffic, I have been riding my bike, mostly to the pool and work. Sometimes I’ll ride it to the Peace Corps office. Traffic is scary and is a huge change from the two-lane, empty national highway up north. I’m getting used to it and just have to remember to pay attention.
Last night, we saw Thierry Nkéli Faha in concert at the French Cultural Center (FCC or CCF, in French). He’s Togolese and sings in local languages and French. He’s been on tour around Asia and will go to Europe after he finishes his Africa tour. I haven’t been to a concert in I-can’t-remember-how-long, so I was excited about this opportunity. The FCC is a like an entertainment goldmine. They do movies, concerts and lectures, and they also have a library.
Lomé also has other great things, like cheese. The supermarkets here are expensive for Peace Corps volunteers, and so is cheese, but I bought some last week. JT made quiche and pizza. I cook, too, but less ambitiously (think pasta salad and pancakes).
Work is still pretty slow, and I’m still working on that pamphlet. It’s in its final stages, though. I wrote three summaries for it, and when I gave it to a co-worker, the paper came back bleeding blue. It wasn’t even French corrections, just the way I’d written it. She told me we needed more active verbs and journalistic style, which was all true. I haven’t written much in French since college, so now, I can’t even write a sentence without looking up a word. I wanted to say, “I’m a good writer! Just not in French.” Next time I’ll pay more attention to my active voice.
I’ve run into a few Togolese-style incidents in the last few weeks. At work, our hours are 8 to 12:30, then 2:30 to 6. One would think that if someone worked through their two hour lunch break, she could come in an hour late and leave an hour early. Our Peace Corps predecessors warned us that this creates office tension. Apparently, our co-workers don’t like people leaving early, which I can understand but not completely, since you’re working the same hours. I noticed the time thing the very first day, when I packed my computer up at 5:45, forgetting that quitting time is six, not 5:30.
“You’re going home already? It’s not six yet,” the guy who shares my office said.
“Oh,” I replied, looking at my empty desk and saying in English, “but I don’t have anything to do.”
So, despite his permission to go home early that day, since it was my first, I restarted my computer and chatted online for 15 more minutes.
Today at the bank, I thought the bankers would withhold my money because my withdrawal slip signature didn’t match my ID signature. On the ID, I signed on one line. On the front and back of the withdrawal slip, I signed my last name under my first. Don’t ask why, I just did. They asked why. Then they compared the signatures long enough for me to worry about whether I would get money today.
It’s good to have these run-ins to remind me that despite cheese and concerts, I’m still in Togo. Because the unpaved streets and cries of “Yovo, yovo!” are sometimes just not enough.
Thanks to everyone who’s been sending mail, especially all the Christmas cards from the Anadarko folks! Merci beaucoup.
...I was going to upload photos, but it doesn't look like it's in the cards today. Maybe next time.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
There's No Escaping the Gloom and Doom
My first week at work was uneventful. I got two tours of the office, went to two four-hour meetings in the same day, halved the amount of email in my inbox and on Friday, actually got some work to do (designing a pamphlet about PSI’s World AIDS Day activities). It was depressing and made me wonder if I didn’t make a mistake leaving village. Once things pick up, I think I’ll be fine.
Since we’re on depressing topics, let’s talk about the cloud over the week. On Tuesday morning, my host father from training, Daniel, called to tell me that Esse, my host mom, died. They anesthetized her for a Caesarean last Saturday, and she never woke up. The baby, a girl, is fine.
So yesterday, I went to my first Togolese funeral. Except I didn’t really go. I left Lomé in the morning with Trace, the Savarys’ other trainee, and his wife (they were in the training group after me). When we arrived in Agou Nygobo around 10:30, the ceremony was just ending. It was in this huge, unfinished church, with woven palm-leaf shelters providing shade (it’s really just a shell of a church – no roof, no walls). Two other people died in the village that week, so they combined the three ceremonies. I saw the three caskets come out, and then Daniel found us and we went back to the house with him.
I thought it was bizarre that we didn’t go to the internment, but he told us that it would be too difficult for him. Everyone we talked to seemed disappointed that we hadn’t arrived earlier to see the open casket. Apparently Esse was dressed in her best pagne. But she also died a week ago, and this is Africa, so I’m glad we missed the viewing. I would have liked to go the burial, though.
We sat inside the house with Daniel, making small talk and eating lunch. After lunch, we went outside to make room for others in the house. We sat under a mango tree and waited. George, my host brother, came back from wherever he was. Daniel said George understands what happened, but he seemed ok, still mischievous and spoiled as ever. I gave him my camera and let him run around taking pictures until the battery died. Then he refused to give it back, discovering that if he turned it off and on again, he could take at least one picture. I finally got it back and asked him to take us to see his new sister, Grace.
For now, she’s staying at a house just up the road from the Savarys’, with the woman who will nurse her for the next six months. When we arrived, she was sleeping alone in a full-sized bed, separated from the rest of the room by a hanging sheet. She looks just like Esse – same crinkly eyes, same flat face, same nose. We took turns holding her and told George that as a big brother, he had to take good care of her. It will be interesting to see where they are as a family in six months.
I left for Lomé shortly thereafter. I’m doing ok, but am still having a hard time, mainly when I think about it (so after writing this update, I don’t plan to think much about this again). It’s unreal. Esse was maybe 32 and healthy. She was my first Togolese friend, and after all she did for me, I wasn’t a very good friend to her. I hadn’t called them since October. I kept thinking that I should, to find out about the baby and tell them I moved to Lomé. And now it’s too late.
C’est la vie. And sometimes la vie is rotten.
With Esse at swear-in, August 2007.
Since we’re on depressing topics, let’s talk about the cloud over the week. On Tuesday morning, my host father from training, Daniel, called to tell me that Esse, my host mom, died. They anesthetized her for a Caesarean last Saturday, and she never woke up. The baby, a girl, is fine.
So yesterday, I went to my first Togolese funeral. Except I didn’t really go. I left Lomé in the morning with Trace, the Savarys’ other trainee, and his wife (they were in the training group after me). When we arrived in Agou Nygobo around 10:30, the ceremony was just ending. It was in this huge, unfinished church, with woven palm-leaf shelters providing shade (it’s really just a shell of a church – no roof, no walls). Two other people died in the village that week, so they combined the three ceremonies. I saw the three caskets come out, and then Daniel found us and we went back to the house with him.
I thought it was bizarre that we didn’t go to the internment, but he told us that it would be too difficult for him. Everyone we talked to seemed disappointed that we hadn’t arrived earlier to see the open casket. Apparently Esse was dressed in her best pagne. But she also died a week ago, and this is Africa, so I’m glad we missed the viewing. I would have liked to go the burial, though.
We sat inside the house with Daniel, making small talk and eating lunch. After lunch, we went outside to make room for others in the house. We sat under a mango tree and waited. George, my host brother, came back from wherever he was. Daniel said George understands what happened, but he seemed ok, still mischievous and spoiled as ever. I gave him my camera and let him run around taking pictures until the battery died. Then he refused to give it back, discovering that if he turned it off and on again, he could take at least one picture. I finally got it back and asked him to take us to see his new sister, Grace.
For now, she’s staying at a house just up the road from the Savarys’, with the woman who will nurse her for the next six months. When we arrived, she was sleeping alone in a full-sized bed, separated from the rest of the room by a hanging sheet. She looks just like Esse – same crinkly eyes, same flat face, same nose. We took turns holding her and told George that as a big brother, he had to take good care of her. It will be interesting to see where they are as a family in six months.
I left for Lomé shortly thereafter. I’m doing ok, but am still having a hard time, mainly when I think about it (so after writing this update, I don’t plan to think much about this again). It’s unreal. Esse was maybe 32 and healthy. She was my first Togolese friend, and after all she did for me, I wasn’t a very good friend to her. I hadn’t called them since October. I kept thinking that I should, to find out about the baby and tell them I moved to Lomé. And now it’s too late.
C’est la vie. And sometimes la vie is rotten.
With Esse at swear-in, August 2007.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Happy New Year
It’s very exciting to write “2009” because this is the year I finish my service and come back to the States, for however long. Happy 2009!
I moved to Lomé on December 22nd. Peace Corps paid for me to rent a car to move all my belongings, and I called the guys that drove the chase car during AIDS ride. The apprentice brought me a bag of carrots as a gift. The journey down was typical – we broke down for two hours before leaving the Savannah region, then ran out of gas in Lomé, about five kilometers from my house. All was well once we arrived, and I even did a happy dance after I got the house tour. Three bedrooms, two bath, kitchen, big living room, great porch – I’m in Posh Corps now.
I spent that night at the house, then left the next day for Ghana. I almost didn’t go, because we were only staying for about two days, and the trip to Green Turtle Lodge can take more than 10 hours. But the lure of Christmas on the beach, away from Togo, beat any financial concerns.
As expected, the trip was long, but travel in Ghana is so much easier than in Togo (unless you and the taxi driver misunderstand the agreed-upon price and get into a screaming match). We arrived on the 24th, spent a restless night in our tent, thanks to mosquitoes, then spent most of Christmas Day in the water, swimming and floating beyond the surf. We had to cut the stay short, due to elections in Ghana, so we left early the 26th.
Peace Corps staff told us the border would close at 6 p.m. on the 26th (the borders close for elections to prevent non-Ghanains hopping over to vote). At the lodge, someone told us they’d been closely following border activity and that it wouldn’t close until the 27th. We decided not to take any risks, but just outside Accra, my dad called to say the internet said the borders were closed. So we got out in Accra, called a bunch of people, ate lunch, called some more people, went to Peace Corps Ghana’s office, and ended up in a hotel for free (the same hotel where I stayed on my way back from South Africa. Except I didn’t know then to announce myself as Peace Corps and paid too much money for a room).
And thus began our vacation from our vacation. We were exhausted from all our Christmas fun and traveling. In Accra, we recovered by doing nothing but walking around looking for our next meal, eating too much (Indian food! Pizza! Smoothies! Soft-serve ice cream!) and watching movies in our room. When the borders reopened Monday, I was ready to go back to Togo. Ghana is expensive, even when your hotel is free.
Since then, I’ve been settling into my new home, and getting to know my new roommate, JT, and my new dog, Manu, short for Emmanuel (he loves JT more, which is ok, except for he won’t let me walk him unless JT’s there). JT’s been here for a month already, and he has Togolese friends. They cooked us a huge meal last night, and also took us dancing on New Year’s Eve. So all is well. Work starts Monday, and I’m ready. All this free time in the big city means I have no routine and end up with a very bizarre sleep schedule.
I want to wish you all a happy new year again, and thank everyone who keeps up and puts up with the blog and my rambling. Only eight months left - enjoy it while you can.
I believe you can see Ghana photos here: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2034011&l=18adf&id=66700997.
I moved to Lomé on December 22nd. Peace Corps paid for me to rent a car to move all my belongings, and I called the guys that drove the chase car during AIDS ride. The apprentice brought me a bag of carrots as a gift. The journey down was typical – we broke down for two hours before leaving the Savannah region, then ran out of gas in Lomé, about five kilometers from my house. All was well once we arrived, and I even did a happy dance after I got the house tour. Three bedrooms, two bath, kitchen, big living room, great porch – I’m in Posh Corps now.
I spent that night at the house, then left the next day for Ghana. I almost didn’t go, because we were only staying for about two days, and the trip to Green Turtle Lodge can take more than 10 hours. But the lure of Christmas on the beach, away from Togo, beat any financial concerns.
As expected, the trip was long, but travel in Ghana is so much easier than in Togo (unless you and the taxi driver misunderstand the agreed-upon price and get into a screaming match). We arrived on the 24th, spent a restless night in our tent, thanks to mosquitoes, then spent most of Christmas Day in the water, swimming and floating beyond the surf. We had to cut the stay short, due to elections in Ghana, so we left early the 26th.
Peace Corps staff told us the border would close at 6 p.m. on the 26th (the borders close for elections to prevent non-Ghanains hopping over to vote). At the lodge, someone told us they’d been closely following border activity and that it wouldn’t close until the 27th. We decided not to take any risks, but just outside Accra, my dad called to say the internet said the borders were closed. So we got out in Accra, called a bunch of people, ate lunch, called some more people, went to Peace Corps Ghana’s office, and ended up in a hotel for free (the same hotel where I stayed on my way back from South Africa. Except I didn’t know then to announce myself as Peace Corps and paid too much money for a room).
And thus began our vacation from our vacation. We were exhausted from all our Christmas fun and traveling. In Accra, we recovered by doing nothing but walking around looking for our next meal, eating too much (Indian food! Pizza! Smoothies! Soft-serve ice cream!) and watching movies in our room. When the borders reopened Monday, I was ready to go back to Togo. Ghana is expensive, even when your hotel is free.
Since then, I’ve been settling into my new home, and getting to know my new roommate, JT, and my new dog, Manu, short for Emmanuel (he loves JT more, which is ok, except for he won’t let me walk him unless JT’s there). JT’s been here for a month already, and he has Togolese friends. They cooked us a huge meal last night, and also took us dancing on New Year’s Eve. So all is well. Work starts Monday, and I’m ready. All this free time in the big city means I have no routine and end up with a very bizarre sleep schedule.
I want to wish you all a happy new year again, and thank everyone who keeps up and puts up with the blog and my rambling. Only eight months left - enjoy it while you can.
I believe you can see Ghana photos here: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2034011&l=18adf&id=66700997.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The last weeks in village
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.
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.
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.
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