Celebrating 25 Years Togo Style

On September 20, Dapaong cut its electricity—frequently occurs whenever a frightful storm is en route or a scalding Savannah day. Needless to say with all my electronic on the brink of death, I was concerned. Surely if I was able to survive two months without running water or electricity in Gbatopé, I should deem two days of no electricity as a walk in the park. True, however, this did occur just two days before my 25^th birthday. Bit of a pickle, right? My anxiety increased with every passing hour for how could I possibly toast to a quarter of my life without a Lady Gaga song? Although I am eager for a new Gaga album, Bad Romance will forever remain number one in my iPod’s Top 25 Most Played list. (Shortly before we headed to begin the celebration, John Barlow—a fellow Savanner and my neighbor—said with great spirit, “Alright, let’s get this party started.” And then he played Bad Romance from his computer. People already know me too well.)

At 8:37pm on September 21, I laid in bed, crossed my fingers and toes, and prayed to the Gods—quite the sucker for Greek and Roman mythology—for the return of electricity on my birthday. At 1:07am, I heard the single click from my voltage regulator and another click from my fan and boom…the power was on. After approximately thirty seconds, just enough time to sing the Happy Birthday song out loud, I got up and charged everything (e.g. cell phone, computer and iPod). It was a race for power!

At 2:30am, the power cut again. The light sleeper I am woke up to this immediately and said, “Togo, what the @&#&?!?!?! A teaser? Not nice, not nice at all.” Though incredibly irritating, I had enough charge time to semi-recharge my cell phone and plenty of power for a couple hours of quality party tunes.

Since my fridge was kaput, I had to scrap my phenomenal cherry-flavored Jello and fresh pineapple birthday treat. Though bummed, I found something even better: Oatmeal cake. Now, there is something I must include in this entry, which is the complete and utter failure of Samantha Grace McCullough making three desserts in Togo. The first two desserts were actually the same one. It was a Volunteer’s birthday and I made a yellow cake. Surprisingly there was enough batter for two pans (two cakes). I burned the first one, half an inch thick. Was a little sad, but reminded myself of the extra batter. Awesome, I just won’t tell people I messed up the first one. In my world, there was only one cake, the right one. I decided to bake batch #2 at a lower temperature and SOMEHOW still managed to burn it as well!! With great frustration, I placed one of the lesser-burnt cakes in a Ziploc bag for the birthday boy and concluded opening a bottle of substandard red wine as the best idea I had the entire night. The third dessert was a batch of oatmeal cookies. It was an utter disaster, which involved a lot of dishes, a messy kitchen, several burnt fingers and a pile of vanilla-flavored mush.

This of course had to change. I surely wasn’t going to leave Togo without making a successful dessert. My friend Katy argued once that I made good brownies not too long ago. She often forgets it was a TEAM EFFORT. She helped…a lot. No, this was a battle and I was going to win on my birthday, damn it.

Sticking to my cooking norms, I followed the directions with a bit of tweaking, i.e., vanilla extract, dried cranberries with raisins and fresh pineapple. I assembled my Dutch oven and once again prayed to the Gods. Unable to contain my excitement, I checked the progress of the cake EVERY 10 MINUTES. After every glance, I grew more and more psyched! It was going to work!! I sensed it. And holy balls my friends, BEST DESSERT I HAVE MADE IN MY LIFE. Oh yeah and to top, it was on my birthday.

The cake was a success but it wasn’t over. The butter in my fridge was about to go bad. Aaaahh! Crap. What do I do?! I can’t waste food in Africa—sure ticket to H*E*double hockey sticks. I frantically flipped through the frosting section of my recipe book and found Never Fail Fudge Frosting. Boom. Done. The fudge frosting (like the dried cranberries) was a brilliant idea. All was right with the world minus lack of electricity.

Afterwards, I did the dishes, cleaned house a bit, and decided to repose by reading my latest book, How to Shit in the Woods by Kathleen Meyer. Another Volunteer sent this to me and after having read A Civil Action, it was time for a bit of humor. As soon as I came across a section on Giardiasis, the power returned! YES! Once again plugged everything back in and jammed to Katy Perry while I took a refreshing cold shower. I washed my curls with Devashan products, put clips in my hair, wrapped a pagne around me and popped a squat in front of my fan. Niiiiiiiiice.

The night festivities entailed playing ping pong (without a table), drinking a couple of calabashes of Tchakpa (locally-made beer in Savannah Togo) and dining at Campement. Campement is one of only a couple restaurants Volunteers deem worthy of a birthday celebration. This is true in part because of its privacy and in part because of its delicious food, both western and African. Katy and I ate Cordon Bleu, and shared green beans and mashed potatoes. Never underestimate the power of mashed potatoes, garlic and butter!! John ate steak with mashed potatoes and Maggie chose French Onion soup…wuss. It was amazing.

We did a few other things: Planned a Captain Planet movie (see photo) and I fell into the massive ditch near Campement and scrapped my knee. Awesome. Everyone had a good laugh including yours truly. “Very entertaining. My favorite part was when the moto driver quickly turned on his lights and shined them on you,” Katy said.

Pretty successful birthday I must say.

A bientot. J

Mefloquine Mondays

According to the Programme National de Lutte contre le Paludisme, the arm of the Togolese government that manages national malaria programs, malaria is the number one cause of death in Togo.

What is malaria? Malaria is a vector-borne parasitic disease with global distribution. Malaria parasites are vector-transmitted by the female Anopheles mosquitoes. The parasites multiply within liver cells and also within red blood cells. Malaria symptoms often include fever, chills, nausea, headache, flu-like illness, diarrhea, vomiting, anorexia, cirrhosis, spleen enlargement, anemia (including light headedness, shortness of breath, and tachycardia) and in severe cases, coma and death.

Whoa.

Before we, as Trainees, hit our 24^th hour in Togo, PC Med Unit instructed us to take two pills at the same time: Doxycycline (Doxy) and Mefloquine (Mef). Mef is the best prophylactic drug currently available, but takes a full week to work its way through the human body. Doxy is a commonly prescribed prophylactic and begins working immediately. This, in short, is the reason medical officers instructed us to consume both pills at the same time the first day, and for the following six days we only took Doxy. Doxy must be taken daily whereas Mef is only once per week. After reading the list of symptoms in my Community Health and AIDS Prevention Toolkit, ingesting one pill a week to avoid malaria seemed like a no-brainer.

The kicker, of course, is side effects associated with Mef. Some people experience vivid, physically stimulating dreams, and some experience frightening nightmares. I regret neither the former or nor the latter are side effects I have acquired while taking Mef. Sure, it seems peculiar to want spine-chilling dreams. Well, in truth, I don’t want those dreams. I want the vivid sex dreams I keep hearing about from other Volunteers. I believe it to simply be a little cadeau for two years of service. Right? Asking too much? Unfortunately, instead of a bit of sensual pleasure, I get the other side effects--lame ones such as hair loss, irritability, anxiety and the jitters.

It really isn’t too unpleasant. The hair loss bit kind of blows, but people often experience hair loss with something as simple as a change of diet or climate. Thankfully, I only experience the jitters on Mef Mondays. It certainly isn’t painful, however, I do feel as though I’ve consumed five cans of Red Bull in one hour. (Note: This is a mild exaggeration and only lasts a day.)

As you might expect, the thought of popping one prophylactic drug a week doesn’t appeal to me. At the same time, malaria is right up there with blister beetle burns as things I don’t want while in Togo.

So…Mef Mondays it is my friends! If any readers have any Mef or Doxy stories they are willing to share, feel free to comment.

Taxi-Brouse…When Motos are Forbidden

For the most part, Volunteers in Togo take great pleasure in riding motorcycles. Unfortunately, along with other Peace Corps laws, Volunteers are forbidden not only to drive to "motos" but also to ride on La Rue Nationale (national road). Along with riding motos sans casque (without helmet), riding a moto on La Rue Nationale also warrants administrative separation. Voila…la taxi-brouse.

Contrary to motos, a taxi-brouse, or shuttle, is a thorn in a Volunteer’s side. At least, that’s the word on the street. These shuttles—most just one cataclysmic storm away from a junkyard—are a Volunteer’s primary means of transportation from north to south and vice versa. Imagine if you will a caravan with no air-conditioning, cement seats with a thin vinyl covering, and approximately 10 to 15 passengers crammed in a nine-passenger vehicle. Voici la taxi-brouse.

Short journeys in a taxi-brouse are tolerable. Trips from Lomé to Dapaong (or anywhere in Savannah Togo) are almost unbearable. For Post Visit, myself and four other Trainees did the trip in approximately 14 hours. A week later, we briefed our Trainers on our taxi-brouse experience and recommended the trip be divided into two days. At 6a.m., the morning after we were sworn-in as Volunteers, we embarked for our two-day trip up north. Thank you for listening PC Trainers!

How could it have possibly been a 14-hour trip from Lomé to Dapaong? What’s the size of Togo again?

Togo is approximately 87 miles east to west and 317 miles north to south. It’s approximately 400 miles to travel from Petoskey, my hometown in Michigan, to Ferndale (near Detroit) and takes about four hours to drive.

Hmmmm…400 miles versus 317 miles, and four hours versus 14 hours…What?! How?!

The answer is infrastructure. The further you travel up north, the worse La Rue Nationale gets. It’s quite a problem in Togo. The road is too narrow for two vehicles traveling in opposite directions and it has many large potholes. The reason it takes so long to travel from south to north is inconsistent momentum. Drivers must slow down before rolling over potholes because the tires can’t handle it. Tire flats in northern Togo are as common as mosquito bites in southern Togo. Sure, there are a few other reasons: pit stops for food, buying gifts for friends and family members, and bathroom breaks (men don’t have to walk far from the car).

There’s a bit of a joke among Volunteers that Savaners (that’s me) are loners who don’t travel south to visit other Volunteers, their friends. Well, that’s not entirely true. Savannah is a tight cluster!! We aren’t loners up north. But honestly, can you blame us?! First, make the trip…then, tell the joke my friends.

After writing the blog entry on motos, I asked one of my closest neighbors to write a true story about a taxi-brouse experience. Since Volunteers in Togo are far from anonymous, I’ll throw my friend a bone and refrain from disclosing her name. Here’s her story:

After walking up a hill in the 80-degree heat with a black dog in tow that maintained his “guardian” reputation by snapping at the heels of any petits (little children) who came too close, I found a group of men sitting under a tree with a cluster of multi-toned cars with bald tires parked nearby. I figured these were the taxi-brouse drivers. I didn’t see anyone holding a calabash or drinking out of a plastic bleach bottle, so I also deduced (along with the fact that it was only 10a.m.) that they were at least sober. At that point, anyway. Hopefully. I told them I wanted to go to Nano, which is actually pronounced more like Nanu and they told me that they weren’t going there. I asked if I should wait for more passengers, and they shrugged and told me sure.

After a few minutes of stressing on the phone, I decided I might as well go for it and rent out an entire car. I asked the drivers how much it would cost to go about 40 km with me and the dog, and one muttered “quatre-vingt…” No, I’m not paying 80 milles francs to take a dog to a place where he’s probably just going to get eaten anyway. Eight milles francs one-way was the final offer, even though apparently people have done it for five, which of course included the trip back.

In the car, the dog instantly began to sniff the driver and attempt to crawl out his window. Meanwhile, I’m tugging on the leash, cursing at the dog, and smiling at the driver assuring him that the dog is nice, and no he does not bite. The dog then continued to be over-stimulated and crawl around my lap with his long nails digging into my stomach and thighs. I ended up grabbing his collar to keep him still while the driver swerved around the potholes whenever he could, or at least make sure it was the passenger side that went over them when it was absolutely necessary. The bald tires held up, though, and it took about an hour to get to Nano/u.

After an awkward conversation where I tried (for the third time) to tell the driver that I’m taking other means of transit back to Dapaong, I ventured off with another Volunteer. The dog trotted along on his leash as I brushed his short, fine, black hairs off of my chest. Then a man came up and offered to marry me.

T.I.A. (This Is Africa)