CFA, CFA!

In France, I remember my fellow foreigners and I held onto one and two euro coins like miners who found gold nuggets deep in Earth’s core. Notes, or bills, were easy to find but the larger the note the greater the task of ridding oneself of it. At the time this seemed partial to Western Europe since prior to my study abroad experience paying a $30 bill with $100 wasn't arduous. 

By the end of the scholastic year, we were jaded by our small-coin collection. It was inconceivable banks mass-produced one, two and five-cent coins. In nine months, these coins accumulated in a jar at the bottom corner of my bedroom’s armoire. 

Once, shortly before I departed the worthless-small-coin-infested country, I went to a brasserie with a friend and ordered my usual hot chocolate—drinking coffee preceded studying abroad. When the server brought the bill to the table on a small plastic saucer, I knew it was either now or never. The opportunity presented itself to be free of this nuisance. I paid my portion of bill with only one, two and five cent coins and bolted out of the brasserie as if I stole cutlery or left without paying. Really, what was I going to do with those coins in the US? Start a coin collection? America already had enough hoarders and I figured the act was also karmic retribution for France’s superior customer service. America undoubtedly takes the cake on customer service. It occurred to me much later to return all small coins to a bank in exchange for larger bills. 

In China, it was the exact opposite. I wanted those insignificant coins. Shit, I needed all coins!! One thing I knew for certain: China and France make it difficult to pay a small bill with a larger note. Between the two, France was definitely the lesser of two evils—at least France accepted torn or faded notes. In Shanghai, one morning after my friends and I celebrated life, we dragged ourselves to a restaurant and bought a few sandwiches to hopefully cure our hangovers. An hour or so later it was time to pay the bill and leave, but I had a 100RMB note. Grâce à dieu, the server had no qualms about breaking the note; well, at least not my roommate’s 100RMB note. Such was not the case for me. He told me he couldn’t accept mine. Confused and agitated, I immediately analyzed the note, checked to see if it was counterfeited, and concluded it was fine. The server protested and after several minutes he finally exclaimed he couldn’t accept it because the upper-right corner of the note had a pimple-size piece missing. This infuriated me. But what could I do? Hang out at the restaurant all day? The server insisted I walk to a bank to exchange the “bad” note for a “good” one. I obliged and walked approximately 50 yards to the nearest bank, found an open teller and after he exchanged the bill I asked him straightforwardly, “Where does the ‘bad’ money go?” The teller said there is a shop that specializes in repairing notes. Of course there is! How silly of me!

Monetarily, Togo is France and China in one.

In the beginning, I thought Togo had it right. The coins I used daily—e.g. twenty-five, fifty, one hundred, two hundred and five hundred—were practical. Tout à coup, a vendor gave me 50 cents worth of 10-cent coins. THERE IT IS! The piece of France I had forgotten. And it didn’t end there. Not even a week passed before someone handed me a five-cent coin. Come on!!!

Oh but it didn’t even end there. The last couple of months I received water and electric bills with unusual figures: water for 3,295cfa and electricity for 12,060cfa. Really??? It’s not as though I’m stateside where I could easily write a check for such amounts. Because of this, I either lost or gained five or 10 francs with each bill. Brilliant.

When it comes to money and traveling in Togo, it is important to remember two phrases:

“100 francs, 100 francs.”

“On va chercher la monnaie.”

The former is a phrase often said by vendors. In markets, women who sell fruits and vegetables often place them into small piles and when a customer asks the price, they say the number twice. Almost always.

The latter is a phrase said by everyone, i.e. vendors, motorcycle taxi drivers, Togolese friends, etc. Unlike in China, if one can’t break change in Togo…the person will find someone who will. Boom. One point to Togo.

Laundry Day

In France, hand washing included three articles of clothing: underwear, bras and socks. My French host mom once informed me the washing machine chez nous “n’était pas si bon.” Translation: “It wasn’t very good,” thus wouldn’t properly clean our delicates. Quelle surprise! Hand washing undergarments wasn’t a draining task by any means, just dated. Most women are familiar with hand washing bras with underwire, but add panties and multiple pairs of socks and it becomes more of a workout than a chore.

In Togo, laundry day isn’t just a five-minute exercise; it’s P90X or Bikram Yoga!!! I’m half naked while I hand wash my clothes. Why? It’s NOT because I don’t have any clothes to wear, NOR is it because I left my sweats in a friend’s hut, BUT it is because I’m dripping with sweat!!! This morning, I consciously shorten my cardio and Pilates’ workout because of laundry day.

Got questions? Well these may or may not be your questions, but it’s a start. Et voila…

What do you need to hand wash in Togo?

• Three buckets: one large bucket for washing, one small bucket for rinsing, and one bucket (of a similar size) for damp, clean clothes.

• One bar of fabric-safe soap

• Powdered laundry detergent (probably made in China)

• Water (Not just for clothes, but for hydrating)

• A clothesline, one or more

• Clothespins (beaucoup)

• TIME

• ENERGY

• MUSCLES

• 

What are my two least favorite items to wash?

• Patagonia blue jeans—best jeans I own, but so heavy!
• Bed sheets (I actually don’t wash these anymore. I can’t be bothered with it and I’d rather pay 1,000cfa for a professional to wash my sheets. And by professional, I mean a Togolese teenage girl.)

Do I separate whites from colors?

Bien sûr! Moreover, I separate my American clothes from my Togolese clothes—pagnes bleed like crazy!

How long does it take?

It really depends on how much I have (duh) and the clothes I need to wash. If, for instance, I don’t need to wash my lovely Patagonia blue jeans, it doesn’t take long at all. More often than not, it takes me about 90 minutes. Then of course the remaining work (e.g. drying clothes) is left to the sun.

How long did it take me to do my laundry the first time?

THREE HOURS!!!!! I guzzled down two Sport Actifs—a Togolese version of Gatorade—after that three-hour fuckshow. My 18-year-old host brother even came to my rescue me at the end. Ugh. I felt so inadequate.

All things considered, I quite enjoy hand washing my clothes. Enjoyment generally follows completion of such a task. Whenever I am deep in hand-washing mode, I often repeat “TOGO…I WILL TRIUMPH!”

And once I’ve finished, I sit in front of my fan and read.

Boom. Done. J

Rubbish 101

As a child, I didn’t think twice about trash. Scraps for which I no longer found a use were chucked in a bin and that was all she wrote. I don’t even recall when the term landfill entered my vocabulary, let alone the thought of landfill sites filled to capacity due to over consumption and high-waste accumulation.

The presidential election in 2004 was the first time I heard prospective candidates mention climate change and important political movements needed to protect the environment. Environmental projects were without a doubt on the back burner of presidential campaigns at the time—just enough talk to attract environmentalists, conservationists and tree huggers. That was then, and this is now.

By 2009, most US universities invested in a plethora of large recycling bins throughout campuses, provided reusable cutlery and biodegradable plates in cafeterias, and campaigned to urge students to conserve water by avoiding the use of food trays. Wow. As a wannabe environmentalist, the pride oozed from my pores when I witnessed such a campaign. After I moved to New York City, it wasn’t long before my sister Kathrine and her waste-conscientious friends had a positive impact on my environmental beliefs.

In my apartment in Brooklyn, I often noticed more items in recycling bins than trash bins. Moreover, composting had become an excuse to go into the city. Yes it was a little less than desirable to lug a couple of Envirosax reusable bags filled with banana peels, coffee grounds, tea bags, etc in the subway. The pungent odor, however, weakened when I walked through Union Square, passed hot apple cider and fruit-filled muffin vendors, and found one of NYC’s community composts. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel virtuous after I dumped food scraps in those compost bins.

In Togo, trash has entirely new meaning; and I certainly wasn’t prepared for the change. All I knew before I arrived in Togo was consumption was going to decrease, and waste would also decline. Togolese embrace the phrase one person’s trash is another person’s treasure. But it doesn’t end there. Almost everything is reused. In fact, I can tell when a bottle of Sport Actif has recently been washed, cleaned, relabeled and filled with more Sport Actif by the top line from the liquid—a bit of residue I suppose. I’ve even picked up a habit of tearing off labels from bottles for not only my amusement, but also to help speed up the recycling process. Yeah!

Remember the phrase mothers and fathers always tell their children if food is left on their plates? “Hey! There are starving children in Asia and Africa!” Well Volunteers have practically tattooed such a phrase on their hearts. Honestly, if a Volunteer wastes food in Africa…whoa…sure hope they’re praying to whatever God they think will help them. Any unwanted food—leftovers unable to preserve—is simply passed to petits (little children) in the area. They’ll find somebody who’ll eat it if not themselves and our consciences are cleared.

I don’t have a special compost procedure similar to Brooklyn, but it’s something: place banana peels, carrot and spinach stems, egg shells, etc in a plastic bag and whenever I go for a walk around town or run errands I just toss scraps in nearby fields. All part of the circle of life!!

Tomato paste and tuna cans are reused—either as Dutch oven pieces or muffin pans and candleholders. Whatever water bottles I have chez moi have been reused as cooking oil and kerosene containers; and Togolese often use empty gin bottles as petrol containers.

What about everything else? Tissues, phone and Internet cards, Tampons and pads L, etc are all burned. Yes, burned. Truth is, this is my least favorite part about being in Togo. I despise burning trash. After hearing stories of female Volunteers who had not properly burned their trash and then found children playing with used Tampons, I not only make sure I burn my trash early in the morning, but I soak that S#*T with kerosene. Burn baby, burn!!

What about restaurants and other businesses? What do they do with their trash? They burn their trash too! And as mentioned above, one person’s trash is another person’s treasure. There’s no shame in it either. Just reusing what is available, adding a bit of creativity, and reducing waste. Nice.

À la prochaine! J