A Change of Diet

Were there ever certain fruits and vegetables you never ate as a child? Or food for instance that either didn’t taste good (Brussels sprouts), didn’t smell good (asparagus), had a bizarre texture (shrimp or mushrooms), had annoying little seeds (watermelon and strawberries), or even worse caused an allergy attack?

As a young girl, I was the epitome of a picky eater—which drove my mother crazy. I wouldn’t eat mushrooms, onions, tomatoes, peas (all peas), lima beans, olives, certain meat and seafood, etc. Really, the list went on and on. Ever heard of those poor parents with kids who ONLY ate chicken fingers and French fries at restaurants??? Woohoooooo. [Hand waving frantically.] Ici, ici, ici! Yep, that was me. Sadly, my mother often obliged to my delicate taste buds by cooking two meals. In truth, she did this more than I care to remember or share. At the same time, she was fortunate to only agonize over the dinner menu being that breakfast was kind of basic and lunch fell into the hands of cafeteria employees at school.

I honestly can’t put a date to when my body said, “Okay, let’s start trying new things.” But I’d pinpoint it to the start of university life and even more so, my time abroad. Some people believe taste buds have a cycle similar to that of hair—it changes every seven years. Any validity in that or is it just something a journalist wrote in The Onion?

Whether it’s true or not I’m quite thankful to have changed since adolescence. Naturally, a lack of restriction led me to a diverse diet. I’ve had the privilege to enjoy countless cuisines around the world, to experiment (dog, cow tongue, shellfish, etc), and to ameliorate my own culinary skills.

Sure enough, similar to most items found in a grocery store, this freedom to eat n’importe quoi had an expiration date. It certainly makes sense. Based off the seven-year hair cycle, if my diet changed at the start of college—August 2004—and today is February 19, 2012…what’s that mathematicians?? Around seven years!!!!! And you guessed it, my diet changed. Only this time it wasn’t by choice, nor was it something I wanted.

What’s changed? I am egg and dairy intolerant. Fantastic.

Lactose intolerance is certainly not uncommon in the world. The intolerance can begin at different times in life. In people of European ancestry, it usually starts to affect children older than five years. Ethnicity is also a factor. Ninety-five percent of Asians are lactose intolerant and approximately 60-80 percent of African Americans are as well. Well at least I have company!

No doubt, these days it’s hard to find someone who doesn’t have a food allergy or intolerance. Why? Ever read a list of likely food allergies and intolerances?!?!?! The lists are insane and seemingly endless.

To list a few:

• Milk
• Eggs
• Fish
• Crustacean shellfish
• Tree nuts
• Peanuts
• Wheat
• Soybeans

What does this diet mean for me in Togo?

Aside from the obvious—avoid eating fried eggs—I shouldn’t consume butter, cheese, yogurt, fanmilk (West African ice cream), mayonnaise (the staple ingredient for salad dressing in Togo), margarine, milk powder, milo (milk chocolate drink) and coffee beverages (with milk).

Much to my surprise, I’m not completely vexed by this no egg, no dairy diet. Things often change and it’s part of our job as human beings to change accordingly. I however often run into the “minor” setback of FAILING TO REMEMBER I’m intolerant before it’s too late—thus causing bloating, abdominal cramps, etc.

I have no doubt I’ll be habituated to this new diet with time. And until I’ve committed this allergy to memory (or until I’ve stapled a Post-It to my forehead for my friends and family), I’ll just have to rely on Lactaid pills from the medical unit.

Bon appétit! J

Christmas with A Twist!

T’was the season to be with family and friends.

Well if you counted a few five-minute international phone calls, two-to-three-minute Skype chats (with delays), and Christmas day eating and drinking with 19 other PCVs…then that’s exactly what I did.

My last Christmas abroad, I spent five hours in a cabine telephonique with a list of Christmas Must-Calls in one hand and an international phone card in the other. What year was this? 2006.

In 2011, I really had no clue what to expect. A Christmas feast with various French wines that separated each course was certainly on my Christmas Wish List, but it seemed a bit far-fetched. Well there may not have been wine, but there certainly was a feast. More on that to come.

Christmas Eve was a special day this year. Aside from the obvious—I was in Togo and there wasn’t any snow on the ground—the morning was a bit of an odd start. Since it was a volunteer’s birthday, I invited a few people chez moi for a small celebration before the crazy festivities truly commenced. Everything was planned accordingly and it seemed like smooth sailing. This was until I walked into my shower room that morning and noticed an inch of dirty water on the ground. Crap. I immediately grabbed my mop and started cleaning up. I didn’t understand why the drain was clogged. Without unnecessary gross details, I am fairly good about snaking my hair from the drain. This was something else. After an hour later of mopping, the floor was dry. But it wasn’t over. My faucet was dripping. As the French like to say, “J’en ai marre.” Translation: I have had enough. I certainly couldn’t waste clean water on Christmas Eve in Africa!

So, what did I do?

I sent an urgent text message to my local friend who knows just about everyone—that is everyone who might be useful to a PCV.

Not even an hour passed and my friend Robert showed up at my door with a plumber. Rescued! The plumber fixed my faucet within 20 minutes, but the drain puzzled us both. It wouldn’t drain!

What could it be?! And then we realized…

The septic was full. My neighbors mentioned (that day) the previous owners/former PCVs never emptied their septic. Almost seven months into my service I knew it was highly improbable for me to fill it, moi-même. No way.

What happened after?

Well I had to semi empty the septic in order to bathe over the holidays. Robert wouldn’t allow me to help, so I watched as he pulled out buckets of disgusting drain water. Sure such events painted this year’s Christmas as shitty…literally. But Togo threw me a bone and things improved.

How so?

I still managed to host a mini birthday celebration for my friend Mark, complete with curry couscous, beers in cans and rooftop fun in the sun.

My close friend (and neighbor) Maggie McRae gave me the perfect Christmas gift: a locally made computer case for my Macbook Pro to match my Kate Spade iTouch cover. That’s love.

I received a Christmas package in the mail from my good friend Laura Cochrun. Thanks love, it was perfect!

I somehow managed to video chat with my oldest sister Carolyn, her family and my mom. Sure the video feed didn’t last more than three minutes, but geez…beggars can’t be choosers!

And I spent Christmas Day with roughly 19 other PCVs feasting and drinking with APCD Paul (EAFS/NRM Program Director) and his family at his house. We ate so much food; we drank tchakpa; and we laughed. It was great, and I completely forgot about all the shit.

Sure hope everyone enjoyed Christmas last year! Just one more Christmas abroad and the next will be stateside. J

My Togolese Host Family

As I skimmed through my blog just the other day, it occurred to me I hadn’t posted anything about my Togolese host family.

Without further ado, I present la famille TSIVANYO.

The day CHAP Trainees were paired up with Togolese families in Gbatopé is one I’ll never forget. Parents and children, dressed up in their finest pagne complets, sang and clapped their hands to the music as they awaited the arrival of 13 PC Trainees. We were all so nervous and scared, yet fired up to see our new families. Administration pressed formal attire for our welcoming, so I chose my purple silk dress from Shanghai. This was first-rate dress because I happened to match my host mom’s ensemble. Other families were overjoyed to witness the cute combo.

Without hesitation, my house was very much comparable to a summer cabin found in the upper lower peninsula of Michigan. It was a small, yellow house hidden by bushes with hundreds of red-orange flowers. The house didn’t have running water, so my host brother, Fogant, fetched water from a nearby pump. Or since it was rainy season, we relied heavily on rainwater—two long gutters that channeled water into three concrete holes. I didn’t have electricity, but my family had cut off a foot long section from a bamboo tree, packed four large batteries inside with rocks holding wires in place, and then connected the wires to what looked like old Christmas lights. Boom. This set up, though brilliant, didn’t work until a week before I left Gbatopé. Better late than never!

The family, même:

My Mom, Mamasan, was lovely woman—a street seller of manioc and tapioca. She was married twice—quite a knockout—and has eight children. She was a phenomenal cook, even though my stomach was intolerable.

My sister, Ademe, was cute but very quite. I think what I liked most about her were her kids: two twin girls and a boy. I nicknamed the twins La Folle and La Grande (Crazy and Big). The boy was the oldest, but such a crier!! He never got habituéd to the yovo in the house, screamed bloody murder whenever I walked up to him. I did this a lot. Hehehe.

My brother, Fogant, was nice though a bit strange. He was incredibly helpful and carried my heavy bags and packages on top of his head numerous times. In the end, I chalked up my irritation to his incessant repetition of “il faut,” meaning “it is necessary.” The number of times he said “il faut” exceeded that of my fingers and toes over a three-day period.

One thing I’ll never forget:

The daily trips to my latrine. The distance from my bedroom to the latrine was approximately 40 feet, plenty of time for a mini conversation with my mom. My post-wakeup walk to the latrine convo usually went something like this:

Me: Bonjour Mamasan! Ça va?

Mom: Bonjour Sam! Oui, ça vas très bien? Tu as bien dormi?

Me: Oui, j’ai bien dormi. Merci. Et toi?

Mom: Oui, bien-sûr! Tu te sens bien? (Are you feeling well?)

Me: Oui, merci. (In my head: I just have to go to the bathroom, Mom!!)

Every time I needed to go to the bathroom, some variation of this conversation took place—with the exception of replacing bonjour with bonsoir depending on the time of day.

What else?

When I had giardiasis, one night I told Mamasan I needed to consume a lot of food for dinner with four tablets of Fasigyne 500. So what did Mamasan make? Roughly four servings of spaghetti with tomato sauce, a plate full of pineapples and bread! Wow. And I ate almost everything. Of course, I could barely breathe and slept on my back all night because I was so full. Nonetheless, she did well. Merci Mamasan.

Overall, I had a good experience with the Tsivanyo family. I plan to visit Mamasan soon, or at least the next time I travel south.

Intestinal Parasites

Before Togo, intestinal parasites were foreign to me. Common illnesses chez moi prior to Peace Corps were mononucleosis (twice), typical winter colds (e.g. scratchy/soar throat, itchy/watery eyes, nasal congestion, etc) and seasonal allergies.

Needless to say, my body got quite the wakeup call.

My first illness wasn’t at all unfamiliar to the nurse practitioners at Peace Corps’ Medical Unit in Lomé. My insides babbled like never before. Did I mention this took place just two weeks into Training? A friend even dubbed her rambles Sigourney, referencing the leading actress in Alien. Strong yet subtle baritone notes and a roller coaster throughout the stomach and intestinal tracks are rambles worthy of such a title.

During Training, many pre-Volunteers need to become habitué'd (get used to) to living in a developing country. To this day, I blame the first round of diarrhea and vomiting to my diet in Park Slope, Brooklyn—i.e. homemade juices, fresh salads, exotic fruits, whole-wheat breads and pasta, etc. Not to scoff at Togolese food since I am quite fond of it now, however, beans and rice mixed with palm oil isn’t exactly a spinach salad lightly drizzled with walnut dressing. And no, not Snooty Samantha, it was just the grub of choice for more than a year.

Shortly after Post Visit, round two of gastrointestinal complaints commenced. I voiced my concerns to the medical officers, did my first ever stool sample, and impatiently awaited the results. It was giardiasis, an infection of the intestine with a flagellate protozoan. Boom. Yes, symptoms associated with giardia are unpleasant, however, the wicked designs left on my intestinal walls—after four tablets of Fasigyne 500 nuked these parasites—made me smile for days.

So what happened after?

After Thanksgiving, I impressively spent my weekend in bed—impressive because it isn’t an exaggeration by any means. The Monday following this weekend RESTathon I was advised by medical officers to do another M.I.F. kit and have it analyzed at Win Pang Hospital, a Chinese hospital in Dapaong.

My PCV neighbor, Maggie McRae, accompanied me to the hospital. Interesting? Picture this…two women on motos, one woman with tightly-sealed tube of her own feces in her locally-made handbag. We get there, and folks, this wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d already been to this hospital for an analysis of a different stool sample couple months ago. So I properly greeted health professionals, handed over my sample and then got a marriage proposal. Boom. If that’s not a boost of confidence, tell me what is!

Fifteen minutes later, I got the results. I have amoebas. What’s an amoeba? An amoeba is a single-celled animal that catches food and moves about by extending fingerlike projections of protoplasm. Amoebas are either free-living in damp environments or parasitic.

Surprisingly, it didn’t shock me at all. Over the weekend, I had plenty of time to review my S.H.I.T (Staying Healthy in Togo) book and thus linked my symptoms to those listed under the page-long description of amoebas.

A medical officer once again prescribed the fantastic Fasigyne 500. The kicker? This time, I had to take four tablets once a day for three days. Whoa. Okay amoebas, new ballgame!

McRae and McCullough then walked to Dapaong’s local pharmacy, bought “the goods,” parked our yovo asses on steps outside the building, sipped on a couple of Sport Actifs and greeted locals as they entered. That was fun.

The events subsequent pharmacy fun weren’t all that fun. To avoid the pity parade, I won’t go into great detail of my physical and metal state during the amoeba recovery. However, there was one moment when I graciously (and slowly) dropped from a couch at Dapaong’s PC Work Station to the floor and slowly (yep, slowly again) millimetered my way toward the bathroom.

On a positive note, I’m feeling pretty good and sent this text to McRae this afternoon:

“I’m not feeling 100 percent, but I just blared Lady Gaga and sang along. McCullough’s coming back!”

A Collection of Random Events: Part One

IIn all honesty, I’ve been having trouble keeping a diary in Togo. In France, I wrote all the time, everyday. In Togo, I’ve found it a challenge to write about my daily activities; 70 percent of which account for domestic chores—although slightly different from those in the US, not particularly newsworthy.

On the contrary, I’ve occasionally had random two-to-three-minute conversations with Togolese I consider to be worthy of sharing with people Stateside.

For the sake of avoiding any headaches, I’ve translated such conversations from French to English. Naturally.

EVENT NUMBER ONE:

[I’m in the market in search of a few necessities and stroll up to my regular bread vendors.]

Three female bread vendors at once: “Hello my sister! Welcome! How are you? And the trip? And the morning? And work? You want bread? Salty or sweet? 100 cfa, 100 cfa…or 200 cfa, 200 cfa.”

Me: “Hello ladies! How are you? And the night? And the morning? And the kids? And the health? And the bread?!”

I often purchase produce from various vendors, however, I rotate some regulars so they have the opportunity to see my face and get a “gift” from me from time to time.

[I ignore one vendor because I recently purchased bread from her and turn to another on her left. I ask for salty bread and pay the woman 200 cfa.

This did not sit well with the neglected vendor.

Neglected vendor: “What?!?! But I showed you my bread! Oh…you’re not nice.”

Me: “I’m not nice?! I just bought bread from you the other day. Don’t be mad. I have to buy bread from your friend today so she can profit from the white person as well.”

Today’s bread vendor: “Yeah! You ate yesterday. I will eat today. She’s nice! Everyone should have an opportunity to profit from the white person. You’re not the chief of the city!”

[We all laugh together, but the neglected woman is still pissed.]

Me: “Good work ladies. Have a nice day. Madam, over there, I’ll buy bread from you tomorrow. I promise.”

[And the neglected vendor shoots me a smile.]

Phew. That was a close one.

EVENT NUMBER TWO:

[In a restaurant with my friend Robert.]

Robert: “Your friend in village…she’s like a man.”

He’s of course referring to her short hair, her solidly built physique, her lack of wearing skirts and dresses, and the fact that she smokes.

Me: “She’s tough, for sure, but very much a woman.”

Robert: “I find it strange that she smokes.”

Me: “Oh really, why? A lot of people smoke in Togo. My friend in village doesn’t have a mini market, but people sell cigarettes, tchakpa and sodobe.”

Robert: “Yes, but have you ever seen a Togolese woman smoking a cigarette?”

Whoa.

Me: [With an inquisitive regard] “Okay. You’re right. I’ve seen several female PCVs smoking but never once have I seen a Togolese woman smoke a cigarette. That’s bizarre. Why is that?!”

Robert: “Here, in Togo, women don’t smoke because female smokers are viewed/labeled as bandits.”

Me: “What?! [I laugh out loud.] You’re joking. That’s crazy. Really?”

Robert: “Yes, it’s true. If someone sees a woman smoking, he or she believes this woman takes part in le banditisme (bandit behavior).”

Me: “Wow. Well then. I might just pass that little tidbit to my friends.”

I haven’t yet asked women how they feel about this, but I’ll slip in a question here and there to get some answers. Timing is everything, as is the women I choose to ask.

Until next time, or until A Collection of Random Events: Part Two…

Une Petite Vacance à Kpalimé

After IST, Katy Todd (a fellow Savaner) and I were itching for a break. We itched for it probably because of a swarm of mosquitoes in Pagala. Ha! I know, I know. Bad joke. But honestly, I have enough self-control to resist the temptation to scratch a few mosquito bites. If, however, my body becomes an open bar for all mosquitoes resulting in more than 15 bites…I deem it as grounds for BLACK SWANNING. Black Swanning?? This action occurs when a person—one who has lost all self-control—scratches the bite until the bite becomes an open wound, i.e., until it bleeds. Moments like those I become quite the hypocrite for having previously slapped the hands of other Volunteers who did their own Black Swanning. My take on it: More than ten bites at one time warrants the action.

Katy and I left Atakpamé the Sunday after IST. What should have been a 45-minute taxi ride to Kpalimé was unfortunately a three-hour ride to Kpalimé. The road—or more so the rocky dirt path—we traveled on was by far the worst I’ve experienced in Togo. And once we finally reached a flat surface that resembled a paved road just shy of Kpalimé, I barely sat still with so much excitement. The cherry on the ice cream was the moment I bonded with an older gentleman—one I was actually sitting on because there were so many people crammed in the taxi. Moments before Kpalimé, the vieux lifted his right hand, extended his index finger, swiped it on my arm and showed me the dirt that once plastered my skin from the voyage. He then said with a smile, “You’re dirty.” Haha! Shall I reciprocate dear sir?

It took us approximately an hour to find a hotel room. Who knew we needed to make a hotel reservation in Togo?! (Note: Lomé and Kpalimé are probably the only two cities where it makes sense to make a reservation. Unfortunately, we missed that memo.) We stayed at Hotel Cristal for 15,000fcfa per night, which included air-conditioning, hot showers and a TV. Whoa. Living the big life!

After I showered my first hot shower in five months, I was on cloud nine. It was undoubtedly the first time I felt clean in Togo. And after my allergies flared up in Pagala, the STEAM certainly cleared those sinuses.

Among the few activities Katy and I planned for our petite vacance, the first plan of action was to dine at the Belgian restaurant called Bon Vivant. The restaurant was talked up by other Volunteers like tour guides did of the Empire State Building in NYC, so of course we had to go! Oh mon dieu. It was divine. We ordered a burger and a bottle of CHILLED red wine to toast to our three-month anniversary at post. My friends, I can’t even begin to describe the magnificence of our dining experience.

The following morning we attempted to hang-glide in small village near Kpalimé, but alas, time was an issue. We didn’t have it.

On the contrary, we had time to shop! We also took motos to the top of a mountain for some fresh air to see waterfalls and the remarkable view.

Bottom photo: I bought a couple paintings in a small village on top of a mountain and the artist said only natural materials are used. (See photo.)

Overall, it was a lovely break from Training and Dapaong. At the same time, both Katy and I couldn’t wait to get back home. Traveling in the U.S. is exhausting, but traveling in Togo…there are no words.

I think Lonely Planet wrote it best:

“…getting around without your own transport requires the patience of a saint and the determination of a fighter.”

Yeah… K

In-Service Training in Pagala

In-Service Training, or IST for the acronym inclined, is required of all PCVs; and it occurs three months after moving to post. IST is located in Pagala, southeast corner of the Centrale region. What’s it like there? Ever been to summer camp? It’s precisely that, well, that plus several technical sessions in French, a bit of Togolese food mixed with faux-American food, an empty pool, and lots of mosquitoes. Volunteers shared rooms together (two to one room) in cabins similar to those I often found in Michigan—minus the beautiful lakeside view.

We ate every single meal together in a dining hall and we also rendezvoused for a café break twice a day for five days. Whoa, I know. We often divided into our designated programs (CHAP and SED) to review information relevant to our goals and objectives. CHAP Trainers, for instance, informed PCVs on latrine projects, how to train health workers, how to give proper health talks to young adults, and the malaria campaign in Togo. Needless to say, it was tiresome for new PCVs to go from a laidback schedule to one that resembled a bit like boot camp—sans intense physical activities.

For the most part, the week in Pagala was pleasant. I ate well—probably, no most definitely, ate too much. I played games (ping-pong, Frisbee, chess, volleyball (with a soccer ball) and basketball); I watched a movie (X-Men: First Class…a bit disappointing); and on the last day of IST we all dressed up and celebrated Halloween together.

After just five months with PC Togo, I learned to appreciate one pivotal fact: The experience is what you make of it. Yes, PCVs have several guidelines to follow throughout service. Yes, PCVs often share ideas with one another and dive into cross-sector collaboration. These statements are very true, but also it is the responsibility of the Volunteer to assess the needs of his or her community. For me, it’s nutrition, hygiene and sanitation. It was nice to receive positive remarks on my project ideas from other Volunteers and Trainers during IST. Encouragement. Encouragement. Encouragement!

So, what’s my plan?

• Set up a stand in my market and educate the community on basic nutrition.
• Perfect the recipe for moringa juice and work with young adult groupements who may be able to prepare and sell the juice for a profit. (IGA: income generating activity.)
• Attend sporting events every Saturday at Collège Saint Anthanese and do health talks on nutrition with young students.

What will I need to succeed?

• Time
• Preparation
• A Moba translator
• Proper materials
• Money (I will most likely be obliged to pay for my spot at the market)

I think this plan is pretty realistic and applicable to the needs of my community. I just need to remind myself to have patience.

On verra.

Oh…and I just couldn’t resist a photo of this snail I saw in Pagala. I’ve seen so many in Togo I had to capture one! Always reminds me of The Bucket List:

Jack Nicholson on Buddhism:

“What does a snail have to do to reincarnate? Leave a perfect trail of slime?!”