Pure Water Sachets

In Togo, I’ve had to slightly suppress my pro-environment personality. You’d think it would be the opposite, being in Africa and all. But trash on the ground of every corner, deforestation near villages, and trash burning says otherwise.

There aren’t recycle bins in offices separating plastics from paper. There aren’t really trash bins at all throughout most villages and small towns. After almost 20 months, it’s no surprise to me when someone throws his trash on the ground wherever and whenever he pleases. And admittedly, I’ve done it too a bit—though I aim for the already-started trash piles.

For years I separated glass bottles, plastic and paper. I also composted and never burned my trash. So you can imagine how difficult it was for me to change such a lifestyle in Togo—a country where the concept of reusable bags has yet to reach the masses.

Even though respecting and protecting the environment is at the bottom of the must-do checklist, Togolese are learning. And PCVs educate them.

Since purified water is scarce, in addition to bleaching and filtering, people buy small bags filled with water (500ml) for 25CFA (approximately $0.05). Volunteers and locals call them "pure water sachets" and they are a bargain. Nevertheless when someone drinks a small bag of water, a question surfaces: What does one do with the leftover bag? The answer: Bags are often tossed on the ground with everything else, adding to pollution.

Thankfully, an organization called Zameke found a solution. They collect the pure water sachets, wash them, dry them, and reuse them. Following the well-known “REDUCE RECYCLE REUSE”, they’ve made wallets, purses, school bags, trashcans and pencil holders out of these bags. Phenomenal! This organization, however, exists in Lomé, 12 hours from the northern-most capital. Additionally, there’s no office or store that sells its merchandise in Dapaong.

Soon I hope that will change.

I just started to work with my site-mate’s work partner (who is an upholster) and we plan to make several wallets and bags for students in Dapaong. We’ve been practicing with pure water sachets I collected since I moved to post, which amounted to more than 250. But I knew it wasn’t enough to start. So I created a little competition with elementary students in my art class. Last week I told them a prize would be given to the top five students to bring me old pure water sachets from the streets of Dapaong. Today, they made my day. Several kids handed me large bags filled with pure water sachets!!! One student who forgot her bag of sachets even cried and begged for me to give her a chance to retrieve it from her house. It was priceless.

With a bit of luck and hard work, this project will go well and students will purchase these bags for about 200CFA (less than $0.41). The purpose of this project isn’t to increase income, but to reduce waste and make the streets of Dapaong a bit greener.

We’ll soon see. But for now, it’s time for me to start counting for I have prizes to pass out.

Until next time…

PS – I counted. 980 sachets. Today.

The Inevitable Return Flight Back to Togo

At the Airport

I do my best to maintain airport etiquette but sometimes it’s hard to surpass ill-mannered, apathetic and tired staff. My conversation with a certain gentleman at the check-in counter quickly reminded of what little desire I have to ever work in an airport—such pleasant co-workers I would have indeed.

The security checkpoint at Orly Airport in Paris had no surprises. Still people forgot to pack their large containers of shampoo in their check-in bags along with their Swiss Army knives and disposable plastic “shoes” (or bags) are offered as a courtesy for passengers. I was, however, surprised by an officer’s suspicion of my Lowepro camera case—which is always a carry-on. For the number travelers and tourists who pass through the airport I was shocked by his question, “What is this?” I bit my lip to avoid answering with, “a bag,” and told him it was my camera case. Stupefied, he then requested I pull out both my cameras. With all that I stuffed in my backpack I was surprised he didn’t pull me into an interrogation room. But alas, a few moments of unpleasantries with staff members and several moments of peace with a book as I waited to board the plane.

In the Plane

What’s worse? Being in economy class where passengers are at the back of the plane with crying babies or being two rows behind first class where the benefits of a couple hundred extra dollars are just within reach? Tough call. Before both of our flights out of Paris, my sister and I spoke of our temptation to give into first class and bask in the glory of comfortable seats, and no children allowed. I don’t mind that first class (or business for the suits) exists but I don’t want to see it! I prefer ignorance. If I can’t see it, perhaps it’s yet another figment of my imagination.

But no. Instead, for my return flight to Togo, I saw everything from pre-departure juice (which could very well be freshly squeezed) to linen napkins to tickets to the premier of Iron Man 3—which premiers May 3rd but one never knows. Surely I exaggerated on the benefits of first class—they would never offer tickets to a premier—but it’s quite luxurious. I experienced first class once in my 26 years and it was blissful. A complete surprise. The story entails innumerable details for which I can sum up to Air India fucked up, and my sister and I benefited. Score.

But not this time. Royal Air Morac didn’t fuck up, and it was T-Rex style dining with babies unable to pop their ears and the predictable sick person next to me who frequently coughed in my direction. The poor woman coughed just enough for me to wish I was a paranoid hypochondriac with my own white travel mask.

Oh snap! Big events happened in the air. Passengers of flight AT 771 had the pleasure of enjoying Dora the Explorer in both first and economy class. If I was in first class I’d be LIVID. Where’s my Iron Man 3, damn it?! But since I wasn’t in first class, I just smiled and continued to listen to my iPod. Ha. Suckers.

Even though I love music, across the aisle, a man hadn’t quite finished one of the original Star Wars on his iPad. Nice! Clearly people haven’t yet forgotten great films. Times like those, I wish I had had the courage to ask if movie sharing was likely or socially unacceptable (aka get your own iPad). But even if courage wasn’t a variable in this equation, I still had knocking-on-death’s-door French woman attempting a nap and I’d surely go to Hell if she awoke because the young American just had to watch Star Wars. Return of the Jedi!! Fuck. Have strength McCullough!

And I did. Thank you, Katy Todd, for your iPod!

Overall the flight from Paris to Lomé was tolerable, nothing out of the ordinary. Except when I landed. My intention was to take the Post Office bus up to Dapaong the following morning but it, along with several other services, was full the entire weekend. Thus 72 hours after I left Paris…I arrived in Dapaong. Home at last.

Again, I am home at last, and no doubt ready to tackle these last six months of my Peace Corps service.

Until next time… J

Why I Love The Arc de Triomphe

I love the arc de triomphe. It is the Empire State Building of Paris in my eyes.

My interest in Napoleon's desire to honor the Grand Armée with this immense arch perhaps falls hand-in-hand with my fondness of films such as Braveheart, Saving Private Ryan, The Last of The Mohicans, The Pianist and Cassablana. Neverthless, the few times I've visited Paris and the few times I've stood in front of the arc de triomphe, I often think of visitors who prefer the tour eiffel over the arc de triomphe. Yes, both are marvelous in their own way: (1) a monument to honor the French military and (2) an entrance arch to the 1889 World's Fair, today's symbol of France, and even a symbol of love.

I'm certainly no historian, nor am I anti-love. I simply never tire of the magnificence of the arc de triomphe. Whenever I stand in front of its simple design and colossal size, typical of late 18th century romantic neoclassicism, my smile is that of a child who sees his favorite characters at Walt Disney World in Orlando, Fl.

Again, I love it. All of it.

The sculptures unique to each pillar represent historic moments and they are names of major battles in Napoleonic wars: The Departure of the Volunteers in 1792 (aka la marseillaise), Napoleon's Triumph of 1810, Resistance of 1814 and Peace of 1815.

 I love the rose sculpted ceilings, the richly sculptured frieze of soldiers, and the arch's placement at the étoile--with its 12 streets. I love that the étoile is clearly a death trap but like many things in France, the French make it work. My sister and I once drove around the arc de triomphe and I swore to myself I'd never do it again unless I either had a Frenchman drive me or I had excellent health insurance.

étoile

I love the inside walls of the monument listing names of 558 French generals--names of those who died in battles are underlined. I also love the Unknown Soldier buried beneath the arc de triomphe,  which burns in memory of the dead who were never identified in both World War I and World War II.

Unknown Soldier

And finally, I love the 30 shields with names of major revolutionary and Napoleonic military victories engraved above the army bordering the top of the arch.

Napoleon I may have made several mistakes (putting it lightly) as the emperor of the French, but I'll give him this: The arc de triomphe is a truly remarkable structure adored and to be adored by people from every generation, from every part of the world.

Until next time... :)

Merry Christmas!!

Tomorrow I leave for Angers--a few hours southwest of Paris--to spend Christmas with my old French host parents Lili and Jean-Claude. And just in case I don't have easy access to Internet, or I am unable to call...

Merry Christmas!! 

I love you, my dear family and friends. Soon I'll be home to give you all a hug and my love. 

But for now, just wait until I return to Paris on Dec 26th for a Skype date. 

Here are a few Christmas pictures to keep you in the spirit. Seasons greetings! And Carolyn, tell Trevor and Vanessa to make a couple snow angels for me. :)

Blue light display on fountain near Arc de Triomphe.

The Champs-Elysees all lit-up with Christmas lights.

Christmas boutiques in a Paris garden.

If you'd like to contact me, my number in country is (+33) 07 53 56 46 54.

Until next time...

An Attempt at Invisibility

The stress of being a PCV is certainly incomparable to that of anyone with a nine-to-five job, nor one who works 80+ hours a week. We of course have work stress, but I find volunteers have more of a social stress similar to high school multiplied by (oh) 10. You try your best to fit in by speaking the same slang (or language), by finding people who make you feel comfortable for being the person you are, and by buying the right clothes (or pagne) that indicate you're part of the group. And like high school, this push to fit in all the time gets old and sometimes all that's needed is a little break to reboot your engines and get rolling again. Students call it summer break while everyone else calls it a VACATION.

Well my friends, this volunteer needs a vacation. And it's happening!

After more than a year-and-a-half in West Africa, I finally have a break. Nope, I'm not returning stateside--as much as I would love to see my entire family and close friends--but I'm going somewhere just as good: France.

My last trip to France ended in June 2007, which was the conclusion of my study abroad term. More than five years ago! As most of you know, I lived with a host family the entire term. They were (and still are) amazing people. When I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with them I barely had a sliver of homesickness--something I hope to have this Christmas. And wow are they as excited to see me as I am to see them.

For a bit of fun check out the difference: Samantha McCullough 2007 vs Samantha McCullough 2012.

Think they'll recognize me?

A weekend outside of Angers, France 2007

Thanksgiving 2012 in Togo, West Africa

I'll be doing a little back-and-forth traveling between Paris and Angers with the intention of seeing close friends in Paris, spending Christmas with Lili and Jean-Claude Maupoint--my host parents--and seeing my old university in Angers, and much to my delight...spending my last week in Paris (and celebrating New Year's) with my sister Kathrine.

Not too long ago I received an email from my good friend Mariana--a chef who lives in Paris--who asked, "What do you want to do in Paris?" To which I responded, "BE INVISIBLE!!!!"

Volunteers are often on display. It's something we admittedly despise in the beginning and learn to accept and impressively ignore as our service moves forward. But even with this almost superhuman ability to space out--a term we're quite familiar with in Togo--a vacation is still THE WAY to bask in the glory of anonymity without locking yourself in your house for a weekend.

In addition to the joy of anonymity, I fully intend to (1) photograph the streets and life of Paris once more, (2) eat well, (3) explore the Christmas boutiques, (4) drink coffee, (5) and hangout with people I love.

I have no doubt my Internet connection in France will be more than tolerable, so feel free to email or message me on Facebook if you'd like to chat (or even video chat I dare add).

The vacation officially begins December 18, 2012 and ends January 3, 2013.  

And then my dear family and friends...six months to go until I'm stateside again. Oh how fast time will fly!!

Much love to you all. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year (or Happy Holidays) and all that jazz.

Until next time in 2013... :)

To Give or Not To Give Money

Sub-headline: The one bit of Peace Corps guilt that sticks

Volunteers often have reading material. Books and magazines spread from Peace Corps Volunteer to Peace Corps Volunteer like notes pass from teenager to teenager in middle school. But every once in a while, an attention-grabbing article pops up in circulation about Peace Corps life. I’ve read three attention grabbers: What the Peace Corps Taught Me About Failure by a volunteer in Senegal, a blog post titled The Real Peace Corps by a volunteer in Ethiopia, and Peace Corps Guilt by a volunteer in Paraguay. Though I enjoyed all three, the last article left a bit of a sore spot. Most likely because it is true, Peace Corps guilt does exist and I just didn’t want to admit it.

Ester Katcoff, author of Peace Corps Guilt, details several variables of volunteer guilt: (1) taking time for ourselves, (2) not sharing personal possessions, (3) being too fancy, (4) being unsustainable, (5) and failing to save the world.

Roughly my entire cluster of PCVs in Savannah, the northernmost region of Togo, agreed with every variable. But I wasn’t completely sold.

I never feel guilt in taking time for myself. Yes, I came to Togo to help the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women and to perform cultural exchanges. But if a women’s group stands me up because they need to work in their fields or men catcall me as I walk on a street or I’m missing my sisters more than ever, I firmly believe I deserve the right to enjoy the latest superhero film in the comfort of my home—even if it's the middle of the day.

I never feel guilt in not sharing personal possessions. I share pencils, paper, crayons, glitter, beads for bracelets and necklaces, old magazines, fabric for clothes, etc. I offer tastes of American dishes and beverages. But do I share my MacBook Pro or Nikon D80 with my Togolese neighbors and friends? Absolutely not. Why? Because I paid for both electronics with money I earned in America. They were not just gifts given to me.

I never feel guilt in being too fancy. I live in the capital of Savannah, thus life is already different than life in village. The married couple I replaced once told me to dress well and people will respect you. This of course I have known since I graduated from Central Michigan University; however, it was a fitting reminder that even though I am in Africa the rule still applies. The first eight months at post I hand washed all of my own clothes. Then, a nice woman asked to do my laundry so she could send her daughter, a student at the University of Kara, money for fees and miscellaneous expenses. Nowadays, she stops by my house every two weeks (or whenever I need her) to wash my clothes. Do I feel too fancy? Not at all. She works to gain money for her daughter like my mom once worked three jobs to pay for two daughters to attend university and one to go to high school.

Despite what's in the previous three paragraphs, I'm not made of ice. I do feel guilt. And it comes when children and friends I know ask me for money and I don’t want to give it.

In New York City, I often saw people who were either homeless or simply poor asking for money in the subway. Though it made me sad, I never gave them money unless they included a special performance with their request: a song, a dance, a witty limerick, a rough sketch, etc. In Togo, it’s really no different. I see children everyday with tin cans tied with string dangling around their necks hoping someone with give them 25 franc cfa here, 100 franc cfa there like in Slumdog Millionaire. I never give them money. I barely flinch as I shoo them away. Though if I have leftover bread from a restaurant, I don't hesitate to pass it on. 

With familiar Togolese friends and children, it’s an entirely different ballgame. A guilt either too tough to swallow or one I bury deep hoping to forget.

Last Christmas a friend asked me for money. His name is Robert and he was two months behind on his rent. Christmas is an uncomfortable time to say no to friends in need of money, not to mention his family lives in Burkina Faso. So I gave him six-mille franc cfa (approximately $12). He told me he would pay me back, but he never has and he never will. Even though I am glad I gave it to him, even that day, last Christmas, I couldn’t help but wonder: What would he have done if I weren’t here? Would he have found a way to pay for it himself or would he go door-to-door asking for 100 franc cfa here, 100 franc cfa there like the children with tin cans? I will never know.

This morning, the guilt almost too great to swallow hit me again. At just after 8AM, a child knocked on my door. Not thrilled to have a visitor so early in the morning, I opened the door slowly. To my surprise, it was a familiar face. His name is Jonas. Jonas helped with the second world map project I completed at Bon Pasteur Elementary School. This year he started middle school. How exciting! Today, however, was less than exciting. After we exchanged salutations, I asked him why he was not in school. And the rest of the conversation went like this:

“I’m not in school because they sent me home,” he said.

“Why did they send you home?” I asked him.

“Because they want my school fees,” he replied.

“Where are your parents?” I asked.

“My parents are dead,” he replied.

“Well, who takes care of you?” I further asked.

“My grandmother,” he replied as he looked at me with heart-wrenching eyes.

In truth, even after 18 months of service, I didn’t know how to respond. I so wanted to remain strong and refuse to offer money but I just couldn't tell him no. So instead I told him to “have courage” and I would see him soon. As he exited my compound, I slowly closed my front door and stood staring at the ground. I felt wretched and so many thoughts entered my mind.

What are you doing? He is a good kid. It’s only twelve bucks to help him continue his education. But you’ve been so firm about not haphazardly giving Togolese money. He has to work to gain money. But he is a good kid!! And his help with the world map project was voluntary. Everyone has problems, what makes him so special?

Above all thoughts and questions I had, the inevitable question took precedence over all: Will it stop? That is, if I give Jonas money for school, will the other two students who helped with the project come knocking on my door and ask for money? Am I a terrible person for thinking it's all just a domino effect?

It isn’t like in America where donations to charities can be made anonymously. Most host country nationals think volunteers have money and even with shame, they will ask for financial assistance from volunteers they barely know. It's not only their fault. Here is a country that has had so much assistance from foreign lands that for most it's all they know. But when do we as volunteers say no? What impossible situations remove the guilt and leave volunteers with the satisfaction of helping a friend? Is it not so different from America after all? Does this guilt only exist because it’s a third-world country and we are Peace Corps Volunteers?

In the end, I chose to split the cost of Jonas’ education with my site mate Katy Todd—since we completed the world map project with Jonas. The decision, however, doesn’t bring any answers to any of these questions and I fear the guilt to give or not to give money will always remain a question. 

Until next time...

PS - If you have answers, do share. 

Wasn’t I Supposed to Gift You?

In a culture where gifts are hardly if ever given on birthdays, rarely on Christmas, and few have even heard of Valentine’s Day, you might question when do people give and receive gifts?

In French, gift translates to cadeau. In Togo, this word is more often than not a thorn in any PCVs side. The term is most definitely applied too loosely. Everything is a gift. Tipping a taxi-moto driver an extra 50FCFA, cadeau; paying for another round of tchakpa for your Togolese friends, cadeau; or buying a bowl of tomatoes and the vendor throws in a few extra, cadeau. In Togolese society, it’s ill mannered, even offensive to refuse a gift—and even more so if you’re a foreigner. I’ve often heard PCVs politely pass on gifts even though deep down they are fully aware it’s a battle they can’t win. Besides, gift refusal makes it hard to integrate, right? 

Most PCVs do their best to return the kindness either by bringing a loaf of bread home to their host families in village after a business trip or by printing photos in America for Togolese counterparts and friends so they may savor the memories of working together.

In Dapaong, I have no host family. I live in a compound with four other tenants. One family I know well (a married couple with a baby girl) and the three other tenants I rarely see. For this reason, I rarely return from a trip with a bag full of bread. Yet I still gift the family I know. I’ll oftentimes make Moringa juice and offer a bottle, or I’ll cook an American dish and propose a taste. Does the family reciprocate? Oh yes.

Before the mother left with the baby to return to the University of Kara, we were quite close. The father and I don’t often cross paths because our work schedules are considerably different. And once, after I hadn’t see him in over a month, we talked in front of my house for a while and then out of the blue he asked me if I liked beer—he works at a brasserie. My first thought, “Uh not the beer from here.” But I said, “Yes of course!” He asked me which kind of beer I prefer and I said Castel. Little did I know his intension was to gift me seven beers. Not buy seven beers from a local bar, but bring me seven beers to drink alone. Seven beers…just because. Does he think I’m an alcoholic? Nope, just a nice gesture.

Roughly one week ago he gifted me again with an entire watermelon—yep it’s watermelon season. Since there isn’t a chance I could eat an entire watermelon alone I shared it with my site mate Katy Todd. Although it was a very sweet gift, literally, I couldn’t help but wonder: When do I gift him? And with what?!

Well, two days ago, I got my answer: a chicken. I was finishing up with a carpenter who I’d been working with over the last three weeks on remodeling the Dapaong workstation. And as a gesture of our friendship, he gifted me a live chicken. Again, since I live alone there’s no way I could eat an entire chicken. And more importantly, I didn’t have the first clue as to how I’d kill and cook the damn thing. So, I decided to “re-gift” it and give it to my neighbor. Genius.

After I biked home from the Dapaong workstation with the live chicken in a bag attached to my bike, I walked over to my neighbor’s house, clapped, said “Excusez!” and presented the gift. Even though I told him it was a gift, I also suggested we dine together. To my surprise he proposed to eat the chicken that very night. Why not? Saves me from sweating in my kitchen one night. Eh voila, the plan was set.

For most of the day I thought about the relief of not cooking and eating a delicious chicken with pâte. Again…little did I know I was in for a real treat.

Around 6:30 that evening, he knocked on my door with hands full of black bags. Of course he brought the chicken, but he also brought two bottles of wine and guinea fowl, a northern specialty. You’ve got to be kidding me?! I was supposed to gift you. Come on man!!!

The lime-green price tags on the wine bottles immediately caught my attention. Four mille five hundred franc CFA each! Twenty bucks easily!!! I don’t even spend that much on wine in this country. He told me one bottle was for us to share and the other was for me. I said I couldn’t accept it, but that didn’t go over very well. Stubborn man. So we ate a little, we drank a little, and he excused himself and left me with three-quarters of a chicken, some guinea fowl and one-and-a-half bottles of wine. Bullshit. But I grinned from ear to ear and thanked him several times as he walked out of my house.

The next day, he called and thanked me for a wonderful evening.

This country.

Until next time…J