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)

Motos, Moto Riding and Moto Drivers

At the conclusion of June 2009, I classified my international internship in Shanghai as advantageous, fulfilling and money well spent. I enjoyed the Shanghainese cuisine, the Shanghai Business Review magazine, the people, and the city. After having arrived at Detroit Metropolitan Airport, I had one regret: Neither finding the time, nor having the cojones to ride a moto.

As luck would have it, instead of a lifetime of regret, I only needed to wait two years for satisfaction. Thank you Togo!

Even before PC Togo Introductions in Lomé, it was common knowledge that all-terrain bicycles are given to Volunteers for city/village transport. What didn’t I know? Evidently, grâce à Togolese infrastructure (or lack there of), Togo is one of only a few countries where moto helmets are also provided. Score! During Training, in addition to bike mechanics 101, my fellow Trainees and I got the lowdown on motoing in Togo—oh yeah, motoing is a word—and each Trainee received his or her helmet to decorate and keep throughout service.

So I suppose la question du jour is do I or don’t I enjoy riding motos? I FREAKING ADORE RIDING MOTOS. Just like my personality blossoms in a megalopolis, my body was built for motoing!

Basic moto must-dos:

· Wear your helmet—otherwise you’ll be administratively separated from PC.

· Negotiate fare before mounting moto.

· DO NOT wrap your arms around moto drivers—they aren’t your boyfriends and will probably assume you want a Togolese husband.

· Always mount a moto from the left (like a bicycle)—if not, beware of moto muffler!

· If you decide to wear a skirt or dress, hike it up and wrap a pagne (piece of fabric) around your legs.

· DOUCEMENT: Learn it, Live it, Love it. Doucement, meaning slowly or be careful in Togo, is very useful and comprehensible to all Togolese.

· Make sure the driver isn’t intoxicated—no matter if they are Muslim.

· If you have a monster daypack, hand it to the driver. There’s no extra praise for Volunteers who carry heavy packs on their backs if unnecessary.

It may simply be an adrenaline rush, but I get such a kick out of motoing in Togo. I may even go as far as rating it a highlight to any day in Dapaong. Perhaps it’s a combination of speed, wind blowing threw visor, dodging potholes, dodging other motos with goats and mattresses tied to the back. It’s all very riveting. Frankly, the moto stories are right up there with diarrhea stories on the awesome-o-meter.

A couple of days ago, after several hours of deep cleaning the PCV Work Station in Dapaong, four dog-tired PCVs grabbed some refreshments at Robinet, a local bar. We talked about the Midwest, NYC, California, Americanisms, Togoisms, life in Savannah; we ate spiced tofu; and we did what Togolese do best…reposed. After an hour or so, I had to moto back chez moi to drop off a few items and pick up my bike. On the road, just outside the bar, I saw two guys chilling on motos. Without hesitation, I walked over to one and asked if he knew Bar Escale—a bar close to my house. With a faint voice, he said “Oui” and nodded his head. I replied, “Bon, on peut aller pour 300?” (Good, we can go for 300CFA?) He confirmed and then told me I was going to ride his friend’s moto. I checked out his friend—a slow, up and down scan—and suspected he was more intoxicated than I preferred for a moto driver. I turned back and shook my head no. It didn’t take him long to realize I wasn’t mounting his friend’s moto. So I hopped on his moto and he drove very well. Once I descended the moto in front of Bar Escale, I took off my helmet, smiled and said, “Voila, 300.” My new moto friend replied, “Oh, I’m not a taxi. It’s free.”

Um…What?!?!?! Why didn’t you tell me Dude?

I felt like such a jackass. Sure, it was awesome because I got a free trip home, but sucked because I felt like an idiot. Ah well, he didn’t seem to be bothered by it. Togolese are pretty nice, must admit.

Food: Savor it Chez Vous

For all the cultural differences between America and Togo, I didn’t anticipate gastronomy to be the most difficult to overcome. To quote a fellow Volunteer, “Apart from people, food is what I miss the most.” The more I think about it the more I realize, if I can adjust to gastronomical differences, I can do anything—in Togo…in the world.

In Gbatopé, my host mom prepared every meal for me. Every. Single. Meal. C’est-à-dire, I didn’t cook for myself for 60 days (minus seven days at Post Visit when a married couple cooked for me). Mamasan, my “Mom”, is a pretty good cook. Near the end of Training, if I had only conjured up a flour tortilla at lunchtime and added it to one of Mamasan’s creations…I could have made a burrito. Instead, I closed my eyes and imagined the mysterious spicy red sauce as pico de gallo on top of rice and beans. In Togo, the combination of rice and beans is called watche. When “Mom” gave me this roughly a week before I left Gbatopé, I simply said, “Mom!! This is awesome. Why did you wait until now to give me this?! Are you trying to make me stay, Mamasan?” She laughed—I often couldn’t tell if she found me comical or just a silly foreigner. I focused more on the former to boost my spirits, and of course because it’s true.

Unfortunately, even though “Mom” cooked several divine meals, my body needed time to adjust. In other words, my stomach said, “Culture shock! Welcome!!!” One week into Training, “Mom” had front-row seats to my Vomiting in Africa debut. Yay. Fun. It was unmistakably a difficult time for both of us: Me, for obvious reasons—Diarrhea and vomiting aren’t usually preferred daily activities—and her, for I couldn’t eat anything she made. Poor woman, she certainly tried. Then, tout à coup, she placed a plate of spaghetti with token red sauce in front of me and I consumed all of it. Shortly after I showed her the empty plate, we celebrated…African style. We laughed, we sang, and we danced. It was magical. From that moment on, spaghetti was my “Mom’s” go-to dish. Every day, for at least one meal, I had spaghetti with red sauce. It was hysterical.

What else did “Mom” make?

For breakfast, I ate brouille, a Togolese version of oatmeal. I often had brouille with oats or tapioca mixed with sugar and water. Unfortunately, the tapioca brouille was a bit sweet for me. In addition to oatmeal, Mamasan included about six bananas. Sure, they were slightly smaller than most bananas I purchased in America (fewer hormones). But, they also didn’t last as long; ergo, I had to eat all bananas in 24 hours. The passing out of mini bananas took place every other morning. Certainly got my daily dose of potassium, or decade dose. Thanks Mamasan!

For lunch and dinner, I often had rice with a spicy red sauce similar to one mixed with spaghetti. Aside from the almost Mexican dish, my other favorite meal was rice with la sauce d’arachide (peanut sauce) and chicken. It was delectable. So good. Rice with peanut sauce was the first Togolese dish I made in Dapaong. Occasionally, Mamasan cooked onions, peas and carrots in oil, tasted of pea soup minus the soup. That dish was often served with a whole baguette. My least favorite dish was beans cooked with tomatoes, onions and hot peppers, drenched in palm oil (an oil used frequently), and topped with a dusting of gari, a floury grain.

What do Togolese eat?

Pâte and foufou for Togolese are equivalent to hamburgers and hotdogs for Americans during college football tailgating season. One just can’t survive without either. They are, without a doubt, the two most common dishes in Togo. It’s customary to make pâte out of farine de mais, or corn flour, but for a little variety, rice is also used. Pâte is often served with a sauce—la sauce de tomate (tomato sauce), la sauce d’arachide (peanut sauce), la sauce de gumbo (okra sauce), la sauce d’adèmé (leafy green sauce), etc. It’s rarely served alone. Many Volunteers enjoy pâte rouge, which is essentially pâte mixed with a tomato-based sauce and even some protein. For Togolese, protein, or more specifically meat and fish are expensive. Due to cost, it’s typical to reserve the best and largest section of meat or fish for the head of family (i.e. men). Togolese love pâte. They swear by it. They can and do eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Heck, I’m sure some even dream about it. I have yet to try standard pâte made with corn flour, but I tried it with rice. Christophe, one of my Togolese counterparts, invited me over for lunch with his family one afternoon and it was served with a mystery sauce and goat. Oh yes, and they cooked the entire goat. At one moment, I chewed on a piece of meat and the texture was a bit strange, furry even. Turns out that furry texture was the goat’s stomach lining. Mmmmm, awesome!! But uh, I’ll let you enjoy that part Christophe.

Foufou is another starch made with cassavas or yams boiled and then pounded into a thick, malleable mixture. The doughy ball is also served with a sauce.

What else is different?

• Vegetables and fruits are significantly smaller. Bananas, tomatoes and onions are teeny tiny.
• Oranges are often greenish-yellow.
• The most prevalent cheese in Togo is Vache Qui Rit (Laughing Cow) for it doesn’t need to be refrigerated.
• Soja, or tofu, is surprisingly good here. In my opinion, it’s better in the north, but it’s also prepared differently.
• All juices are very expensive.

Food is a lot fresher here than in the US, however, it also doesn’t last long. It’s imperative to plan meals accordingly to avoid waste of not only food, but also money.

Well, I hope this food entry has provided enough information to answer a few questions and perhaps stir up an appetite. No doubt, more food-related entries to come!

À la prochaine (until next time)… J

Eat, Sleep and Diarrhea

Eating and sleeping: Two activities necessary for life continuation are regularly practiced in America. In Togo, it’s a wee bit different. And Diarrhea, well, Diarrhea is the result of one (or both) of those activities gone wrong.

Seventy-two hours after landing in Togo, Peace Corps Medical Unit considered a three-hour health session on Diarrhea as important as taking malaria medication. The three-hour session included tutorials on water purification, bleaching fruits and vegetables, and the 4-1-1 on the SHIT book.

Beg your pardon? SHIT book?!?!?! SHIT, Staying Healthy in Togo, is a health guide given to all Volunteers. It contains descriptions, lists symptoms and treatments of many health concerns in Togo. In addition to an entire chapter on Diarrhea, the guide has sections on intestinal worms and parasites (I already had Giardiasis), emotional health, serious health problems and nutrition. A combination of curiosity, paranoia and boredom resulted in reading the guide three times. Among basic common sense, there’s certainly some random, yet terrifying health concerns. In Togo, for instance, there’s a frightening insect I intend to destroy during my service called a Blister Beetle.

What’s a blister beetle?

To cite from SHIT, “The blister beetle is a brightly colored insect that is attracted to artificial light at night. When disturbed or injured, the beetle secretes a substance containing cantharidin. Cantharidin is an acid that causes a severe reaction when it comes in contact with the skin or mucous membranes. INGESTION OF A WHOLE BLISTER BEETLE IS USUALLY FATAL. Blister beetle type reactions are more common in November and December in Togo.”

Holy potatoes!! I plan to steer clear of all beetles, but this one…grab kerosene and matches fellow Volunteers!!!!

Although blister beetles are scary, many health concerns found in Togo stem from human ingestion (i.e. water and food contamination); hence our three-hour Diarrhea talk. Dapaong’s city water, though better than river water, should be purified prior to consumption. Daily water decontamination consists of filling a bucket with water taken from my shower faucet, pouring the water into a three-liter filter, filling an empty liter-and-a-half bottle with filtered water, adding six drops of bleach, and waiting approximately fifteen minutes before drinking. In comparison to most Volunteers in Togo, this process is a piece of cake. Others may filter water through a pagne (fabric in Togo), boil it, wait for it to cool down, pour it in a filter, fill a bottle, add bleach, and then wait.

Fruits and vegetables, unless they are pealed or cooked, must be bleached for fifteen minutes.

Prior to consumption, disinfecting water and food is as essential as breathing in Togo—at least for Volunteers. If not, an unpleasant dose of Diarrhea and vomiting are well on their way. Of course, it’s only natural for our bodies to adjust to water and food in other cultures. In Togo, it seems Volunteers need quite a bit of time for their bodies to adjust. And do we have stories!!! Some have more stories than others, but all have brought tears of laughter. PC nurse practitioners gave us a handout, Diarrhea Flow Chart, noting the various stages of Diarrhea. The stages are listed one through seven and past Volunteers created their own level, 10. “Have you level-10ed?” This is a frequent question Volunteers ask one another. Level 10 Diarrhea is code for pooping one’s pants. Generally, it’s unavoidable. According to most, it’s practically initiation into Peace Corps Togo. Once, a Volunteer had even level-10ed in front of the Country Director (A.K.A. our boss). I cried for roughly two minutes after hearing that one-one that involved pooping in a Ziploc bag, throwing the bag down a latrine, sitting and then standing up to reach for some cookies and poop bursting out uncontrollably.

What do I find most bizarre in regards to eating, sleeping and pooping in Togo?

Biological clocks.

It seems even if Volunteers practice proper water and food sanitation, their bodies often wake up (usually between 5:30a.m. and 6a.m.) and tell the mind it’s time to take care of business. For me, it’s 5:30a.m. Since the first week of Training, my body wakes up and tells me it’s time to poop at 5:30a.m. It’s the craziest thing. Doesn’t matter if I am up late or go to bed early…5:30a.m. Every. Single. Day. J

An Unforeseen, Stronger Presence of Patriotism

Patriotism. In college, I deemed patriotic Americans as chauvinistic, flag-waving yuppies—those ignorant of the world beyond US borders. [Face runs parallel to floor.] After traveling to Western Europe, Asia and presently West Africa, I am ashamed to have applied those descriptors to such loyalists. I was a young fool who emitted an illusion of profound cultural awareness to my peers by devaluing American patriots. To my delight and thanks to living abroad, the US has itself another flag-waver and I accept it…wholeheartedly.

Why?

It isn’t because I joined the Peace Corps, nor is it because I “found myself” while training in Gbatopé, a small village in Togo. It’s because America is remarkable, Americans are adaptive, and I grew up.

Let me be clear and stress I do not view America as perfect. We’ve certainly got our problems (i.e. health care, economy, individual rights, etc). America, however, overflows with citizens interested in reshaping the norms if need be. C’est-à-dire…we bleed change. Sure, we fight among ourselves, quarrel like 60-year-old married couples and often agree to disagree. But hey, kudos for trying, right?! Americans aspire to fulfill the needs of not only our culture, but also our neighbors’ cultures. Hint, hint…the Peace Corps. We are the only country with such a program. Wow. And generally, people love us for it; or at least Togolese love us.

A couple of days ago, I ran a few errands around Dapaong. En route chez moi, I walked passed two gentlemen who whispered to each other, “Elle est avec le corps de la paix.” Translation: “She is with the Peace Corps.” Um, what?! Did someone put a Peace Corps sticker on my clothes without my knowledge? Did they see me when the PC Swearing-In Ceremony was nationally televised? I just smiled and continued my promenade home. News of Americans in Togo spreads like wildfire.

Why am I blogging about American patriotism while in Togo? WHY NOT. Do I dislike my Togolese experience thus far? ABSOLUTELY NOT. Before college, for instance, I found my hometown insufferable. It was petit, held many upsetting childhood memories, and was the whereabouts of some former boyfriends. Nevertheless, I wasn’t in college too long before I fully appreciated its splendor. With this post, it’s the same story.

All in all, America has a sufficient amount of charming attributes—no matter if I adopt a couple lifestyle changes in Togo or in another country—that, for lack of a better cliché, I want to grow old there.

Proud to be an American. J