What makes me smile in Togo?

For whatever reason, friends and family question whether or not I am happy in Togo. Yes, The Land of The Free has a great deal to offer: equality among men and women, reliable electricity, wireless Internet (Oh how I want that!), coffee shops, Häagen-Dazs Five ice cream (lemon flavor), and bratwursts. Although after almost a year of living in Togo—even without its NYC-style hot dog stands and McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish sandwiches (Judge all you want! I don’t care.)—it still manages to make me smile. The happy-or-not inquiry is usually followed by, “I am not unhappy.”  And it is the truth. Peace Corps Togo is an experience for which I asked. Peace Corps Togo, though at times quite a challenge (culturally, physically and intellectually), is unlike anything else I have ever come across in all of my travels. And that, friends and family, makes me happy.

There are, of course, other little Togolese idiosyncrasies that either prompts a smile, a mini surge of laughter, or a snicker with a headshake.

So what makes me smile?

• The sound of my neighbor’s wife sweeping the compound outside my house early in the morning
• The scenery

Photo Cred: Katy Todd

• Waking up to “Lããfie!” “Lããfie!” “Lããfie!” from the street, which is simply women and men greeting one another quickly on their way to work
• Biking around the city—working in a sense—and someone yells, “Yendoutien!” I turn my head and slow down to see who has called my name and realize a friend wants me to sit and drink tchakpa. The best is when this happens before noon
• Togolese fashion sense and older women

Photo Cred: Katy Todd

• Passing donkeys on the street while biking
• Taxi-motorcycle drivers sleeping horizontally on their bikes (anytime of the day)
• Truck drivers taking naps under semis on the highway because it is the only place with shade
• Eating spicy spaghetti at 8am
• Taking naps on the floor 

• Having conversations with people while biking on the street
• An older woman at the market who sells only grapefruit and limes—we greet one another with the standard greeting but she is so kindhearted and she gives me great deals on grapefruit
• Achu, my site mate’s dog, is very strange (but cute) and whines every time I see him even if it’s only been 24 hours since I last saw him
• Women offering their sons to me for marriage
• Passed out PCVs from either too much sun, too much work or too much…  

• People telling me I am too old (at 25) not to be married
• Seeing all the items motorcycle drivers attach to their motorcycles

Photo Cred: Katy Todd

Needless to say these are not the only tidbits of Togo that make me grin from ear to ear…just happens often enough to make me remember.

Inevitably I will add to this list once more spring to mind, or, that is, the next time I smile.

Until next time…

Bike Accident in Togo

Some days you just never know what will happen. And later, perhaps you wonder if you had done things differently—left your house a little later (or earlier), taken other means of transportation, encountered different people—you might have avoided an accident. (Ever seen Sliding Doors with Gwyneth Paltrow? Great movie.)

Yesterday was one of those days. Yesterday, a motorcycle hit another motorcycle and the latter hit me while I was biking. Luckily, I was wearing my helmet—as PCVs should. And luckily, only my left side received injuries, i.e. a large bruise on my thigh, a mini bruise on my hip, scratches and a couple deep gashes on my arm and foot.

Why was I biking? I needed to buy mangoes, avocadoes and tomatoes from the market. I also wanted to buy carrots but none of the carrot mamas were out selling—GIRL CAN’T GET A BREAK! Or is carrot season ending? L

I first thought I lucked out because I was just leaving the market when tout à coup a moto in front of me decided to turn around without looking behind him and I almost T-boned him—not that I really would have done any damage. What the heck, man?! Shortly there after, while biking on the main road the same moto passed me and the idiot said, “Pardonnez-moi.” Yes, thanks for almost killing me, you jerk. But, apology accepted.

About 200 yards later, the fun really began. I don’t really understand how it happened. Perhaps moto man #1 was drunk, or maybe he just doesn’t know how to drive—this is the case more often than not. But the handle of moto man #2 hit my bike handle just enough and caused me to tip over and slide on my left side a few feet.  Moto man #2 fell just the same but the damage to his moto was far worse than my bike. Although he had fewer scratches, so I could give two shits about his moto. Ha!

People were nice and helped me up, asked if I was okay, and examined my bike for any irreparable damages. At first, I was fine; I was more pissed off than anything else. So I got on my bike and continued home to take care of my wounds. Didn’t want any infections!!!! On my return trip, things changed…

I almost got home when I started felling a little light-headed, begun to pedal slowly, and the countryside had a grey and white overtone. It was then I decided it was time to pull over. I sat on the side of the road for a bit, breathed slowly, calmed my nerves, and then I called my neighbor to come help me get home.

Long story short, I’m fine. I immediately hopped in the shower, rinsed off my wounds, applied triple antibiotic cream where it was needed, slapped on (not really) a few Band-Aids, and made some juice to ease the shock (sugar helps).

What did I learn?

• ·      There’s a reason helmets were invented.
• ·      Men, too, do not know how to drive, so don’t generalize and say only women are horrible drivers.   
• ·      I’m lucky there weren’t any serious injuries.
• ·      Shit happens and it’s not really Togo’s fault. Ha ha.

      Want to see the battle scars?? Continue below.

Premier Mai

Christophe DJIKOUTIKE, my Togolese counterpart, is one of the few people I’ve met in Dapaong who just gets it. He fully understands Peace Corps Volunteers are not sent to cities and villages to give sizeable donations, to give cadeaux similar to those millions have received on The Oprah Show, etc. He gets that we are here to educate, to exchange cultural ideas and ideals, and to hopefully improve life in Togo.

At 7:54am, I received a text from Christophe. He officially invited Katy and I to celebrate le Premier Mai with he and his wife Martine—a woman half his age and twice his size. Niiiiiiiiice, Christophe. Nice.

At first I was hesitant to accept. Katy and I had already accepted two other invitations and we knew very well that such invitations would include food, drinks and dancing. Accepting the invitation was an absolute confirmation that our stomachs would despise us by the end of the day. End of the day??? No. That’s not correct. By the end of the afternoon!!!!

So what did we do? We accepted. Boom.

Thank goodness I ate a hand full of mixed nuts and a mango for breakfast!!

ROUND ONE:

Katy and I arrived at Christophe’s house shortly after 11. Christophe was out in search of la soupe de bon mil (a.k.a. good tchakpa), so Katy and I sat outside, stared off into space and occasionally came back to reality to admire the art of pounding yams. Fufu was on the menu. Score!

So…yes, we ate fufu with a tomato sauce and beef. I often enjoy dining chez Christophe because in addition to everything else he gets, he is fully aware of our disgust to stomach lining. Or is that just me?

I had nearly finished my plate when Christophe said, “Oh, il faut ajouter.” (Oh, it’s important to add.) Ummm…Christophe. I did tell you we had another lunch scheduled with Katy’s homologue. Did he listen? Nope!  Fortunately, he gets a kick out of my sassy personality. So when I took the serving spoon from his hand and cut Katy’s second helping of fufu in half to split between us he just smiled.

Of course we couldn’t leave his house without taking a pitcher of tchakpa!!! I guess we were just hoping we could.

ROUND TWO:

We wanted to walk off some of our food before our second date, with Katy’s homologue. That, however, did not happen. First, we were so full we could barely breathe let alone walk a mile. Second, we were running a little late. Pfpfpfpf…l’heure africaine…we’re never late.

So we took motos. Before mounting the moto, my friend Robert walked up to say and confirm our date later. We confirmed and then told him we left tchakpa on Katy’s porch and he was welcome to take it and share with others. Little did we know…

Katy and I arrived at our second destination with no desire to continue consuming liquids and food. But what were we to do? Say no. Yeah, that would have gone over well!

We ate soup—but really it was tomato sauce—spaghetti and enough meat to fulfill my protein intake for the week. We struggled. I finished slightly more than half my plate but wanted to vomit. That was it. I was done. At least for an hour.

 Before Round Three, we decided to walk (instead of taking motos) back to Katy’s house. No doubt I was waddling either like a penguin or a pregnant woman in her third trimester.

The hour we had to rinse off and GO HORIZONTAL (i.e. lie on a mat) was sufficient enough. Well, kind of.

ROUND THREE:

Since our rendezvous was scheduled for 16h, we figured food might not be involved. Damn it. We were so wrong.

We met our favorite seamstress at Bar Obama. That’s right. Obama!

As soon as we walked up to the table, it was unmistakable…plates, cutlery and giant cooler. They waited to eat with us. Balls!

Couscous, chicken and beer. Need I write more? No.

Following the day’s pattern, we ate and we drank, but this time we danced. Togolese always get a kick out of foreigners doing the Moba dance. Of course, I didn’t expect everyone at the bar to stare at me while I danced. And somewhere in the middle of all the dancing I got a marriage proposal from a man whose wife sat right next to him and she accepted me too. Yikes!

I could write more, but just enjoy the photos below (Give me a couple of days. Internet is pretty terrible today.). It was a good day. We had some laughs, we ate lot, and we drank a lot. Reminded me of Thanksgiving.

Until next time…J

Conference in Sagbiebou, Savanes

Last year, PCV Superstar Lizzy Dupont planed, organized and directed a two-day conference – Conférence pour Mieux Vivre dans Notre Communauté – in her village. The conference, even though a success, exhausted Lizzy and she had no intention of leading it again. Inspired by Lizzy’s efforts and the benefits of the 2011 conference, people in her community decided to make it annual with or without Lizzy. Whoa. SUSTAINABILITY!

And like all PCVs in Togo, I received an invitation to present at this year’s conference on April 28.

Although each presenter had the right to choose his or her topic, Lizzy kindly requested that I present on family planning; my homologue to explain methods of contraception; and PCV Maggie McRae to demonstrate proper utilization of condoms. We accepted.

Most Togolese adults have at least heard of family planning – the words, the definition or the importance. At the conference, I focused my presentation on the future, the advantages of family planning (i.e. fewer children equals more resources for each family member). Americans often consider the future, set goals, have dreams, etc. Togolese, in contrast, seldom mull over the future and it’s a setback. The average Togolese take each day one day at a time. Thankfully, this mentality is slowly beginning to change. More and more high school students dream, even plan on attending university after graduation. Moreover, recently wedded couples no longer desire a family complete with 10+ children. Yes, some might comprehend the importance of family planning, but regular presentations and trainings are imperative. Similar to Togolese education, repetition is key to memorization.

We [Maggie, my homologue, a Togolese volunteer and I] left Dapaong early afternoon and headed south on a bush taxi. Conference organizers had called both Maggie and I the day before and urged us to arrive at the school in Sagbiebou before 5pm. Why? Because each presenter was assigned to a host family in village and it’s proper to arrive before dark.

This was when the fun began.

Spending the night Chez No Clue often reminds me of boarding blind at university. You must know what I mean. Those awkward first days of discovering one another’s quirks, habits, personalities (multiple for some) and etiquettes…ring any bells?? Well in a foreign country, it’s fairly similar only it’s A LOT more awkward—especially if your stay doesn’t exceed 24 hours.

Surprisingly, I’ve become accustomed to uncomfortable situations and random encounters. I suppose I have Togo to thank. Thank you Togo! Friday, April 27 was just another day, another random yet amusing experience.

We arrived at the school in Sagbiebou shortly before 5pm. After having been told the family assigned to host me, a guide led me to the house in BFE. It was very considerate of the organizers to guide presenters to their designated families. Can’t imagine anything more painful than to walk up to a house and say to the owners “Hello, I’m sleeping here tonight.”

I stayed with the village pastor, Pasteur KOMBATE, although I don’t think I actually met him. I spoke to his wife mostly. She was sweet and lovely, a classic African big mama. And she was Moba! For what limited Moba I know, she got a kick out of it.

After first introductions – How is your family? Children? Husband? Work? Health? – the mom offered me a chair. I sat and stared off into space for several minutes while the family prepared my room. It’s not unusual for a family to offer up an entire room, even their own bedroom for guests, especially Caucasian guests. 

To my surprise, the room had a bed and a chair. Nice! They also sprayed some sort of perfume in the room. I couldn’t help but wonder what scent they hoped to cover up. Ah well. Shortly there after, I set my personal belongings on the bed and returned to my chair outside and watched. If you’re not a people watcher, don’t come to Africa. It’s not only an art but also life! What did I watch? Everything.

Since it rained early that day, I watched as one daughter scoop out stagnant water from holes in the compound floor. I gaped at the beautifully built mud houses, terrains made of compacted red gravel and large tree silhouettes. I also studied the animals in the compound. Well, I counted them first. Times like these, you’ve got to be a self-entertainer. Maggie named all the animals she saw in her host family’s compound. I counted mine. I first saw five chickens. Then I noticed one goat, a dog, two guinea fowls and four pigs.

When all you’ve got is time to think – since the family doesn’t talk to you – you often ask yourself a plethora of questions. These questions commonly arise when someone looks at you, smiles or laughs, but doesn’t speak.

What questions?

Do they think they’re special because a white person is sleeping in their house? Do they like my bright green pagne pants? Are they confused because I speak French, but I am reading an English-language magazine? Are they wondering why I am writing on this magazine? Why are they staring at my toe ring? Do they also believe that anklets on a right ankle mean a woman is single? Is she married? (Why? You going to offer your 10-year-old son to me?) Does she eat African food? (I sure do!)

A DUCK! Boom. Any more animals?

While I was unaware of the dinner menu, I was surely aware of the dinner plan. That is, the mother’s plan for me to eat alone at a clothed table with separate cutlery and separate portions.

Although she had no intention of dining with me, I insisted. She smiled, laughed and said she would join me after she fed her children.

When she finally sat down at the table, I had already finished one-and-a-half portions of spaghetti with tomato sauce. I stared at my empty plate for a minute before I gave in and added another half helping to ensure we ate together. Naturally, two helpings of spaghetti weren’t enough. She insisted I eat more. I made a sound, which translated into English meant “Holy balls, Mom, I’m full!”  Nevertheless, I obliged. In addition to the THIRD HELPING of spaghetti, she ordered me to eat the last sardine. I respectfully refused and told her I already ate one and she must eat the other. It’s only fair, right? So what did she do? She took off a sliver (amounting to a tablespoon) and said I must eat the rest. I laughed, shook my head, removed my plate from the table, and said I wouldn’t finish unless she took it all.

And so she did. Ha ha. Sucker! Needless to say, she officially liked me after the battle over who eats the last sardine.

The night got a little exciting after dinner. A storm hit. A torrential downpour mixed with violent winds nearly removed the tin roof. As I sat with the family indoors, rainwater sporadically dripped on me. Pfpfpfpfpf. I didn’t mind at all because the storm cooled the air.

After the storm mellowed, I decided it was time for bed. It was time in part because I was exhausted and in part because no electricity equals early to bed. Done.

The next morning I woke up crossed. I was angry because the storm’s cool breeze didn’t last the entire night and thus I woke up several times drenched in sweat. But mostly, I was irritated and confused as to why nobody killed the dog that barked outside the house from 10pm until 4:30am. WTF. Togolese are accustomed to sleeping through anything and everything, but come on! It was ridiculous.

Although the dark circles and bags under my eyes were evident, I told the mom I slept well. For breakfast, she made me coffee (How did she know?!?!) and placed a whole baguette (pain sucré) next to the cup. The coffee tasted like watered-down skim milk with coffee flavoring, but it was drinkable. I might have been exhausted, but the family was so pleasant I just couldn’t bring myself to show the fatigue.

The day of the conference was a bit crazy. Although my booth was informative, most spectators seemed to be interested in contraceptive methods and the condom demonstration.

For lunch, all presenters were ushered to the “reception hall” where Maggie and I were invited to sit next to the prefect. Oh yes, we are THAT important. Maggie sat next to me and I sat next to gendarmes with AK-47s. “Hi…is that on safety?!”

Anything else??

No, not really. Overall I think the conference went well. There seemed to be too many children and not enough adults at the event.

I got a certificate. Yay!

We left for our return trip to Dapaong once the conference ended at 4pm.

Hope you enjoyed this story.

Until next time…J

Benin: A Much Needed Vacay

I vacationed to Benin the first week of April.

Although the four-day trip deemed “too short” by other PCVs, it was just what the doctor recommended—a mini-break from the world of Peace Corps Togo.

With who did I travel??

My sitemate Katy Todd. We travel well together. I use her for her good sense of direction and remarkable good luck; and she uses me for my French. Ordinarily I’d put on my defensive gloves and protest, “What?! I have DECENT navigational skills!” But then I remember all the times I’ve pointed to the sky as I described the location of my house in Dapaong. Yes, that’s right, I live in space. [Head shaking.] Idiot.

What was our goal on this wee excursion?

To see wild animals in Africa. Yes, that’s right. Katy wanted to see elephants and I wanted to photograph a cheetah (well, a cheetah sprinting across a field). I know, I know. My desire was a bit of a long shot—and as predicted, it didn’t happen—but it’s on my bucket list so can’t blame a girl for dreaming!

We had an inkling the safari was expensive so we did our best to economize. How did we achieve this? We secured a free ride (aller-retour) on the Lomé-Limo, which is a PC vehicle that travels from south-north-south twice a month. We also spent our first night in Benin at the PC Benin transit house in Natitingou.

But the Beninois adventure didn’t begin there. Oh no. It began in Kémérida with PCV Cameron Hobbs.

Hobbs, a movie trivia guru (and thus a close friend), lives in Kémérida—a village just shy of the border. Now let me tell you a bit about Mr. Hobbs. He, too, is a CHAP volunteer, although I don’t think that’s how he and I became friends. I wouldn’t even think our friendship began grace à proximity in that we lived close to one another during stage. Nope. If I may be so bold, I’d pin it on a walk home when I quoted the movie Six Days Seven Nights.

A conversation between Harrison Ford and Anne Heche:

“Aren’t you one of those guys?”

What guys?

“Those guy guys, you know, those guys with skills?”

Skills?!?!

“Yeah, you send them out in the wilderness with a pocket knife and a cue tip and they build you a shopping mall. You can’t do that?!”

Nooooo, I can’t do that. But I can do this…[places an index finger in his mouth and pulls it out making a popping sound]…does that help?

Yeah, I’m fairly certain it was then. It surely didn’t hurt that he had William Wallace’s speech from Braveheart on his iPod.

Needless to say, Katy and I had a fantastic time in Kémérida. Hobbs lived up to the stereotype of great southern hospitality as a man from South Carolina. Known to many PCVs as the deep fryer, the man deep-fries EVERYTHING. Sure, it might be tempting to judge him. But don’t. Dinner started with deep-fried chicken with a homemade barbeque sauce, a family recipe. No joke, that chicken pulled me out of Togo for a solid 30 minutes. Then we ate deep-fried ravioli. Ha! I know! Just try it.

The next morning, even after the epic failure of cooking an apple crisp in his Dutch oven, Katy and I told Hobbs we’d treat him like a king when he visits us in Dapaong. So Hobbs, if you’re reading this, get up here! What are you waiting for?!

No doubt, we could’ve stayed Chez Hobbs the entire vacation but that wouldn’t really have been fun for him so we left before breakfast.

Thanks to Katy’s luck, we didn’t have any difficulty finding motos and taxis, negotiating prices, etc while in Benin. And the roads! Oh my goodness. If Togo had roads like Benin, life would be so much better—not just for PCVs.

Now, I’m not one to go on-and-on and detail my vacation from start to finish so I’ll answers some likely questions.

Was the food different from Togo? Beverages?

Yes and no. There are different names for similar staple dishes like fufu. I enjoyed the tomato sauce in Benin more but only because I never tasted fish. In my opinion, bread is softer and tastes better in Benin. Youki beverages are sold in plastic containers whereas Togo sells them in bottles. I prefer the latter because the company is really good about recycling the bottles.

Where did we go?

We went to Pendjari’s National Park and spent two nights at Hotel Baobab in Tanguieta.

How much did the safari cost?

It cost 50,000CFA, which included gas, guide, entrance fee to reserve and vehicle.

See anything good?

Crocodiles. Hippos. Elephants. Baboons. Other monkeys. Tropical birds. Boars. Antelope. Buffalo. Etc.

Alas, we didn’t see any African cats. Yeah, I was bummed.

What else?

We sat on the roof of a 4-Runner and it was amazing. We got really dirty. People at the hotel couldn’t help but laugh once they saw our “safari tan.

Katy and I made enchiladas for some Benin PCVs at their transit house. I also made mango cobbler. Both were delicious.

We had problems breaking larger bills. It was quite annoying actually.

Would I go back?

No, but I enjoyed my vacation.

Thanks for reading! Until next time… J

HOT SEASON

Togolese call it “la saison sêche” (dry season) but for volunteers, SWEAT rolling down CALVES reminds them more of the HEAT than cracked, dry heals. So really, it’s hot season.

According to host country nationals (HCN), this hot season has been somewhat abnormal. Harmattan winds are still present and even more bothersome due to headwind—that is headwind coming from every direction—while biking in the heat. I shall never forget one of the first days in hot season: Biked all day with my site mate Katy and battled headwind coming from all directions. WTF? Was it bad karma? Gris-gris? It was outrageous and exhausting. In addition to peculiar everlasting Harmattan winds, the temperature was rather cool last week and much to our surprise, it rained!

First-year volunteers found it difficult differentiating between 105ºF and 122ºF. A couple weeks ago, a volunteer sent a message to most northerners that his thermometer read 122ºF (in the sun) in Nanergou just north of Dapaong. So what was the consensus? 105 ~ 122…once the temperature reaches 105, anything beyond that who really cares?? It is still FUCKING HOT—just a higher number.

In all honesty, I have a hard time judging HCNs and volunteers who relax in the shade for four or five hours a day, because if I could…I would do it too. Regrettably, I was not blessed with the skill to chill for such an extended length of time. Although the more I think about it, if I had four to five hours to kill in this heat, I’d spend it in a pool with an intravenous drip that pumps pure water into my body.

It only took several months of HCNs dragging me into the shade while yelling “il fait chaud” for me to get it. It is hot. And if the temperature drops 15 degrees in the shade and reduces the likelihood of a SWEATSTACHE then boom! I would be an idiot to argue with them.

Questions?

Let me help…

On average, how much water do I drink a day?

Four liters.

Where do I sleep?

For over month, I slept on a lipico bed (see photo below for an example). Now, I sleep on a mat outside my house. I’ll soon test the roof.

(peacecorpstogojennifer.blogspot.com)

Do I have a fan?

Technically, I have four. Three fans, however, do not work—two of them being ceiling fans—and the speed of one fan is unsatisfactory. So much, in fact, I sometimes question why I even bother. I should just wave a newspaper in front of my face. It would probably work just the same and reduce my electric bill about five percent.

But it’s okay!! I recently purchased a “high-tech” orbiting ceiling fan from an electronics store in Cinkassé north of Dapaong. I just have to install it…

Monday. It is a holiday after all.

Do I own a sweat rag?

Yes, I sure do.

Do I see red if friends and family post pictures of snow and pools on Facebook?

YES!!!

Chez Moi: Blueprint