6 December 2011

I celebrated World AIDS Day by tabling for Peace Corps at the Togo 2000 exposition. It was interesting to be around so many Togolese professionals and schoolchildren that weren’t phased by the extravagance. Yes, it was interested, even exciting, but everyone there had a quality that made them seem drastically different from the folks in my village.

The kids came through in clean uniforms that fit (as opposed to ones made three sizes to big, so that they last). Their parents had given them some money to buy trinkets and snacks. They were happy and asked relevant questions when pressed by their teachers to look interested. They looked like American kids on a field trip. It was almost exactly the same.

The stands were organized into five or six large buildings in what looked like an old factory transformed into a state fair. The stands presented clothing, foodstuffs, traditional medicine, body guard padding, lots of shoes (I got some bright yellow pumps with giant rhinestones on the toe- why???), and an entire corridor to promote Moroccan goods and travel.

It was still clear that I was in Togo, though. Men would make up a random thread of conversation just to ask for my address or phone number not-so-subtly within the next few minutes. A young girl selling skin product continually came back to “greet” RD, another volunteer tabling with me, in a shamelessly flirtatious manner.

And something I had never experienced before happened. I’m still not quite sure what to make of it. A stout man from Cote D’Ivoire approached the table. He had the look of a guy who wants to show you you’re wrong, but who is trying to be coy about it.

“Hi, yes, what is this Corps de la Paix you are presenting?”

“We’re an agency of the American government. We are in many countries around the world and have four programs in Togo: health, environment, business, and agriculture…”

He let me go through my schpeel looking quizzical and I was anticipating another proposition.

“So you’re telling me that the U.S. is interested in promoting peace?”

“Yes, we think that by promoting health and education, and building relationships, we’ll prevent conflict.”

“Then why did your country, your President Obama, send troops into my country to kill our leader? You are not about Peace, you’re about oil, and theft, and bullying other countries. It’s because of YOU that I was forced to leave my country. YOU.”

“I’m sorry that you were forced to leave your country, sir. Honestly, I don’t know much about the conflict,” quickly filling up the pause to avoid being subject to a tirade, “but I assure you that the American people, and especially those of us in the Peace Corps, are not interested in causing problems for you or your country.”

He didn’t hear a word and went on yelling for 15 minutes. I just sat there looking sympathetic and feeling annoyed. The guards were keeping an eye on him, so I wasn’t worried. He was hurt and needed someone to blame. I felt like a FEMA worker in the months after Katrina. Maybe there was truth to what he was saying; maybe it was propaganda.

I continued to apologize for the way he felt and tried to help him transfer his anger away from our table. Eventually, he saw that I was responding in a not-so-engaged way, unhurt by his accusations, I wished him good luck, and he left.

I spent the next day making sure my projects would stay afloat while I was gone and preparing myself to leave. Living in Togo for the last year and half meant that I didn’t own any long sleeved shirts, closed-toed shoes, warm pants, or jackets. But I had been preparing for this for a few months. I’d had my tennis shoe soles glued and sewed back on in my market, dug through the departing volunteers’ “grab bin,” and gone to Lomé II (the Sam’s Club of Togolese markets) and found a jacket that could’ve been sold at Salvation Army (in a good way). I was ready. Kind of.

The fear and anticipation of a volunteer going home for vacation began to worry me. Will I gain 20 pounds? Will I come back? Will I complain about Togo in a way that reinforces stereotypes people already have about Africans or will I present a fair picture?

For most of November, I had been in a positive place mentally. Though the days seemed longer while I dreamt about home, it was easier to enjoy my work knowing that I would have time off. I wanted everything to be perfect, so that I had no reason not to come back. Work was going well. I was integrating into Togolese life better. People saw me less as an outsider. I was happier.

The taxi driver that was supposed to bring me to the airport at 1:00 am cancelled at 8:00 pm. I had already called everyone on the Bureau’s list of recommended drivers. My bags still needed to be re-packed, and I wanted to do a Pilates video (thanks, KT) before my 24-hour sit-down.

Luckily, Peace Corps guards are some genuinely nice and helpful people. One volunteered to walk around the neighborhood to find me a driver. He told me not to worry, he’d take care of it. I stressed that I only had enough money to go to the airport and back for my return; could he please negotiate the price for me? Normally, you’d pay 2,000F during the day. Evening travel is more expensive and I’d negotiated a 3,000F trip. I told the guard my maximum price, since it would be a last-minute request, was 4,000F.

Two bags at 23kg each, a workout, and a shower later, I was walking out the door. The driver showed up at 1:00 am exactly. He seemed nice enough. Then he saw me. He looked at the guard as if he’d left out the important detail of me being white.

“Good evening, how are you sir?”

“I’m fine, thank you. And you.”

“Fine, thanks. How much is it please?"

“20,000F,” he reached for my bag as if this was the normal price and we should continue as usual.

“I’m sorry sir, but I usually pay 2,000F during the day. I can give you 3,000F because it is night.”

“3,000F?!” He huffed and rolled his eyes. I was apparently the one begin ridiculous. “I’m tired and you woke me in the middle of the night. I’m doing you a favor. The price is 20,000F.”

“I don’t’ have 20,000F.” But I also don’t have many options at this point.

I wanted to cry. Could a driver (I don’t already know) be nice, fair, and honest? I’m so tired of being a target. This is why I don’t like Togo. How am I supposed to come back to this? My eyes welled. I stepped away from the car and the guard took over my negotiation.

I heard whispers. She is our sister. She’s a volunteer. Please, sir. Pardon.

When the driver came to get my bag he looked pissed. His brother wasn’t supposed to betray him. He was supposed to let him rip me off.

“How much?”

“4,000F. Let’s go.”

“Thank you.”

I cried all the way to the airport. In the airport I cried all the way through security. They stared at me, teased me. Togolese people don’t cry in public.

“Why are you crying? You’ll see him again,” assuming I was crying over some boy. They laughed among themselves as I searched for a tissue in my bag, wiping snot on my sleeve in the mean time.

No, I wasn’t crying over some boy, I just wanted people to be friendly in a familiar way, to encourage me to come back, to help me want to finish my job. I wanted to feel wanted or appreciated or just respected as a customer.

The ladies at check-in asked me the same thing, but were a bit more sympathetic. I still hadn’t found a tissue. They’d been carefully packed in a place I would obviously remember if I needed one.

“Why are you crying?”

Just make something up to move on… “I don’t want to leave.” Seriously? That’s the best you can do? Make up a story about how someone died at least. That, they might sympathize with…

“Oh, when are you coming back?”

“In a month.”

She handed me a tissue. FINALLY. The whole thing is saturated with snot in one jarring blow. Nice, that’s classy.

I go through security trying not to think about the taxi driver. The small but poignant incident orbits through my thoughts and every time I think about coming back, I question why?

I sit in the terminal trying to distract myself. The air conditioner makes the room freezing and I wrap myself in a brightly colored wrap mothers in my village use to tie their babies on their backs. Made in China. I read my book, call my partner, and get in line when it’s time to board.

The woman taking our boarding passes is from Mango. I greet her in Tchokossi. She turns to her friend and looks amazed. This, I love. I break through my white stereotype box just a crack and feel human again. We board and I pass out until long after our layover in Cotonou.

Baby Benin

When I wake up there is a strange whining sound coming from the seat across the aisle from me. It kind of sounds like a newborn goat. I turn to see a large chestnut-colored woman in western clothes holding a baby. The well-to-do couple sitting next to her seem uncomfortable. Her size? The baby crying? This all makes sense to me. I think about offering to switch places with her so she can use the empty seat next to me.

I glace over, trying not to stare, and realize that something is wrong with the baby. The way she’s crying isn’t normal. It’s like her voice is being filtered through plastic tubes that are pinched and blocked in places. Her mother shifts her to the other shoulder and I see. He tissue behind her eyes has swollen and engulfed her eye-balls, protruding all around them. One more so than the other. The soft pink tissue is moist, taught, and oozing slow heavy tears.

Then they begin serving food. Royal Air Maroc is a lovely airline. The woman looks puzzled. There is not enough space for her, the baby, and the food. I try to anticipate the situation. The woman speaks French and she says no, she doesn’t want to switch. Then I notice she has a lot of things strategically placed around her.

I put her food tray on the seat next to me and when I’m done eating and her baby is sleeping, I hold her until her mother’s eaten a few things on her plate. I’m nervous about hurting her. She’s clearly in pain. What if her eye touches something and gets infected because of me?

The woman finishes quickly and hands the flight attendant the tray. As I hand the little girl over, I am relieved that I’m not longer responsible for this fragile being and proud that I could help and surprised by all of the people around me who didn’t even try, just giving her looks of shame for having a baby whose problems make them uncomfortable.

Maybe people think she wants them to pretend they don’t notice. Maybe they don’t want to interfere; it’s not their business. Maybe it was something more personal. Or maybe they saw me helping and felt they didn’t need to get involved.

I tried to talk to her a little. She looked so nervous, scared, alone. This was her first child, she was maybe 30. It was obviously her first flight. She was taking her baby to Morocco for surgery. She said she planned to be there for at least a month. She didn’t know anyone.

No one else spoke to her the rest of the flight, and as we were leaving, no one else offered to help her with her bag. So maybe I’m too harsh, too judgmental, but seriously, where are your manners folks?! Compassion? Help a neighbor? Maybe they just had their own worries.

Casablanca

In Casablanca, I argued with the customs official until he let me go outside of the airport. I had grand ideas of taking the train into the city and back, getting a nice tour of the countryside.

“Your flight leaves in an hour, you can’t leave.”

I go to the bathroom. When I come back, I don’t see the first officer and stand in another officer’s line. He sees me and motions the new officer to send me to him.

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t see you. I re-read my pass and I think you misunderstood.” His pride doesn’t appreciate this accusation. “My flight doesn’t leave for another four hours.”

“Ma’am, your flight boards in three hours, you have to be back in one hour or you’ll miss it.”

“I understand, I just want to go outside. I’ll be right back.” The other guards think I’m crazy, too, but they also seem to think he’s being harsh. It’s my own risk to take.

His stamp pounds super-officially into the pages of my passport. I am giddy. I run down the escalator and exchange $20, enough for a train ticket. I’m in a hurry and the 20-somethings working behind the glass window seem amused by my enthusiasm.

The train has just left and another won’t come for 30 minutes. But my mood can’t be brought down. The train guard explains the schedule and I ask him if there’s anything outside the airport worth seeing. He seems amused by me as well.

“There’s a forest… but nothing really.”

I’m thrilled to breathe fresh, cool, air; to need a jacket and socks. I wander around the highway and takes pictures of nothing. I find a small market behind a building with women selling egg sandwiches and men with sweet-tea-rotten teeth. I sit down and enjoy breakfast. I have no idea how much things cost and hold out some money in my hand, they take it all. Later I realize I probably paid just enough for the sugar in my tea.

The cool air is thrilling, but I would hate to prove the customs officer right. I walk back through and head to the terminal. The gift shops are filled with brightly painted porcelain containers, beaded fabric creations, and leatherwork. I spend what seems like a ridiculous amount of money on a magazine, juice, and a Christmas tree ornament that says Morocco on the back of a camel.

I passed out on the plane to Madrid attempting to finish The Geography of Bliss. It was about 5:00 pm when I arrived, and already dark. I forgot that happens when you’re more than 10 degrees away from the equator. In village I know exactly what time the sun rises (5:30) and sets (18:15). There is no Daylight Savings Time. This change threw me off.

I figured out, after a bit of exercise, that push carts are free in the Madrid airport (which is huge) and that lockers are a good investment. I took my carry on bag towards the metro and suddenly realized that I looked like a sweaty advertisement for Good Will in 3rd generation cowboy boots, skinny jeans (that passed for newish), and a jacket that, well, served its purpose.

Whatever. I was in Europe with no one to be embarrassed of me but myself. So I told myself that I looked totally normal.

The well-coiffed family across from me on the metro had two kids. The son had boots that matched his dad’s and the daughter her mom’s. The mom wore make-up that looked like she’d be going on stage soon for a musical debut. They looked so clean. Everything looked so clean. I noticed other women. They were in the same musical… Nope, it was just me. I had done my best to blend in. At least there were other white people around so I didn’t stick out so much.

I checked into a hostel near the Plaza Mayor. The receptionist was a man from Senegal who spoke 8 languages and wasn’t too impressed that I was coming from Africa. For some reason, not knowing any Spanish, I felt more comfortable speaking French with everyone.

I went on a walking tour, made friends with other travelers, and dutifully took my amoebas medication that forbid me to drink alcohol (in Madrid!). Our tour was led by a fabulous Mexican guy who’d moved to Madrid 10 years ago. The group was made up of young Russian, German, Ecuadorian, and Australian tourists. At night we saw a beautifully inauthentic flamenco dancer and I went out with the Australians to enjoy the night scene (sober).

My roommates were Americans studying in a nearby college town. I felt so distant from where they were in life, even though I was just like them a few years back. There was also a Columbian (?) kids soccer team in the house. The mom invited me to join in for corn patties with ham and juice. The kids were wild but respectful with me. It felt very familiar.

While some of the other guests were complaining about the hostel’s quality, I was in love. Hot shower. Running water. Electricity. Blankets. Lockers. Reading lights! It had everything. I’d love to learn some Spanish, return to Madrid, and enjoy it in a less touristy way.

At the info desk in the airport, the agent asked where I was from. Canada? I don’t recognize your accent. “I’m an American living in West Africa.” Made sense that I sounded weird.

My flight from Madrid to Dublin was probably my favorite of the whole trip. I met a fun older couple coming back from a birthday getaway in Spain. I sat next to the husband who told me about some of the sites in Northern Ireland and the upcoming centennial celebration of the Titanic. It was unbelievably nice to enjoy a conversation with an educated older man that you could easily take for a father or grandfather figure instead of a creepy old man.

The couple was planning a trip chez moi, and in true Togolese style, I gave them my contact info and insisted they stop by to saluer my mom. (It’s kind of NOLA style too, to do something like that, make friends anywhere and have them over for dinner… but the way I said it, I felt more Togolese.) His life was so interesting and I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation, but I was also exhausted, and in true Travel Lizzy style, passed out.

In Dublin I went through customs, always fun when you’re coming from Africa, and got a little to friendly with the guards. (They cracked a few smiles, which I took was against the rules…) They confiscated my beef jerky (care package from AMERICA!) and the sandwich I brought from Madrid, not any of the weird Togolese things I brought back.

I flew into Boston tired and eager to see ML. I got a pumpkin muffin and cranberry juice that tasted like plastic (not how I remember them). After a trek around the terminal, I located quarters, a pay phone, and a razor. After calling ML and mom, I fell asleep with the same book. I finally finished it, retaining only that I think I’d like visiting Iceland. After that I started reading Letters to My Daughter by Maya Angelou, which I finished before arriving in Chicago. (Awesome.)

ML picked me up in Chicago, the next day I got to see my family who just moved there, and we drove to ML’s “village” the next day.

26 November 2011

We have now officially entered the Harmattan season. My moringa tree’s leaves are drying up and littering my now-cemented porch with parched yellow leaves and tiny why flowers. Red dust coats my shins and cheekbones on the bike-ride back from Gando. Finally, the frigid morning air permits sleeping-in and necessitates long-sleeves for at least an hour until my morning coffee counterbalances the 75-degree chill. Instead of sweating all day, I simply rinse off a layer of salt before going to bed.

It’s heaven in Togo.

I finished my English class and passed the torch onto an ambitious and talented university 3rd-year. He borrows books and our conversations make me feel more normal in village.

After lending him books that he described as, “not interesting…” I finally went out on a limb and started giving him novels: Life of Pi (he thought it was weird and didn’t finish it), The Modigliani Scandal (interesting, he liked the writing style), and finally The Girl Whos Played with Fire. He LOVES Stieg Larrsson, but he loves Lisbeth Salander more.

It was exciting to hear a Togolese man talk about respecting a strong (if not a bit strange) woman. We were even able to have a discussion about lesbianism. I recently found him a copy of the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. He lends me classic African authors as well. Our book exchange has been one of my favorite more recent projects.

After finishing up English class, I went down to Tsevie to lead a GSA workshop for the new trainees and celebrate their swear-in. I also had to get some winter clothes for my upcoming vacation in the largest “dead Yovo” market in Togo. I got cowboy boots, an Esprit jacket, three pairs of socks, and a couple of shirts that ended up not fitting at all. Success!

The most recent EIFS/GEE (Environment/Girl’s Empowerment) training also group swore in last week and we had a great celebration complete with GAD (Gender and Development) auction for girls’ empowerment projects.

But the greatest moment of my voyage south was submitting my SPA report for the conference. The cashier and I spent several hours reviewing receipts for every one of the 700 plus-item budget. We only found a few errors and quickly corrected them. He requested a few breaks, commenting that this was the longest SPA budget he’d ever seen. That felt validating. If I had known the project would have been this big in the beginning, I might not have taken it on. It was a big project. I’m SO glad it’s over!

Last market day one of the conference reps from a village called Maboukou came over to give his greetings and ask a few questions. Last time he wanted to know about how to get Neem seeds so they could grow some trees around their new school building. This time he wanted to know if I could give him money for kids to go to school.

I segued into how the COOPEC (a savings and loans cooperative) could come and give them loans and training at the same time. I checked it out in Mango, but they don’t serve our area, Gando does. Prochainement.

It will have to wait until after my vacation. I can’t stop thinking about it! I’m finally going to see my family after 16 months and my partner after 11. I’m nervous about doing weird things, but I think it will probably just be entertaining for all involved.

Since I’ll be gone for a while, I dismantled the mouse traps (which have yet to work on that stinky bugger…), cleaned my whole house, and attempted to eat all of the food in my pantry including a giant block of sun-soldered Ghirardelli chocolate chips. I made a big dent. I was carb-bloated for days.

Tabasky helped. “Eid al Adha” as it is also known, is not quite as fun as Ramadan, “Le Mois de Karim,” but nevertheless involves eating lots of food prepared by other people, so it still gets points in my book. My landlord and his sons (biological and “somehow otherwise-related-young-men”) slit the throat of a white goat, skinned it, prayed on the dried skin, and the next day his wives made this beautiful sacrifice into a beautiful meal. I took lots of pictures. And video.

The smaller kids go from house-to-house trick-or-treating (basically) and the adults send each other tupperware containers pull of food. I made chocolate cake, chocolate-raisin pancakes with chocolate sauce, and dried cherry & cardamom foccacia bread in my Dutch oven.

My cluster-mates came over. They enjoyed my creations. Then we went to Mango for one last slumber party. MG left Gando (forever) the week before. That was rough- to lose my closest neighbor. I went into denial about MF leaving Mango. We ate wagash-sticks, spaghetti, and fried-anything-that-happened-to-be-lying-around until we were lying on the floor in food comas.

Making a square, our head lay on each other’s stomachs and we gave each other head massages as our bowels jumped into hyper-drive. We drank bissap juice mixed with fancy box wine and freshly frozen soy milk with rum from sachets. We laughed until we passed out.

Back in village, my students continue to visit in the evenings to study, ask questions, compete in math flash-card-marathons, and practice English. They’re adorable. And exhausting.

The students and apprentices that attended Camp UNITE, Camp Etoile du Nord, and the Pathways scholarship program conference continue to meet. They attempted to present the Bridge Model to nearly 300 loud and inattentive children at the primary school. They yelled, we did cheers to calm them down, the teachers began to beat them into submission, and we wrapped it up quickly after that.

The newly formed camper group, called La Jeunesse pour le Developpement de Notre Communauté (JCNC- Youth for the Development of Our Community), was courageous. They didn’t quit, they tried a multitude of techniques to try to get their attention, and worked together to get through the disaster. We decided not to work at the primary school anymore. I took them out for soft drinks at the bar and we talked about perseverance and our future plans.

CV in Tami threw an awesome birthday party (on 11-11-11) in Dapaong requiring invitees to find the coolest “dead Yovo” outfits. I just have to say that the Oti cluster rocked the fashion show.

My ankle is getting better but hasn’t healed completely. I was wearing my brace until my tennis shoes fell apart and then went to Lomé where I was told I didn’t need to wear it anymore, that it was probably psychological. I’m relieved and walking just fine, but still concerned because I’m not able to run or do “yoga.”

The final meetings of CMV were very enjoyable. The team was relieved to be finished and eager to think about next year. I explained my plans for the next year and that I wouldn’t be able to take on as much of a leadership role, but that if they wanted to continue, I’d be behind them.

They really didn’t like this idea.

“But it’s YOUR legacy.”

“People will think we demoted you because you did something wrong.”

“We can’t do it ourselves.”

“You should just extend your service. You still have so much more to learn.”

I was touched and happy to feel wanted, but also glad to push for a more sustainable approach. A few days later, after a few panicked meetings in my counterparts’ homes, they decided to take on the charge. I’m thrilled, but scared it’s all going to backfire. On va voir.

I was happy to have a solid chunk of time in village to relax, clean, organize, and prepare for the next chunk of my service. The day before Thanksgiving our Country Director came for a site visit, greeted my chief, met my students and homologues, and inspected one of the latrines we constructed. Then we sped off to Dapaong with three turkeys in tow.

My homologues were so sweet about the departure, though they were kind of acting like I wasn’t going to come back. They greet everyone back home, especially Afissetou whose face expressed the emotion that I love her most for understanding. I feel like she is someone I will stay in touch with, writing letters and asking her for life-long counsel. Frere Mathieu sent me off with a present for ML, and I got lots of hugs from my evening study-group.

Thanksgiving was a day of pumpkin-everything-batter-belly-filling. I was full by the time we arrived at the restaurant. Not that I let that keep me from tradition. I even took a break mid-meal, lying on the cement block wall outside the restaurant to give my Ilium and intermission.

The restaurant Le Campement made the most delicious French onion soup, green beans, and mashed potatoes. We contributed the cranberry sauce, stuffing, pies, cake, pineapple, the turkeys, and pudding. Fifteen-or-so PCVs, the Country Director, EIFS APCD and his wife, along with one of our favorite drivers spent a gluttonous evening not-so-graciously stuffing our faces. Then a group of us went back to the transmit house to watch movies and debloat.

Now I’m in Sokode with the other editors of Et La Santé finishing up our second issue on water and sanitation. It’s full of fun info on water-borne disease, re-using grey water, and how-to guides on latrine and pump projects.

Last night we made wagash eggplant “parmesean” and garlic bread with salad for dinner. This morning I made pain perdu and tonight we’re going to visit the Street Food Queen. Tomorrow I’m off to Lomé for a few final meetings and then I’m heading home for a month (after a two-day adventure in Madrid)!!!

Thanks to mom and dad for the boites. The Thanksgiving box was especially appreciated by the Savanes crowd.

Wagash preserved with millet leaves.

11 November 2011

Madame Kountompoi, a slim and animated older Fulani woman walked into my compound 30 minutes before our meeting. She has the giddy enthusiasm of a teenager getting ready for her first high school dance and the gravity of a momma with half-a-dozen kids.

She carries a small lime green pail with a lid on it containing a liter of milk that fills the sand-castle-tower mold to the brim. In her other hand is a plant similar in hue that resembles sugar-cane sprouting chartreuse donkey-ear cacti.

Bright eyes, dynamic hand gestures, and the anticipating smile of someone who knows they’re going to make your day. Her French is broken. She was forced to leave school after second grade, and she’ll remind you of it just to prove that she’s a serious lady. She wouldn’t let something like that get in her way.

“Put this in the house. After meeting, I come. Show you make wagashi.”

I beam. I LOVE Fulani cheese. Another friend had showed me this process, but I wasn’t confident in my ability to manipulate appropriate amounts of donkey-leaf sap and regulate the temperature of a charcoal fire.

Melting from the warm generosity of my new friend but eager to get to the meeting on time, I thanked her and got on my bike.

“I’ll meet you at the school for the meeting in 15 minutes.”

After walking 25 kilometers from her village, she muscled back into hiking stance and power-lunged away through her weedy runway.

She was 30 minutes late. I didn’t expect that. After the meeting she explained that she had gone to the middle school (a 20-minute walk from my house) and waited for us, then marched back to the primary school. Still smiling. Not at all phased. Just a little embarrassed. She also brought her 20-something son and the Village Development Committee president (who a month ago gave a speech about how this Fulani woman couldn’t represent their village) to create a village team.

The meeting was a “how to” seminar on creating a cas de santé, or health hut, in villages distant from the dispensary.

She took notes and asked questions, complementing our conclusion with a motivational speech and many thanks. She’s my favorite. We take pictures of all of the participants and on then our organizing team (from CMV) sat down for a petit pow-wow before leaving.

When I got home, Madame Kountompoi was already there waiting with her team. I excused myself, but my house was a mess. A visiting volunteer and I rushed through dishes and sweeping, filling cups with filtered water for our guests. The CVD explained that they wanted to leave soon to beat the mid-afternoon sun.

They all sat in my kitchen while Madame worked her magic, explaining each step of the way, making sure that I photo-documented her every movement. She even posed Martha Stewart-style, smiling over a saucepan full of curdling milk, ladle-in-hand.

Our male guests seemed a bit shocked by our chemistry and mutual respect. The CVD’s lively impatience was replaced by intrigued observation and a surprising amount of interest. The lesson only lasted about 30 minutes. She even insisted on cleaning up my kitchen space. They left in a flash as soon as the curds began congealing in my forest green strainer.

The next time she came in for a meeting, she delivered my milk in the plastic Voltic bottle I’d given them to carry water in on the long walk home. This time I went hunting for my own acid-sap donkey-leaf plant. A nervous novice, I did my best, making a huge lactic mess. But my cheese was perfect. Because I made it myself and it was mouche-free, I was even able to eat it fresh like mozzarella instead of frying it in peanut oil.

As I was basking in the glory of my wagash-moringa-tomato-farro grain salad (Thanks Mrs. L) sitting on my porch in the cool breeze and swatting away flies, I had a revelation. Well, more like a domino series of revelations.

I saw Madame Kountompoi drink a sip of the leftover liquid that had been separated from the cheese. Plus, we drink whole milk anyway… so it can’t be dangerous. It seems like it must have a bunch of nutrients. It’d be a shame to waste it… I took a gout.

It tasted like the milky part of milk. That’s the best way to explain it. So I mixed it with the chocolate drink powder that normally has to be mixed with milk powder (or, well, real milk). It was delicious. Hot chocolate!

There’s got to be a name for this, I thought. I hadn’t just invented this. What’s that liquid called? I thought long and hard… I was separating the curds out of the milk… leaving the… English has to have thought of this…

Well, I figured it out and in retrospect it feels kind of obvious.

You’ve seen the protein supplements in GNC or at Smoothie King. “Whey protein!!” [Image of a made resembling a tough and unappetizing glazed turkey.]

It was an epiphany. Body-builders bulk up on a byproduct of good old-fashioned milk. Whey. I was drinking chocolate whey. Weird to think about, tasty, and a good way to recycle nutrients.

The next time I saw Madame Koutompoi, she brought me a couple of worms she harvested from the degrading pump. I sent them to our medical bureau for analysis. Unfortunately, the worms were destroyed en route, but she’s promised to get me another sample. She’s such a rockstar.

Women carrying firewood in Mango.

Grilled lizard in my market.

29 October 2011

A part of my new mental health action plan is physical exercise. I was embarking on my fourth run in a row of the week. I’d found a beautiful shaded trail through the corn and yam and cotton fields, crossing between the routes to Dileka and Boni.

It was at the end of my run, when, paying attention to on-coming traffic near my house, I neglected to check out the massive pot-holes underfoot. Then I was on the ground hyperventilating. A young girl on a bike stopped across the street.

“Tanti! Get up! Tanti? Tanti…TANTI GET UP!!!”

Not, are you ok? Or can I help you? She just stood there, as they do here, yelling at me and “encouraging” me to get better real fast. I tried. It wasn’t happening. I was trying not to cry though not realizing that that’s what I was trying to do.

“Go get a big person!” She looked scared. A teenage boy on a bike showed up and loaded me onto the bike rack attached to his back tire. He pedaled me home. I felt pathetic.

After two weeks of no running, Ibuprofen, and a semi-clean Ace bandage (ok, a filthy bandage), the Med Unit called me down to Lomé for an X-ray.

On my way south I stayed with MB in Kanté. I was amazing to see her life after a year and a half in Togo. We’d done training together and I’d actually wanted her post, not badly, but I thought it sounded like the best fit. But it seemed like a better fit for her now. We caught up casually and she was so welcoming. Then we went to go meet the newest Savanes trainees at the bar in the hotel where they were staying on their way up for post visit.

They seemed like a fun group, but very fresh off the plane. I, in my floor-length pagne skirt and fitted concealing top, was shocked by the sight of shorts and a cigarette in a young woman’s hand. I felt like an old marmy Muslim fuddy-duddy from village looking down my flat nose towards the white girl (a look I know well). Americans…

I have been here too long.

MB had made brownies and we each got a beer. Togolese beers are twice the size of American beers. It was a good time, then MB and I headed back to her house, looking out to avoid the racist-sexist attack turkeys along the road (they only attack white women, apparently).

The X-ray machine looked like it had been evacuated from a Russian spacecraft circa 1974. The doctor manipulated my ankle like play-doh, and then gawked at the long skinny white indentation that snaked down my shin. “What’s this scar from?”

Cross-cultural sharing? “I was trying to shave my legs. I was 12 I think. I didn’t know what I was doing.” Our nurse looked horrified. The doctor shrugged it off, white people…

He explained to me what a sprained ankle was, digging through the depths of his medical texts (in English) to show me what a ligament was.

“Interesting…” Yes, I took biology in school… I sat with an intrigued face masking humbling self-talk. Not everyone has had the privilege of your education. He’s probably not used to people knowing about their bodies. He doesn’t think you’re an idiot.

When the X-ray came back negative, I was prescribed a brace, ibuprofen, and a chill pill (which I think I’m allergic to).

That night I experienced the first hot shower I’ve had in a good six months (since my last semi-ailment brought me to the med unit). It was glorious. Hot water massaging my bush-taxi-achy back and the bristles of water exfoliating my dingy pores. I stood there for 30 minutes not knowing what to clean but just basking in the epidermal ecstasy.

My roommate had smashed her finger in her gate and had to have the tip re-attached. She emerged from the bathroom with the same look of euphoric glee.

“Oh. My. God.”

“I know, right?”

We made tea and gabbed all night, trading movies, news, and life stories.

The next morning at 4:30 I jumped in the shower for another 30-minute massage. Then I left the building with a trail of steam into, well, steam. I’d forgotten in my 24-hours of Med Unit glory, that god forgot to plug in the AC on the 7th day.

I headed back to Sagbiebou on Tuesday. Wednesday morning I woke up to make my lesson plan and teach my 10th graders. My co-English teacher apprentice person decided to play catch-up in another grade level so this was my first class unobserved. Thus, with no-one threatening the hide their khaki behinds, they misbehaved just like last year. I sent two outside to sit in the sun and noted behavior on my roster.

When my co-teacher came back they approached him, “Sir, she made a note next to my name. Why? I didn’t do anything?!”

“Excuse me, I’m the teacher, not him. If you have a problem, you talk to me.” I feel like we’re their parents as they whine, But da-a-aad, mom’s being mean! He’s got my back as much as he knows how to and after class we talk about him helping me establish authority. He’s receptive and supportive and a rare model not yet set to reinforce the groundwork of misogynistic tradition.

Then I head over to Frere MK’s house and we bike to see the new volunteer in my cluster, who’s living in his cousin’s compound. Takpapieni is a tiny village. It took us two hours to bike there, arriving just after noon (Africa noon). The new volunteer, MT, was at a village meeting with her counterpart when we pulled up to her house.

The house was tiny, too. The doorways, the shower wall, the windows… TINY. The latrine wasn’t finished, wasn’t deep, didn’t have walls around it. She must be freaking out. I rinsed off the red dirt congealing on my shins and in the creases of my neck and we went to find her.

She was strolling in with a small serious man and a big smile on her face. Hey razor-back pagne shirt and matching headband complementing the light coloring in the semi-concealed tattoo of her right shoulder. She was prettier, glowy-er, than I remembered her being in Kanté. We exchanged greetings, sat on the school steps, and went back to the house for lunch.

All I can say is that this girl is tough, hilarious, sweet, and I’m so excited she’s in my cluster!

Half-way through the bike-ride back (yes, that equals four hours of biking) Frere MK stopped at a small thatch boutique. “I want to buy twekbceyrvg” (?).

“What?”

“twekbceyrvg… shh”

“Ok…”

We parked our bikes and he strolled amongst a bunch of guys giving him kudos on his, obviously, new white concubine. Slaps on the back, eyes on me. Gross. He’s not like that, but he doesn’t confront it either. It’s easier this way. I ask him what he got again.

He whispers, “taco taco.”

“What’s taco taco?”

“Shh.” He gestures for me to keep it down and glances at the bros, pulling candies out of his pocket. They’re candies we have in my village so I’m wondering what the big deal was all about. Maybe he wanted to get something for his kids to show them that he was thinking about them. Yea, that’s sweet.

Fifteen minutes down the road he pulls over and parks his bike. What’s wrong, what’s going on? I’m getting tired, can we please just push on through? Flat tire? What? Come on!

He pulls two small plastic bags out of his pocket. They contain a clear amber liquid, half-filled with air, like they should contain miniature goldfish. “Taco taco,” he says.

I give him a look out of the corner of my eye. You sneaky… He laughs. This is when I realize that I have a real friend in village. Someone to get into a little safe village trouble with. I provide the obligatory lecture on drinking and exercising, then we chug the manioc moonshine, chased my lime green ginger candy from China, and peddle home.

“You know, you were asking me too loudly about taco taco, Church folks aren’t supposed to drink in public,” you’re supposed to do it at home and pretend like you’ve never tasted alcohol when in public. I had made him look bad, maybe… if they heard me. We ran into the preacher on the way back and he attempted a road-side conversion. Dude, seriously…

Leave it to MK to spice up a bike ride.

We had one more addition to our Oti, the hottest prefecture in Togo, cluster- MM. We barely spoke in Kanté or at the welcome dinner in Dapaong, but she seemed to be having a more normal reaction to the post visit experience- WTF did I sign up for? Though, she was handling it graciously.

For the welcome dinner HT made spaghetti with a glorious veggie marinara, fried cheese sticks with wagash, salad, garlic bread, and cheesecake! CV made a slideshow to introduce everyone in the region. BH made a speech. The neighbors made fufu. Welcome to Savanes. I can’t believe my training group has become the senior class.

In the last two weeks I’ve read four books (!): Pillars of the Earth, Bonk, The Modigliani Scandal, and The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc. Modigliani wasn’t exactly a page-turner, but it was an interesting story. The rest I would highly recommend. Pillars of the Earth was an intimidatingly long book, but now I think I have the guts to move beyond the third Harry Potter book.

Pillars of the Earth takes place in the 5th century (?) and is full of historically enlightening information, but it also reveals some beautiful truths about humanity and comes with a free sexy love story to boot.

Bonk: a quickie about the history of science and sex. Kinsey to Masters and Johnson to some epic and underappreciated Egyptian sex researcher. Fascinating. And Mary Roach’s cheap but humorous wit makes the awkward parts enjoyable.

The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc reminded me of the south, home, fried chicken, lazy Spanish moss lounging over long arms of ancient oak, and the charm that everybody knows is ours. Sissy’s Southern Belle’s Handbook reminded me of some worldly and womanly wisdom I didn’t realize I’d been endowed with and also reminded me of some throwback sexism that has also been historically ours.

“Letting go is the best revenge. It frees your heart for much more satisfying pursuits.”

“Beware of other people’s plans for your own good.”

“A girl can stand just so much virtue.”

“You can’t change the past, but a smart girl won’t let that stop her.”

“A girl doesn’t have to give in to temptation, but she might not get another chance.”

‘Beware of men who are on speaking terms with the Almighty.”

And one that is particularly poignant in Togo, “ Never put off your education. The world is lying in wait to come between a girl and her education.”

Thanks: mom, dad, and ML. See you soon! Off to blow all my money on some early Christmas shopping while I’m in the big city (Dapaong).

26 October 2011

It’s stink bug season again. I can’t stay in the “shower” for more than five seconds without picking one of the tiny (and harmless) little black beetles off of me (or out of me… gross). But it’ll be over soon. The Harmattan winds are heading down from the north and soon we’ll have cool, dusty, bug-free weather.

The day school was supposed to start (after the date had been pushed back two weeks so that teachers could take a vacation after all of their summer work), we got a new middle school director. So school didn’t actually start for about another week. The kids just showed up and teachers began classes at random. They still didn’t have an English teacher (the former director taught English) and my students began asking me when I would show up to teach my class.

Funny, I didn’t remember being asked to teach this year… In fact, I was pretty set against it after last year: behavior problems that left me disrespected because I refused to beat the students “who deserved it,” not being informed of faculty meetings or deadlines, no coaching or feedback… I wasn’t really interested.

I do enjoy working with the students, though, just not in a classroom setting. I had decided to initiate a health club or an English club or a health club in English... whatever motivated students were most interested in doing.

But then they kept asking me why I was always absent. “When are we starting HIV class?” They looked at me as if I had abandoned them. I told the director not to sign me up this year, that we would talk about it. Then he left. And now somebody was screwing with my reputation, making me look negligent.

At the NGO’s World Literacy Day party, I ran into the assistant director, days before back-to-school (I know there’s a word for this in English, but I can’t for the life of me remember it- ugh! English!), I asked him who would be teaching English.

“Yes, that’s clearly a problem. You’ll come and help us out, won’t you?”

“I’m a health volunteer, not an English teacher. I have other things to do.”

He gave me this look that suggested, like what?

“I’m traveling a lot this year and working on national projects. I can’t commit to being their regularly; they need stability.”

I felt like in the back of his mind he thought I was being ridiculous, selfish, just trying to make his life more difficult, making excuses. But he only shows those feelings when his guard is down. Not today. (Or I could be projecting.) He was being polite and professional as usual.

It was really tempting. I do love teaching. But I needed to play hard-to-get so that if I did accept and joined the team, even temporarily, I wouldn’t get walked on like last year. I needed rules, standards.

I said I’d think about it. I could demand that instead of a salary, the PTA build latrines. Or insist that they institute rules about discipline. But really, I couldn’t make the commitment. I could help out until they found someone else.

I went to meet the new director. We’d already met informally on my way back from the clinic one day- the assistant director was driving him around village on the back of his motorcycle. He addressed me as la blanche and talked about me becoming his wife and going to America, money, and how he “knew all about Peace Corps Volunteers,” he worked with one in Gando back in the day, you know. (We’re all the same.) I’m not sure how in all of three minutes he managed to touch on so many of my most sensitive nerves.

But I wrote that all off as introductory pleasantries. I’m on this new kick of not holding grudges as a part of my fancy new mental health action plan for the next year. So I erased my memory and tried again.

I biked down to the school in my most Togo-professional outfit: light blue slacks and an embroidered tunic made out of suit-pant material, the embroidery chosen to match the pants and the pinstripes in the fabric itself. I brought my calendar with a pre-written list of all of the absences I could foresee in the next three months: about half of the trimester. I thought that was a pretty convincing argument.

He was very professional, tall and dark, in an army green short-sleeved suit ensemble and fancy leather sandals. We exchanged pleasantries and I acted very serious. I tried to catch the words as they exited his mouth, but it was like trying to pick up product off of an assembly line in fast-forward; as soon as you catch one, you’re already watching three more you missed pass you by. Taking his reading glasses on and off every 15 seconds added to the already difficult task of trying to understand him.

I’m not sure if he noticed or if he was used to having to explain himself, but he kept stopping to ask, “Are you following? Do you understand?” in a very teacher-to-student kind of tone. I resented his tone, but like I said, mental health action plan! Rational, not emotional. I was doing well.

I suggested a local who was finishing up his undergraduate degree in English. He was young, but at least he’d be eager to impress. (He’d recently been tutoring me in French.) He was surprised to hear the suggestion for the first time. Why would the white lady know more about potential candidates than the other teachers?

“Who is teaching English now?”

“Mr. Ganiou, he’s going to lie his way through it.”

I had no idea that Mr. Ganiou understand any English. He later explained that that was how he got started. Right out of high school, teaching English until he moved on to French and History.

The director explained to me that the teachers were each scheduled for over 20 hours of classes a week, each teacher covered four grade levels and five classes in their subject. (There are two 7th grade classes because there are so many students.) I agreed to help Mr. Ganiou with the 10th graders until they found a replacement. I had gone in with negotiating points, a strategy, and I’d come out with a compromised plan. It didn’t feel like a failure.

I was invited to the first faculty meeting, without even making a stink about it. There was a long discussion about discipline, scheduling, rules, and the director read his notes from the regional director’s meeting. It lasted over three hours, and he was very careful to check for my comprehension frequently. Then he took us out for drinks and asked me several questions about America. They all laughed when I suggested that in America, when a woman says she doesn’t want to go out with you, she means it.

“That just means she’s a good girl. When she wants it, she has to say no anyway so that you don’t think she’s a slut. You must keep trying.”

“Well, if you keep ‘trying’ in America, you will be in big trouble.”

“I knew an American who wouldn’t let me pay for her once. Why?”

“Well , I don’t know, you’d have to ask her, but maybe she didn’t want you to think she owed you something. If you don’t know somebody, you don’t always know there expectations, it’s safer to split the bill, stay equal.”

“Equal? Men and women?”

I stayed calmer than usual in this common debate. I felt that people who I thought perceived me as a colleague, saw me as a joke. A woman.

They changed the subject. “Obama, he’s a bad guy.”

What was this? I had only heard his praises. And sometimes pity for him and the job he was facing.

“He killed Kaddafi! That man gave us so much aid, so many scholarships. For the Muslims, he built mosques and sent people to Mecca... And Obama just killed him!”

I just listened. Africans listen to the radio every night and tend to be pretty informed; it’s the sources of information I don’t always trust. I felt safe enough. A safe, piece of second-class human. I biked home and made tortillas with dried Baobab leaves and Tony’s in the dough. Togo Togo.

The next morning I prepared my lesson plan for the apprentices, “Four Kinds of Vaginal Discharge.”

The class goes like this: “Now who has ever seen something abnormal come out of their vagina?”

One hand, “blood…?”

“Ok, that’s normal. What about white stuff or smelly stuff? Ok, who has heard of a sister experiencing this?”

Nine hands go up.

I note colors, scents, and consistencies of different types of discharges caused by various infections (as we had with the forms of diarrhea), explaining how to differentiate the potential causes and levels of gravity of each one.

“If it’s white and itchy and smells like baked bread, it’s probably not that big of a deal, but if it smells rancid or if you see blood, go to the clinic!”

And I wonder why active participation is such a challenge.

[oops- posted these last 3 out of order...] 14 September2011He walked to the front of the crowd. One sturdy, smiley, andcautious Togolese man in front of 30 teenage girls. “Please make a fist and put your arm out straight,” I askstone-faced and serious.He trusts me; it’s been a great week. I stretch out thecondom and slowly roll it down the length of his arm. It reaches its endmid-bicep. It smells like plastic and banana, the only scent for PSI’s Protector brand condoms.The girls gawk. They forget to blink. They wait for me toaddress what I’ve just done. He smiles. Whereis she going with this?“Now, if a man ever tries to tell you that he’s too big to use a condom, you have adifferent problem. You don’t want to go anywhere near that.”Everyone bursts out laughing. “Do you see how big hisarm is? Do you see? Don’t let anybody make excuses. Protect yourself!”I spent this summer traveling around the country forconferences, camps, and trainings. The majority of my travels brought me to thePagala training center in the Centrale region.The center has been around for decades. Once a German camp, it now hosts PCVsand their protégés throughout the year.In June I served as a camp counselor at Camp UNITE. Theworkshop I led on HIV with a counterpart from Kougnohou in the south was one ofthe best things I’ve ever done in Togo. We basically taught my entireyear’s middle school HIV/STI class in an hour and a half. We talked abouttransmission, evolution in the body, prevention, myths, stigmatization, and theimpact of the virus from national to local levels. In the end, the two of usdid a skit on proper condom use. To a group of 20 village girls, we were prettyhilarious.The skit took place at the end of Picnic, basically a school-based spring festival. My counterpartplayed the role of my boyfriend and I a smart but shy young student. He got mealone and pressured me to have sex, but I said I wasn’t ready. He accused me ofcheating; why else wouldn’t I want to prove my love? He made a joke aboutseeing me dance with another camp counselor. I must be cheating! Then I reassured him that I just didn’t want toget pregnant and have to drop out of school. He looked defeated. Then hestarted getting frustrated.“Condoms!” Because I was a wise girl who carried protectionfor my less prudent friends, I had one on hand. He proceeded to do everythingwrong and I gently corrected him, taking my time while I devised an escape. “If you open it with your teeth, you might put a hole init!”The whole thing was very comical. In the end, I pretended tohear a friend calling me and ran away. “Next time, cherie!”My counterpart was an older, respected, respectful, and verycalm high school teacher. His status made his role that much more entertaining.Those three hours (we did the workshop twice in a row) were exhausting, butcompletely rewarding. During camp, I also translated stomps and cheers from myhigh school days, we played cup games in the cafeteria, and sang until ourthroats felt sanded down. On the last day, the whole camp was bussed out to a nearbyvillage and we marched into the primary school courtyard with our banner,bright t-shirts, beaming smiles, and bouncing ballads. We performed skits andsongs about AIDS and gender equality with our groups. Afterwards we dancedlocal dances and thanked the chief for welcoming us. Participating in the Training of Trainers with Togolese rolemodels from across the country was the most reassuring part of my service. I’mnot sure this makes sense unless you’ve been a volunteer here, but it’s easy tobecome discouraged, to believe that enablingdevelopment models (instead of empowering ones) have completely destabilizedpeople’s hope or even belief in progress to the point of despondency and adeadened sense of humanity.But these folks, these select few… I don’t know where theycame from, but I was impressed. They were born cheerleaders, sensitive men, or creativeminds in an environment that had never introduced them to the idea. Anomalies.Stars. Inspiring. Even more so when the girls arrived.Some of the students were timid, others tenacious. They camefrom every region, every SES, and almost all of the girls in my group had beenorphaned by one parent who had either fled a bad marriage or sought afterbetter financial investments than ateenage “wife.” In the beginning they were formal, polite. On the last day,there wasn’t a dry eye in the bush taxi. And Togolese people don’t cry.PSTFrom Camp UNITE I went south to Tsevié (Chev-ee-yay) forPre-Service Training of the new CHAP trainees. They were fun to be around, butI had to constantly remind myself to be positive and professional. (Sometimes,that’s pretty tough.) My job was to lead technical sessions, be available forcross-cultural questions, and help them prepare for moving to post. Sometimes Iwould run in the mornings and my host family invited me over for every meal,calling, texting, and even showing up to find me when I didn’t arrive to eat. Ikept telling them about how the new trainee might want space, but they wouldn’thear it. Luckily, she’s a very relaxed person and seemed to welcome thecompany. It was easy to empathize with the trainees; wanting to feelindependent and not live out of a suitcase. I also felt incredibly disconnectedwith all of their technology and fresh pop culture references. (Although, popculture is not my forté, even when it’s staring me in the face.)Swear-in was followed by a huge party on the rooftop of ahotel, catered and MCed by a Labanese restaurant, filled with items beingauctioned to support the GAD (Gender and Development) committee.I drank too much, ripped my dress, was almost undefeated ina limbo contest, and won a set of iPod speakers in the GAD auction for sevenUSD. The next day was ROUGH. I went to the bureau to work on some overduepaperwork and plan a potentially huge event with SD. (This will be an awesomeproject to blog about when I leave Togo.)Camp Etoile du NordI spent ten hours in the car going north back to village, awhole day cleaning and doing laundry, and not enough time preparing myvoice-in-recovery. The next day was CampEtoile du Nord (Camp North Star), a week-long camp for the highest rankingstudents in 4th year (8th grade, the year before the highschool entry exam) to learn about choosing a career, budgeting, sexualharassment, puberty, etc. Of course there was lots of singing nd dancing, too. The girls came from all over the Oti Prefecture,three were selected from my village. One of them had a six-month old baby. The“husband” was her primary school teacher just a couple of years ago. A year agoI would have chided such a union, but now I realize what a stand-up guy he isfor not denying and abandoning her- what seems to be the norm. At camp, a nine-year old relative was appointed caretaker ofthe baby. It’s father came by almost every day to check on them both. The othergirls form my village took free moments to relieve the teen mom of herresponsibilities, playing and cooing with the baby. I was so proud of theircamaraderie and encouragement. When we regrouped all of the camp kids, she said herfavorite topic was teen pregnancy. Her voice was louder and stronger than Iremembered it. Her baby is healthy and she is proud despite how complicated herlife must be. The camp hosted several panels of professional women fromthe area. The girls practiced turning on and typing with a computer, most ofthem for the first time in their lives. There was a tour of the local hospital,savings-and-loan co-op, and the radio station. They all gave a shout out totheir villages. The mid-wife led a session on puberty, periods, andabstinence. I was thrilled when she had to step outside to take a call duringthe condom demonstration and I got to help out. The prefet spoke about the importance of girls’ education and there wasa session on self-confidence. At night, the girls stayed with four university studentsoriginally from the prefecture who served as camp counselors. They got togetherin small groups for “girl talk.” I wish I could have known what was discussed. Camp fell during Ramadan, the Muslim holy month involvingfasting and lots of prayer. We set aside food for the 4:00 am break-fast and alocal parent decided to lead the nine Muslim girls in evening prayers. Iusually fast during Ramadan for solidarity, but this year I only made itthrough day one of camp. It was a choice between having the energy to lead 5-10songs and cheers per hour or providing a low-energy once-in-a-lifetime campexperience through an allergy-induced, dry, and mucous-dripping throat. On the last night of camp we all gathered around the campfire and sang songs, talked about how camp inspired us, and shared ourtraditions and cultures. Three of us PCVs sang two songs. The first, atraditional song for women to encourage each other went a man has hurt them. “It’s for solidarity and empowerment.”We opened dramatically as we pivoted around the fire… “Atfirst I was afraid, I was petrified!...”They sat in silence. I wasn’t sure if they were bored orshocked. “I will survive! Hey-hey!”They shouted “encore!” and exploded in applause and we stillclapping a minute later. So we did an encore.“Now, this next song is for when the guy that cheated on youleaves and you find someone better. This is a traditional song for girls tosing about a boy they like.”“Ooooohhh!!!!” We got them to stand and do the motions with us.“I like a boy by the name of Macarena…”They got a kick out of it. Then they presented threetraditional dances that look simple. Two girls enter a circle together and beatthe ground with their feet while shuffle-jumping in a circle. You think,“seriously? You have all that pride for thatdance?” Then when I got thrown in the circle… I looked like an idiot. Itdoesn’t look like much until you try it once, then you’re in awe. It’s almostimpossible to make it look good, if you’re me.By the end I could not longer speak and I could barely stayawake. I took the bush taxi back to Mogou, through Gando, dropping off eachgirl with an entourage of cheers and song. I passed out at some point betweenthe last two stops and woke up thanks to a huge pothole. The last girls askedme to sing and dance with their families. I was really faking it now, but theywere forgiving.The organizers- MF, EV, and EG- really did an amazing job.Next year I’m planning to be more than the village cheerleader. TrainingAugust was the month of travels. From camp in Mango I wentall the way back to Lomé for Diversity Committee and Peer Support Networktrainings. Although I wasn’t quite sure about my peer support skills, I hadwritten an excessive application letter for Diversity Committee and wasthrilled to be involved. Training was incredibly professional, well-planned,and gave us ample time to practice our facilitation skills. The Peer Support Network training was intimidating, but verygood for my development as an empathetic, useful-listener, human being, etc. Itreminded me of how lucky I am to be surrounded by such an amazing group ofpeople. PathwaysAfter a few more days back in village- cleaning andre-connecting with students- I went back to Pagala, this time with one of them.One of the younger, shyer girls who comes to study at my house won ascholarship. She’s one of 17 middle-school girls in the whole country to getone. It’s only 35 USD, but it goes a long way. We’ve already bought all of hernotebooks, pens, pencils, and the batteries she’ll need for the lamp she usesto study at night. The one of thegreatest perks of the Pathways Scholarship program is the four-day conferencethat all of the girls and their official mentors participate in at Pagala. Sheand I had matching outfits made and bonded over shaking mandarin oranges andgrapefruits out of trees on the property.One of the best sessions was money management. We spent anhour breaking down exactly what she would spend the money on and how much herfamily would still need to contribute. We put together a weekly schedule andblocked in study time. While the mentees were talking about adolescence andpuberty, the mentors were talking about how to be good counselors andlisteners. In the evenings, our fabulous PCVL- RL- led the girls in “brainactivities,” learning about how brains function and memory tricks to help themstudy. The organizers were incredibly professional and it was funto see this shy fidgety girl come out of her shell just a centimeter. Shesmiles a lot more now. I think I just don’t make her as nervous. Mid-ServiceCan you believe I’ve been here a year!?! That’s ridiculous. Our mid-service conference was booked. 6:00 am to 10:00 pmwe were in rotational sessions, sector sessions, medical/safety sessions,getting TB tests, and filling our stomachs up to our eyeballs. The staff intentionallyprogrammed every second of the day to keep us busy and out of the bar(apparently a problem in years past). It was also emotional pandemonium. One minute I was thinkingof extending for a year, the next I wanted to ET (leave). I thought aboutcancelling my long-awaited vacation to spend more time focusing on villagework, switching villages, over-committing, not doing anything but surviving forone more year… I felt crazy. I think I was over stimulated and scared by all of thebeautiful efficiency and motivation.My favorite sessions were on Vacation Enterprise (teachingbusiness skills to students during summer break) and the Women’s Wellness andEducation Conference planning meeting. I don’t think I once brought up the conference. You know,that huge cross-sectoral project I led? I think I’m still overwhelmed by thefollow-up and reporting that’s going soslowly. I just have so many negative emotions related to an effort sodraining. Instead, I hosted a booth on home visits and talked about mystudents. The conference itself was amazing, but it put me in a veryweird place emotionally. Et La Santé ?After MSC was editing the Peace Corps Togo health journal, “Et La Santé ?” (Which can now befound on the Peace Corps Togo website!) It was our first issue as the neweditorial team. I worked on copy editing with LM, while JM and KD worked onlayout. I have to say, working with people who split work evenly, do what theysay they’re going to do by the time they say they’ll do it, and do it well… itblew my mind! This was one of my favorite collaboration experiences in Togo and Ican’t wait to work on the next issue.This issue was all about working with youth. Back-to-schoolseason is in full swing with every market table selling notebooks, pens, andrulers. We solicited articles about working with apprentices, using “cafeterialadies” to promote hand-washing, and of course, highlighting how health wasintegrated into the multitude of summer camps across the country. Not quite up-to-dateA couple of detours through Sokodé, Tsevié, Tchare-Baou, andDapaong led me back to village yesterday. I spent a whole day cleaning andre-arranging my house. Today, Frère Mathieu and I met up with all of the campparticipants- two girl apprentices, two boy apprentices, and four of the fivegirl students.They decided to start a club- La Jeunesse pour le Changement de Notre Communauté (Youth forChanging Our Community). JCNC will meet once a month to plan a session and thendeliver it to a target population. The first topic they picked was “girl’s education,”which will be presented to parents through neighborhood meetings with thesupport of the parents’ association president. They were timid for this firstmeeting, but with all of the cheers and songs we’re going to do that won’t lastlong. I’m trying to reconnect with the clinic, too. We had a bitof a falling out… I don’t want to regret not getting to help on a moreinstitutional level and gaining the experience of understanding how thingswork. I feel like up until this point I’ve been angry and blamed others for myfrustrations (and I still find most of it justifiable…), but I feel like if Idon’t take the initiative to repair broken bridges, I’ll regret it.On va voir.Thanks to everyone who’s still writing! I’m a little backedup on mail, but it’s on my list for this week… right after finishing my grantreport, making a conference plan, and submitting my semester report… why do Ihave so much computer work to do in a village with no electricity???

3 October 2011

So I’ve been in village for a whole month without leaving my cluster. The last time that happened was about a year ago. I’ve been biking around the circular route between Mango, Sagbiebou, Gando, and Mogou, but haven’t been able to complete the circuit because the Mogou road is flooded. And life has been good.

One of my students and his mother got into a fight when she came back from the hospital. His anger resulting from being accused of a petty crime must have triggered a literal nerve and he froze up and went deaf for about four days.

I’m eager to teach him sign language when this happens, hoping he’ll find it useful, but I don’t know how the breach the topic because it has never been a permanent state and he doesn’t identify as deaf. Neither do I, and I find the signs useful, but it’s an emotionally and psychologically sensitive topic, becoming temporarily deaf. Villagers think its spirits. I think he needs an MRI (among a slew of other tests I’m sure I don’t know about).

His family was mad at him and he spent an evening or two chez moi playing cards or staring into space together. When I found out, I was helping the malaria campaign fill out “coupons” based on a census carried out specifically for determining the number of mosquito nets allocated to each family. The VOLUNTEER community health workers have been marching around every corner of the canton doing an amazing job (that could have been coordinated with the 2011 census…)

MOM- don’t read this paragraph.

I was filing n for a counterpart whose brother was in the hospital after an 18-wheeler blew him off of his bike and then blamed it on the wind. (A biker was also hit by a speeding car right in front of my house last night. The windshield was completely shattered and the dent created reached the middle of the roof.)

She and another person from my neighborhood were charged with covered over 600 homes, many with multiple families. Each family received a coupon for the number of nets based on family composition. It was tedious, easy, but gravely serious and the ASCs (community health workers) took great pride in the accuracy of their work.

I went over to my student’s house after my lunch break to check on him. Normally a proud and strutting teen farmer, he was hunched over with tears in his eyes looking helplessly pathetic. I told him I’d be back in the afternoon.

Twenty minutes later he was weakly leaning on an adolescent tree outside the clinic, staring at me. I waved him to come inside. The ASCs stared at me. This was not a part of the program. What did I think I was doing? The supervisors from mango were in and the head nurse was out. I told my young friend to sit and showed his how to fill in the coupon. It was easy. He did a better job than most of the men (and one woman) formally charged with the task.

I got strange looks. Everyone stared at him. The supervisor started interrogating him. He tried to read their lips. The lines of his lips betrayed nothing, no slight inclination in either direction, not even revealing if he had understood or not. I said sharply, “This is one of my star students who often helps me translate important documents into English. He’s gone deaf today and we’re going to leave him alone. He is going to help me.” Period. The supervisor, who looked incredibly skeptical, now let slip a compassionate smile in the corner folds of his eyes, but not his mouth.

“His hand-writing is really good.” He stared at the boy who was trying to ignore the pity he was feeling penetrate the room. The others followed their leader, complementing his work, the ASCs being a bit skeptical, not liking to think a teenager could do the work of a man. Yet, the men had the same education he did.

The next night he came over at 11:00 pm to play cards. It broke my heart to send him away. But deaf or not, that was culturally inappropriate and he knew it. He anted to sleep on the woven cot on my porch. I assume the fight hadn’t been resolved. A few days later he was fine, but clearly bruised by the experience. It had lasted longer than before.

Conference follow-up meetings are going well. Five villages expressed interest in opening a health hut for birth assistance and first aid. We help a meeting for their representatives explaining the logistical, financial, and administrative steps to achieving this goal.

They took the job very seriously and got to work on a handout that assessed the feasibility of the operation.

Upon returning from nearly four months of camp and cross-country trainings, I went to greet the chief and inform him of my return. I asked him some questions, while being embarrassed by their tardiness. What does Sagbiebou mean? How did you become chief?

Before it was a village, the area was known by a certain group of trees, the Sagbé tree. People would set up meetings under its shady leaves: Sagbé-bou, under the Sagbé tree.

Less than 10 years ago, the old chief died and a few elders ran for the election. Our current chief and his opponent stood at the primary school and faced the road. The villagers were instructed to line up behind the candidate of the choice. Of course, in a democracy votes are anonymous, and the candidates had no idea who voted for them. Well, not until a few days later at least. Initially, the prefecture rejected his election, but the votes were cast again, and he was again victorious. Thus, chief.

The day I returned another student brought be a cold bowl of fufu, enough for two people. I ate it all. I hated fufu in Mali and in southern Togo, but this lady knows what she’s doing. I sent her bowl back with chocolate oatmeal cookie-ball-things. (Rolled Quaker oats in chocolate icing.)

I love the beauty of village and especially the human quiet of the rain (and the privacy of knowing no one’s coming over…). I light candles and make soup, curling up in a bed cooled by rain-chilled breezes and read a book. I’m working on Pillars of the Earth and unexpectedly loving it. It’s unexpected because my mother reads a lot of Ken Follet, so obviously I must have different tastes. Actually, I’m more convinced I’m becoming her. The other day I was suddenly awestruck by the sheer genius and importance of her job and how she does it.

Three government workers- the ones I LIKE- were transferred to other posts. They had clearly requested the transfers and were glad to be out of this “small village with too many small problems,” as one of them put it. It will make being here more difficult, but it’s also a good opportunity to meet new folks. I was trying to think this way, at least, until the new birth attendant started talking about how great things must be to work for a white lady, refusing to speak to me directly. The new school director comes tomorrow.

All of the youth that attended Peace Corps-sponsored summer camps and scholarship conferences started a club- La Jeunesse pour le Changement dans Notre Communauté (Youth for Change in Our Community). They want their first session to be on the importance of girls’ education. School started today. Good timing.

Our first issue of Et La Santé? was published. Not perfect, but definitely a publication to be proud of. It should be on the Peace Corps Togo website soon. Now I’m in Dapaong to get some cash- it’s time to dole out school fees for the kids who help me do laundry and collect water. I went to Tami, a village about 40km from Dapaong to help with a fellow volunteer’s HIV talk. I love that stuff. She made us banana pancakes!The other day I used the last of my pecan stash to make chocolate pecan pancakes. Divine. And almost as good as her Jack Johnsons.

Thanks for letters from MW and TR. And thanks mom for the granola- I’ve been eating it with local melons and local Lipton brand tea during rooster choir rehearsal.

17 September 2011

Last night EV spent the night after our car broke down three times on the 28km route from Mango. I had gone just a few hours earlier to submit my semester report and I was in awe by how many things didn’t go wrong.

The internet worked and allowed me to send an email with an attachment. Though I hand-wrote my report the night before, I thought typing it, checking all the boxes, and filling in the blurbs would take a considerable amount of time. It only took me about an hour and a half.

We found a car in a reasonable amount of time; we even got a beer while we waited for him to fix the engine. The driver’s son accidentally slammed my hand in the door, but miraculously, that part of the door didn’t close anyway- there was just enough space for my hand to be comfortably stuck.

Back in village, EV was very patient as I walked from house to house organizing a meeting for the next day. We got Cokes at the bar and wagash in the market. Back at my house, we made a Zatarain’s Jambalaya box mix with the fried Fulani cheese and then a brownie mix my mom had sent for my birthday in my Dutch oven. We made chocolate sauce and tutored my student friends on the porch for an hour. I think they went into shock from the sugar and chocolate.

“Aicha plus a flashlight minus a flashlight equals what?”

“Aicha”

“Yes, so X + 3 - 3 equals how much?”

“X.”

“Yes!”

It was precious. EV was trying to use relevant examples with a smaller student, “If I have five fingers and a dog comes and eats three, how many do I have left?” Then she changed to talking about eating three of her five oranges.

It was precious.

After the kids left, we mixed our cokes with some rum and talked until we passed out. At 5:30 we woke up and went for a run on the road to Gando- us and two of the students. Dropping the kids off, we decided to do a few stretches and Rachid’s dad contributed some ides. He was a military officer, now retired.

We stood and pulled our knees to our chests, balanced one leg in front, flung it behind us into a flying bird position, and then we bounced in squats while crossing our elbows to hold our earlobes. Then he said, “and now the cock fight!”

EV and I looked at each other wondering if the kids would be mounting our shoulders and if maybe we should make an excuse. With slightly titled heads and squinting eyes we watched him model the “cock fight” with his son. They squatted and hopped towards each other with their palms up. The “fight” ended with them effectively giving each other two high-fives, pushing each other backwards. It was a blast, good exercise, and highly entertaining for the entire family looking on.

We walked back and made oatmeal and I filtered expired CC’s coffee through a make-shift French press involving plywood, screening, and chopsticks. Then EV got a moto home and I biked to the hospital to follow the weekly pre-natal consultations.

I arrived to find six women of all different ethnicities and villages waiting in the welcome room. After greeting the staff, I walked back into the mid-wife’s office. A woman was next door in the birthing room moaning, clearly in labor, and looking concerned.

“There’s a problem. Do you see how her stomach is shaped weird? The baby wants to come out but she has a bone in the way that won’t let it happen. We’re sending her to the hospital in Mango.”

“How mush time does she have before the birth?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, like measuring the contractions… they don’t seem to be very spaced out… will she make it to Mango?” All of my knowledge comes from TV and reading the sections in biology textbooks that teachers prefer to avoid.

“They called the car. It’s coming. Contractions?”

Maybe that wasn’t the word in French.

“You know,.” I made clenching movements with my fingers over my stomach and grimaced. “What’s hurting her. They seem close to each other.”

She looked at me like I was speaking Chinese.

“You see, there is a problem. She has to go. We can’t do it here.”

“Ok. Where is the car? Is it coming?”

“Yes, the driver’s in the market.”

A few minutes later I heard some whispers among the maternity staff. The driver decided he would make more money, more reliably, if he just took a care of market passengers. Plus, he probably didn’t want to deal with a potential birth on the road and the probability that it would soil his car. The relief of the staff disappeared and they all silently dealt with the reality that this complex birth had re-become their problem.

It wasn’t too complex, miraculous, or beautiful. But it wasn’t terribly gross either until the placenta came out. That was nasty. After 30 minutes of pushing, a huge baby came out all blue and bloody and wrinkly with a while cord doubled around its neck. The matrons were quick to remove the cord, suck goop out of its nose and mouth, cut the umbilical cord, and cover its stomach in alcohol, shaking it and spanking it like it hadn’t been crying for the last few minutes.

After they got the baby a little cleaned up, the birth attendants looked for some clean pagne fabric in the mother’s belongings. The mom and her attendant are supposed to bring several clean pagnes to the clinic with a bucket and other necessities. The birth attendant dumped her things of the table.

Field shoes, lots of dirt, and random filthy kitchen utensils fell out. They must have come from the fields, unprepared. The staff made fun of the display. They found a semi-clean fabric and wrapped the baby up. They left it crying on the table while cleaning up the blood, catheterizing the mother with a random piece of plastic tubing, and pushing on her belly to extract the placenta. She got a shot of Oxytocin and was told not to move, just to put her hands on her belly.

I held the baby and the staff looked at me like I was crazy. “You’re going to get dirty.” My only concern was HIV, not a terribly relevant problem in the canton. Every woman who comes to pre-natal consultations gets tested and the baby was clean.

In Gando, a neighboring village much more populated than Sagbiebou, the physician’s assistant noted being aware of less than 10 cases. Although, they’re now becoming an HIV care center, so Gando’s cases that were previously managed in Mango, will now be transferred to Gando and he will have a better idea of the seropositive population.

I wasn’t worried. There were layers of fabric between myself and the baby. I was more concerned about infecting it with some mild bacteria I didn’t realize I was hosting. Then, again, the baby from en brousse was probably inundated with antibodies from his mother against any pathogen.

The mom was escorted to the post-natal/ sick patient room. She began breastfeeding and the baby got a shot of vitamin K.

Two days later, I was working on the mosquito net distribution campaign at the clinic when this woman came back with her husband. The umbilical cord was infected. They had put a local produit on it to try out the cord. The birth attendant lectured her, “I told you not to do that!” The nurse lectured the birth attendant, “You need to explain that better.” The parents waited.

The baby’s name means, “Who knows God?” It’s kind of a sarcastic question meant to remind us about humility.

After the birth, the maternity staff continued nonchalantly with the duties of pre-natal consultations. They measured fetal growth, checked for heartbeats and inappropriate bleeding, and took blood samples for HIV. Each woman and her partner were referred to do follow-up testing in Gando.

At noon I left the clinic and headed to the fields to “help” my counterpart add some final fertilizers to her corn. Of course, I was super late because I didn’t expect to spend so much time in the clinic. I bought some beignets and biked out in the general direction of the field I’d been to once. I knew it was next to the field of a well-known villager so I kept asking after him. Eventually I found it and heard a small shout from under the corn leaves.

“Adama!! You came!”

“Are you finished?”

“Yea, we just finished. Welcome!”

She walked me around the fields, I passed out beignets, and she pointed out how following the advice of the agricultural counsel led to her crops being healthy. It was good to see her proud of her hard work.

Her kids jumped in the donkey cart and she and I walked behind. For almost an hour we talked, she gave me advice, or we just walked in silence. The sun began burning down on our stroll as we approached the village center.

Thanks to TR and KD for the letters and packages.

A cluster-mate explains basic computer principles to girls participating in the weeklong camp for students of the Oti Prefecture.

Triste sans Tristan12 July 2011

Last week I was invited to my first Togolese wedding. Well, kind of.

I was walking home from the market and passed by the house with the gaggle of giggley and generally gross but charming children that jump hopscotch in the sand or play house under the paillot. There were tons of women in the small cementing courtyard of the mud-brick house. They were smiling with stressed enthusiasm, with twinkling eyes focused on suitcases of pagne and house wares.

An older woman summons me in to the cramped doorway. Older men stand outside smiling and shaking hands. They old woman walks me further into this small maze of a compound. “You can see the bride, but you have to give her money.”

“I don’t have any money with me…”

She looks disappointed, like stupid, everyone knows there’s a wedding today and you dare to walk by the house without money? She pauses before continuing.

I am guided into a small room. A young girl of seventeen or so is crying in a dark corner and being undressed by giddy older sisters. An old woman gently yells at her to stop crying, “You are a bride!”

I want to console her and give her hope, practically a stranger, but I also don’t want to seem like I am supportive of her obvious misery. I smile. I try talking to her. I try to find something positive to focus on. “Is your new husband a nice person?”

The older woman interjects, “He’s rich!”

I bypass this response. “Yes, but is her nice?”

I think she gets my point.

“Oh, yes, he’s nice, too. But he’s wealthy,” she says as if I didn’t hear her the first time.

“Well, that’s good! A nice man will treat you well. That’s good for your future.”

She keeps crying. I’ve never seem any person in Togo cry like this. I can’t get over how happy the other women in her family seem. What are they getting joy from? Is it like revenge? Is she now suffering through a ritual that they had to overcome? Are they trying to put on an optimistic show? This just seems fucked up.

After a few more failed attempts to dissuade tears I wish her luck and courage and head home. The men seem thrilled by the festivities as I pass. At home I grab a black sachet and toss in what I can: 1000 francs, a protein bar, candy, gum, and a necklace. I think about tossing in my phone number incase of emergency but I know there isn’t time. I rush back as she is being shuffled to the car, listless but acquiescent. The car is topped with all of her wedding gifts and filled with women of all ages. She is veiled and stops to take a picture that I am forced to stand in front of. They tell me to smile but I’m scared of the record confirming my endorsement. I smile- no teeth. She seems physically incapable of smiling.

The brother of the groom very sternly instructs her to head towards the car. He’s channeling all of his energy into being patient with this idiotic young girl his brother has chosen to take as a second or third wife. They speed away and I hand her the bag.

The next week I saw the necklace on one of the giggly hopscotch kids, faded and filthy.

This week I’m in Pagala visiting CR before training for Camp Unité. She’s an amazing chef, host, and has a TON of Cosmo magazines. I did laundry, had dinner with her and her neighbors, went for a run with LM’s dog who was visiting, and enjoyed her very well-decorated home. It was the perfect transition from a few stressful village days.

Training for camp was a blast. I enjoyed working with motivated, hilarious, and talented Togolese women and men. The professional and personal caliber of the Togolese trainers chosen raised the bar for what I expect from myself and my counterparts. I’m planning to co-present the, “youth facing the reality of HIV/AIDS,” session. We’ve got it jam-packed with participatory activities that teach everything from science behind the virus, evolution of the virus in the body and the difference between HIV and AIDS, transmission, prevention, stigma, impact of the epidemic, and proper condom use and negotiation. In an hour and a half.

I’m nervous but really excited.

Beeswax and Junk18 July 2011

Today I’m visiting the great MS in Sotoboua. We did a tour of the city to greet his friends at the hospital, see the fancy trash cans and push-carts his group put together for their trash collection project and went to the meeting of trash-collector/census workers who are collecting funds door-to-door to fund the project. Pretty inspiring. I never thought picking up trash could be such a joyous occasion.

It’s also been amazing to see how well respected he is in the community. I’m pretty sure 50% of that respect (at least) can be credited to his being male. Another part is that he is in a city. But mostly, he is an excellent volunteer and one of my favorite human beings. So I’m feeling a bit more motivated having seen what he’s accomplished and just being in his calming company.

I also bought 9,000F worth of honey to replace the 3 liters I accidentally stole. I ordered 1,500F worth of it and when it was delivered to me it was bundled up with someone else’s order. Not knowing how much I had ordered in mass, I thought it was all for me. Not knowing what I was going to do with 10 liters of honey, I gave it away to my village counterparts.

Then about a week later I get a call from another volunteer asking about lost honey. Go figure. So I ordered more and delivered it a few weeks late. The worst part is that the honey I actually ordered for myself fell out of my bag on my way to training for Camp Unite. Thus, I have paid 10,000 francs for honey I’ve never even tasted.

PZ’s counterpart in Dereboua, where the honey comes from, is actually a really nice guy. They also save the honeycomb (which you can chew on to get the rest of the honey out!) to make wax for candles and lip balm (based on a recipe MS found online and taught PZ’s counterpart).

One of my village friends was interested in apiculture as a result of them coming to the Sagbiebou conference. We set up a training for her in October to shadow him and his bees. Maybe I’ll get to taste some honey then J

After all beeswax business, MS and I went to get buzzed at the bar (forgive the pun- I couldn’t help myself), which was exactly what I needed.

Thanks to ML, DT, RM, MWx2, KD, and mom for the amazing letters and packages. I look forward to hearing from you more than anything else. I also received the package from the international art exchange! Sagbiebou kids will be getting some global education come September!

Caterpillar Season25 June 2011

The last few days have really turned my negative morale upside-down. I’m not exactly sure at what point this turn-around occurred, but I’m grateful that I’m not longer resenting every person I pass on the street, giving people the evil eye when they ask me for my shirt.

I know it’s supposed to be a compliment, “Oh, give me your shirt,” means, “that’s really pretty.” I’m supposed to say, “next time,” or “of course,” or, “yes, and give me yours.”

Lately, I haven’t had very much of a sense of humor. I was a legitimate hermit for about a week and the day I emerged to go to the market, in a matter of 15 minutes, three people asked me for things. I greeted two folks who just stared at me, and my presence made a child cry. I didn’t emerge again for three days.

Then I received a stack of letters for girls who had applied for the Peace Corps-initiated scholarship fund program (pathwaystogo.org- you can donate! $10 pays one girl’s annual tuition in my village!) and summer camps (Camp UNITE and Camp ESPOIR). I was obligated, and a little excited, to distribute them. One girl was accepted to Camp UNITE and one received a scholarship. I biked all over the canton, was chased by a dog at the Assemblies of God training institute on the outskirts of town, and got to see some pretty awesome smiles.

Even the girls who didn’t get accepted were excited to get mail. For some of them , I imagine it was the first time a letter had been addressed directly to them.

This little tour forced me a step out of my funk. Working with youth tends to do that for me.

However, that night I woke up with a leaky left eye. I had forgotten to wear sunglasses on my bike ride to block the dust, which hasn’t been so blatantly turbulent since the onset of rainy season.

I sleep through everything: alarms, hurricanes… in high school I was really good at sleep-convincing my mom that “I’m getting up,” and not remembering it at all. So you can imagine the force of the throbbing in my eye required to shake me awake. I sat up and a small stream dribbled down my cheek.

For a few days I’ve had trouble sleeping through the pain and swelling, returning to my hermitage during the day to avoid the sunlight. Somehow, though, my spirits are up and my optimism brewing. Note to self: in lieu of Perkiset, try eye infection.

Though I feel much better, a close friend of mine recently went blind in one eye for lack of diligence, so I’m being hyper-cautious and heading to Lomé. Plus I have to be down south anyway next week to hang with the new stage, so I might as well.

It wouldn’t be fair, though, to give all the credit to this little joy of a virus keeping me busy. My unofficial counterpart, Afissetou, has been an absolute ray of practical sunshine. Did I mention the other day when she just randomly decided to start a moringa nursery in her small courtyard? Not, might I add, to enrich her home and nourish her family, but she planted enough seeds in recycled water sachets to distribute for free to every single family in the neighborhood. What a freakin’ rockstar!

Today I went over to give her all of the documents for the follow-up interviews for the conference, which the team will complete without me. My micro-manager tendencies are seizing up like my brain searching for a metaphor.

“Pas de problème. And what about reimbursements for gas if people decide to take motos?”

“Well, you should probably discuss that at the meeting on Monday.” Seize. Seize. No opinion. Empowerment. Sustainability. Ah. Irg. Uh… “Yes, y’all should decide on Monday.”

She’s also in charge of managing the money while I’m gone. She’s one of two people I trust with money. It’s a very bizarre feeling to put up barriers between you and people you want to trust. Is gossip or probability a good enough reason to doubt someone’s ability to control temptation, especially in such wearing and rationalize-able circumstances? Not exactly justice. Sill negotiating this one- where to invest trust.

Example: Someone in village recently borrowed a small chunk of change from me to use for unanticipated clinic bills. No problem. Completely unrelated, this person heard that I would be traveling and assumed I was going home. And, like the last time they assumed I was going home, sent me a message, “Good evening, greetings to your partner. Bring me back a laptop computer and I will pay you back.”

Now, if you don’t have enough money to pay for some medical bills, how are you going to pay for a computer? And second of all, I hate it that people think that simply because I’m American that I can thrown down what amounts to their annual salary at a moment’s notice, and will.

I’m so tired of being asked for things. Well, I’d love to be asked for things I am here to provide: education, health advice, a helping hand… But t-shirts and large sums of money, electronics (that people don’t know how to use), motorcycles, and international match-making services… are not my specialty.

This is another reason why I love Afissetou. She has never asked me for anything that I’m not here to give. But if she did, I wouldn’t hesitate. She invites me to eat with her family (when I’m there already at least). She sends her daughter to visit sick people to see if they need anything. She gives away malnutrition-combating trees to neighbors whose kids have bloated bellies. When she needs something that is convenient for me to bring, she gives me money to buy it. As do my fabulous neighbor-guardians; the wives of my landlord. Every time they fry wagash, I get first dibs. Now, that’s love.

Good people.

Another event that brought my mood up was getting back to simple work, especially work that I didn’t do anything to prepare. Recently, a favorite tailor of mine went to be a camp counselor at Camp UNITE. He came back two feet taller and ready to dive into work.

Yesterday he planned a causerie with some of the tailoring apprentices. He wanted to try a new technique- playing dumb.

“Well, today we came to talk about AIDS. But I don’t know what it is- Adama, we’re going to have to ask these young ladies to help us.”

“AIDS? Is that like a kind of sauce you eat with spaghetti?”

Laughter. In Togo, some of my jokes are funny.

We went back and forth.

“How do you get it?”

“Well, monsieur, you know, like, when a man and a woman spend time together.” Teen giggles. Innocent but informed.

“So, like, if I sit next to Madame Adama…” I move closer and he waves me away, “No, no, no, Madame! They say that you could give me AIDS, if you know, we sit too close.”

“NOOOO! Monsieur! It’s not like THAT…”

“Oh? How is it?”

He makes a great ignorant-curious face. It was a blast. The best part was the rule that when a girl came in late she had to do the chicken dance in front of everyone. The two of us assisted, making total fools of ourselves, helping her “talk” her hands, flap her wings, and wiggle her tail-feathers with some well-intentioned booty-bumping.

This guy knows what he’s doing, has an amazing sense of community responsibility, and an inspiring energy. Did I mention patience with me? He tells me when I’m breaking social rules and when people are upset with me, whether he agrees with them or not.

Some of my other favorites are students. Since the end of the school-year, they’ve been coming over to play UNO or help me color nutrition and hygiene posters.

Yesterday two girls came over to help me clean house and make some money to pay their school fees for next year. They weren’t exactly breaking a sweat between giggles, but were doing a good job. About an hour in I walked over to check on them and found two teens in their underwear. I flinched and then tried to remember that this is normal.

They took their own clothes off to wash them. The soap was free, so why not? They hung out in my living room like that, ‘reading’ magazines, talking, and eating popcorn until noon. When the clothes were dry they got dressed and went home, practically skipping, totally unfazed by being practically naked in front of their teacher.

Sometimes I pass children who should, for all practical purposes, be clothed. I feel this gut “it takes a village” shot of adrenaline push the tip of my tongue against the back of my bottom teeth, wanting to say, “go put some clothes on!” Then I remember those things called subjective moral values and the years colonists and missionaries spent Sambo-izing people whose values differed. I slurp in the saliva welling in my mouth, smile, and say one of the ten local language lines I have yet to advance. Unless it’s about health, then I unleash a whippet of tongue-lashing.

“You need to wear shoes. Tetanus will kill you before you wake up to eat yesterday’s corn-paste!”

Like I said, my jokes are funnier here.

Speaking of tetanus, last night I was walking home some of the girls that stayed over during a rain-storm. They played UNO, ate tomato soup and Oreos, and laughed at my sopping sorry self as I harvested water. It was kind of a pathetic show representing how much I dislike getting water at the pump.

Arriving at her house around 8:00, there was a palpable tension in her little brother’s face. A, “ oooh, mom’s been looking for you and you’re in trouble,” look. Then her calm and lovely mother emerged in a flaming tirade that went something like this:

“Where have you been? Your boyfriend’s house?!”

“No, I was with Adama.”

“Yea, sure you were.”

“But mooooom!”

“I don’t want to hear it! Your father slit the back of his leg on scrap metal trying to cage in the chickens and he’s at the hospital. Go check on him! I can’t believe you thought you could pull one over on me and #%&!*(&!!!”

So we all proceeded back to the hospital. When we got to the main road and, there he was, on the back of his brother’s moto, blood soaking through the gauze on his leg. His face unchanged from his standard calm buoyancy.

“Did they see you? Did they give you anything?”

“Pain pills and a tetanus shot.”

“Oh, perfect, they are so capable, this is why we go to the hospital- tetanus is so dangerous. I’m glad you’re safe.” I’m thinking, “wasn’t expecting them to get that one right. Thank god. Ugh, I’m being so arrogant, thinking I’m some kind of medical professional with the right to criticize... but still,” I was surprised he got the treatment he needed. That’s sad.

It’s now bug season, caterpillar season, and snake season. The praying mantises, marshmallow beetles, and giant Rembrandt moths eclipse the plebian insects that normally agitate and assault an innocent potential assassin. The homogeneous caterpillar population is, despite its massive number, supposedly harmless. That doesn’t prevent my Togolese neighbors from cautiously removing them from an extended radius or flipping out.

“Are they dangerous,” I ask, because I have never seen this student of mine do anything beyond ignore and insect.

“No, but if you let them populate around you, they could get in your house, and when you’re sleeping, crawl up your nose!” The look on her face is utter terror, as if describing the process of fingernails being removed with pliers.

And then there are snakes. In Mango yesterday, I saw three boys running around and throwing rocks at a shared target. I should mention that I was safely indoors and viewing from the window of the internet café.

“Oh, a new game!” I thought. Then, “why do they look scared?”

A long and skinny bright green snake began groping its way up the side of a tree. They kept throwing rocks in rhythmic coordination, one after the other. They’d miss and jump back. They hit it and it fell to the ground. They approached. It jolted. They jumped back. The dance continued until they had hunted him to the other edge of the garden. They stood a meter away, throwing rocks at its paralyzed head. Then, a shovel-guillotine finished the job. The boys looked triumphant.

There was also a snake on my porch- apparently they like chickens? The tailor killed it. (After we both screamed and jumped and acted in a completely un-superhero-like fashion.)

Yet somehow with all of these critters, I’ve never been bitten or attacked. Stink-bug season is in full swing and I have to say, as harmless as they are, they’re the worst. I’m pretty sure the scribes forgot that scene from Exodus.

I also want to share a site created by a fellow volunteer in my region. If you buy music off the website, all proceeds benefit projects in Togo, specifically the Savannah Region. I believe it’s Moba music. The Moba people are an ethnic group up north here. There’s a significant minority population of Moba in my village, though their relatives the N’Gangan are more predominant around these parts. So check it out!

Thanks to TR for the awesome mélange of M&Ms and the wonderful updates!

Let go of Our Moon15 June 2011

“I can’t believe I’ve only been here a week, it feels like so much longer!”

RA and I met at the welcome party in Lomé on the one year anniversary of my arrival in Togo. We hit it off right away and I’ve been grateful for the phone calls since he started stage.

My kitchen was covered in flour and smelled like curry. I had a stack of 20 mix-and-match tortillas on a glass plate. I did some experimenting today.

Fried wagash (Fulani cheese) in a Nigerian neon yellow curry sauce over rice tucked into flour baobab-leaf-powder-infused tortillas. Then I hyper-spiced the sauce and decided to dilute it by making the rice curry concoction, now goulash-esque, into the tortillas themselves. So I mixed the rice and oily sauce with flour and water and milk powder and voila! A huge delicious mess.

I was cleaning this mess up with RA called. His enthusiasm makes me dig deep down to extract the optimism buried somewhere inside me beneath the fresh topsoil of cynicism and apathy. Talking to him, I feel like the nicer person I used to be in college (the same one he attended) instead of the more bitter person I’m becoming.

So I’ve got a new friend.

The phone line got cut several times and we’d take turns calling back and sending messages.

“Argh, I can’t get through. Are you looking at the eclipse?”

I couldn’t see it from my porch so I went outside to the road with a plate of mystery tortillas for Afissetou.

I was reminded of the movie Angels in the Outfield.

“It’s god’s thumbnail!”

Apparently god’s into red nail polish tonight. It really was beautiful.

Then I heard the distinct sound of sticks banging yellow jerry cans and children shout- … I mean singing.

Then I saw a trail of 50 kids in two lines cross the intersection. Parents lined up along the side of the road as if observing suburban trick-or-treaters.

“Excuse me, what’s going on?”

A ten year-old stops in his tracks. I don’t know this kid (rare for my truck-stop small town) and he looks wary of me.

“The sun caught the moon so we are begging pardon so that it will let our moon go free.”

“Oh, ok, thanks.”

I continue to Afissetou’s and get another call from RA. As we’re talking a guy sits down behind me holding a chicken. He slouches like this chicken has caused him some serious fatigue. Then he leaves.

We talk about learning French and site preferences and all the standard new, fun topics that accompany being a new Peace Corps volunteer in Togo.

I deliver the tortillas and head home to clean.

Shit, tomorrow’s Thursday and I don’t have a lesson plan yet. It’s my last class and apparently school ended last week, not that the director felt that this was an important detail to share. (I feel it is necessary to note that this director does a relatively awesome job in many ways as a teacher and academic ‘judge,’ but just tends to neglect this one minor detail of informing me of what the hell is going on.) The students will continue coming just to weed the school grounds and do manual labor in the teachers’ fields.

I text the director. “I heard that the students are not going to go to school tomorrow. When am I going to do my last class? Have a good night.”

He calls. “They’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Will they know to bring their notebooks?”

“We’ll see.”

“Same time?”

“No, earlier will be better.”

“Ok, so if this doesn’t work, I’ll do it next week?”

“No, this is the last week they’ll come. We’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

Never mind that the official school calendar (which I was following…) says that school ends in mid-July.

These are the moments where waitressing or secretarial jobs (in the United States of America) seem heavenly: clear expectations and time frame.

Oh well. I have been far from the perfect teacher/ volunteer employee, so I can’t really complain.

I’m off to plan my last class- final survey and questions for prizes or something fun. I’m not sure I will be teaching again next year so I want to enjoy tomorrow.

It’s been cooler lately and I appreciate every morning that I don’t wake up in a pool of neck-sweat. The rains are wonderful and I’m loving being heat-rash free. Now, if only there was some way to eradicate the world of flies…

16 June 2011

Of course I arrived at the school today, early, to find not a single student, nor the director. One teacher was there for a faculty meeting, to which I had not been invited. Then the president of the parents’ association biked over on his way to the fields, coup-coup in hand, to inform us that the director’s daughter wasn’t feeling well, so he took her to the clinic. “School” cancelled.

Life is so different here.

18 June 2011

Today I spent another morning with the Fulani family that is, at some point, going to teach me how to milk cows. If I can get my butt out of bed before dawn. So maybe not going to happen…

I’m preparing a workshop on the nutritional benefits of moringa for my apprentice students on Monday and grading papers to see if they’re good enough to put on the report cards. The problem is, none of the students followed the directions (groups of 2, not four), barely any finished the assignment, and they’re not even coming back to school because final exams were done in the middle of the semester so there’s really no point in grading these...

We’re taking a team photo and doing final coordinator evaluations on Monday for the conference planning team. We’re also going over the final budget and seeing what materials we need to sell back.

Next week I head south to be a trainer for the new stage and I’m super excited! It should be refreshing, re-motivating, and of course, the running water and electricity at the tech house won’t be bad either…

Adding K12 June 2011

I’m on a blogging rampage. I think it’s because the book I just finished (That’s right, finished. The same one I started 3 days ago.) is written by, get this, a writer. And now I’m super motivated to be writing. Plus, I’m avoiding other things I should be doing like preparing lesson plans and meeting agendas.

I’m in a not-taking-myself-so-seriously faze, which has been quite liberating. I stopped keeping my daily logs for health, work, and journals. I’m doing what I feel like when I feel like it, not completely, but more liberally. I spent this morning rotating rounds of laundry and reading, snacking on popcorn and (though jonesing for a Pink Lady apple) dried apricots- thanks dad.

The label on the apricot package was reassuring, though. Lately, my limbs have been “going to sleep on me” quite frequently. Another Savanes-er in the Lomé Limo this morning told me of her Potassium deficiency experience, a serious version of my analogous symptoms. So I concluded, with complete lack of credibility and basically legitimacy, that I am lacking in Potassium.

Thankfully, I’ve been saved by this one small package of surprisingly tasty Winn-Dixie dried apricots. That should hold me over for a good two weeks until I’m back down south in banana country. Whew!

I took a nap, blew flies away from me as they summon their allies into the slowly receding shade on my porch, and realized that I’ve started having dreams again. Last night in fact, I dreamt I was in a band and we were brainstorming names. I came up with the ingenious Sneezing Muscles and Allies Before Noon. I think I’ve found my calling.

After being elated by the discovery of my newfound capacity to dream (likely resulting from my newfound capacity to sleep) I received a short visit from the girl who helps me clean my house. It was noon- way past laundry time. I haven’t seen her in over a month. I’ve been traveling, she’s been taking the final standardized test to pass out of middle school.

She seemed confident in having passed the exam and eager for her results to be broadcast over the radio with the other soon-to-be BEPC-holders. Then I asked her about the next step. She had previously talked about being a health worker.

“My dad’s looking into technical school, but it’s expensive.”

“What about high school?”

She went on about the challenges of living in Mango or Gando, family problems, etc. If she rented a room people would insult her… It felt like a bunch of excuses masking a fear of the unknown world of high school. She was talking about accounting and agriculture training programs, and other options listed with a listless lack of interest.

“But what do you like? What interests you? What do you want to become?”

“Whatever I find,” common answer that I find frustrating in it’s overt apathy but that I know results from a premeditated effort to avoid disappointment in the face of astronomical unemployment rates.

“But you know, like, if you don’t like math [which she doesn’t], then you shouldn’t become an accountant. And if you don’t like to be outside, you shouldn’t be a farmer.”

“Yes, I know. I think I want to be a customs officer.”

“Well, have you looked into the training program?”

“My dad is looking into it. But I need my nationalité first.”

Basically, these citizenship papers allow you to claim your high school diploma, enter technical training programs, and a slew of other moving-up-the-ladder benefits. It’s different than a birth certificate, which many people also don’t have. It’s easy to get if your dad have his, so long as your last name matches his first name.

However, in my experience working at the local clinic, I have come to understand how official names are marked by the exhausted, sometimes lazy, or linguistically limited staff.

“What’s your baby’s name?”

“Amana.”

“But what’s the father’s name?”

The mom, who doesn’t speak French assumes, amongst all of the questions and the looks of disappointment in this new mom’s French level, that the inquirer is referring to her husband’s (and thus her) father. She knows the word père. That has to be it.

“Kokou.”

So the clinic worker writes “KOKOU Amana.” Done.

Later someone who can read sees the certificate written by the birth attendant.

“They wrote the name wrong. The father is KOKOU Souleyman. So the baby’s name should be SOULEYMAN Amana.”

And the kid is screwed.

It will probably just use the official name for school and other official purposes, never being called by that name in reality. Then it comes time for one of those moving-up stages in life- high school, technical programs, etc. and the family is told to pay 30,000F (60 USD) to get new paperwork that has to be sent to Lomé.

“Oh, but your name is different than your father’s. How can I be sure that you are really his child? You’ll have to go through another system. 100,000F.”

The money is stolen because the “system” is make-believe. The case is brought to the authorities, who apologize, but say there is nothing to be done regarding the theft. They take over the case and it takes months, maybe years to solve the problem. By this time, the girl has given up on school and is probably pregnant because she didn’t have any money and some guy said he’d take care of her. Etcetera, therefore, and such that is.

So this is where my friend is, waiting to find out her options. Fortunately, she has a good head on her shoulders, supportive though not always in-the-know parents, and she’s made it past the worrisome early teen years where girls are haunted by slick sugar-daddies who promise the moon and the stars (you know, things like food, security, a life not in the fields).

I worry about her a little, but not as much as I do other girls. I wonder if I should give her another safe sex talk. But I don’t want to overdo it.

She heads back to the fields and promises to come back Tuesday. Since the exam is over, there’s no reason for her to go back to school.

I get a sweet text message from my partner and am inspired to call, but decide to finish a letter instead. I stare at the water blisters on my toes from yesterday’s run. As I shift positions on my lit picot, I feel the myosin battling for freedom in my quads. As I continue my epic procrastination, I reread a quote from the afterword of She’s not There, which I’d just like to reinforce is a beautiful, raw, and sap-deficient (much to my appreciation) love story.

“How was it that I’d failed to imagine a scene such as the one I was witnessing? Was it so implausible?... Is it the fact that the world so often disappoints us that makes hope seem so far-fetched? What makes imagining the worst so easy? Is it really so much more plausible? Or, frightened children that we are, do we imagine the worst as a kind of totemic magic, in the hopes of frightening off the reality?” (300)

ABCDs12 June 2011

A young girl drops out of grammar school either to help her family at home, because the tuition (10 USD a year) is too expensive to pay for her and her more-important-to-educate-because-they-could-actually-get-jobs brothers, or because her parents don’t have the energy or information to support her schoolwork on the home-front. Or a combination of these.

She turns into a teen, doesn’t like field-work, and her family decides it’s time for her to bring in some money. There are likely several other younger siblings to support at this point.

She looks for an apprenticeship as a seamstress or hairdresser. Some girls start selling yams or melons on the side of the road. Others impersonate vendors to find sex-work gigs. Hey, this is a truck-stop town, it’s big business, I hear.

Her parents, usually her father, accompany her in search of an apprenticeship. They find a willing matron and sign her up. The problem is that the tuition, again, is a bit steep (maybe 50 USD for 3 years paid up front). How do they solve this problem?

Well, there are plenty of eligible bachelors looking to invest in motivated young girls, a.k.a. future wives. While all parties agree that 13 or 14 is too young for marriage, it’s not too young for a marriage contract and dowry payment between families.

So the dowry is paid to the girl’s dad and he uses a big chunk to invest in her apprenticeship. She is registered on the prefectural level as:

Madame KOMLA Zenabou13 years oldFemaleSeamstress apprentice Matron: ISSIFOU Amandine

For instance (that is all made up).

No one does a double-take. This is normal. That a 13-year old would be titled as a married woman. Hell, if she was seven years old it wouldn’t be weird. It doesn’t mean they’re actually married, just promised. Forced or juvenile marriage is against the law. But she chose this, you see. She wants a trade skill, a diploma, a career. This is the only way.

So she starts her apprenticeship with a cohort of other teen madames.

A year or so in she turns a corner and you see a giant belly. How? Well, she’s the man’s wife after all… Doesn’t a man have the right to see his wife?

At our Host Family Reception yesterday after thanking them for doing a fabulous job of being the face of Sagbiebou during the conference, we asked what we could do better next year. What problems did you face that we could do something about?

Silence. Lots of positive feedback. I think this was the only group that didn’t have any real problems (versus the representatives and their per diems or the translators and their lacking numbers or the authorities, don’t get me started…). SO instead they started discussing problems in Sagbiebou that we need to work on.

“This teen pregnancy thing is a major issue here,” said the dad of a teen mom. (She actually got knocked up when they were living in another village.)

“It’s the parents. We as parents have to take responsibility for educating our daughters…”

I was enjoying this.

When they finished I offered my time (and the time of the three health agents on our planning committee) to work with their daughters and sons on understanding the ABC(D)s of avoiding unwanted disease and pregnancy:

AbstinenceBon Fidélité (Good Faithfulness)CondomDépistage (Get tested)

I stressed another local leader’s assertion that educating girls was the best way to prevent unwanted pregnancy, then added, “but you see there are educated pregnant girls, too. We can’t stop there, we’ve got to talk about contraception.”

Overwhelming support.

I wish a comment like that could have been as well received back home in Louisiana or Texas.

Blue on Green11 June 2011

Two nights ago AI came over to my porch.

“Excusez?”

I had my headphones in, working on the budget from CMV. “Yea?”

“Is there UNO tonight?”

“Oh yea!”

Quizzical look in the direction of my headphones. “Come try one.”

She put it in her ear and her eyebrows shot up. A few seconds later she was jamming to “hey soul sister” (thanks AB). Then MI and EK came over from their cook-stoves in the courtyard with big curious smiles.

Ek’s pants were unzipped. I try so hard not to notice this, but Togolese men really should make this more of a priority.

Everyone took a turn jamming to the music. The best was MI leaning over her 8-months pregnant belly swaying her arms, bobbing her head from side to side, and shuffling her feet to T.I. We’re the same age and she’s on baby number two.

Then I lit the lantern and we played UNO until 10:00 pm, way past everyone’s bed-time. I won once, EK once, and AI got “second” three times, so we decided that equaled “first” one and a half times.

“Tomorrow, I’m winning before you all!” She proclaimed.

The next night we were joined by 3 students who study on my porch at night (they’re on break, so they were allowed to join). They really got into the shit-talking.

“Skip you!”

“Me? Why? I thought we were friends?”

“Oh, monsieur, I have a gift for you… Take 2!”

“Is it blue or green?”

“You teach what class? When do they teach colors? Oh, your students are screwed…”

“Oh, you don’t have any yellow, I’ve got tons of it over here- sucks for you!”

“What are you trying to do? Hurry up and leave us? She wasn’t to leave us! Oh, no you don’t!”

It was a blast, but as always, exhausting. I have no idea why. I don’t remember UNO being exhausting in the States, but it gets me every time here.

Then last night Rachida came over before all the others.

“What are we doing tonight? Studying, English, drawing, UNO???”

She gave it some thoughtful consideration. “Drawing.”

So I pulled out my large wooden cutting board, computer paper, crayons, pencils, a sharpener, and an eraser. We sat facing each other on my lit picot and started coloring in silence. Akoh joined us and soon we had six drawings and two origami figures to exchange.

EK and AI walked over to my porch door in the middle of their ritual evening debate.

“Non, monsieur, ce n’est pas comme ca!”

“Oui, le Bible dit que woman was created to suffer childbirth as a result of her sins…” Big smile. He knows he’s getting to her, but this serious-masked-as-playful debate is totally amicable.

“Madame Adama- Monsieur says that it’s woman’s job to suffer alone for man during childbirth…”

“Yes, that’s her job. Woman was created to suffer. A man should go nowhere near the birth room… ask the nurse at the clinic, he will tell you! Ask the mid-wife! They will kick you out. They will say, ‘what do you think you’re doing here?’”

“Non, non, non monsieur,” she smiles like she knows she’s right and this debate is almost a waste of her time, but not quite. “They might give you a bench outside the room, but a man has the right to enter to see the birth of his child… IA [her husband] was right outside for the birth of our children!”

“That is wrong, the Bible says…”

“Well, you know it takes two people to create a baby,” I chimed in. “And when it’s my turn I don’t plan to suffer alone. Whoever helped me create the problem will be right next to me suffering. I’ll squeeze their hand like this [dramatic gestures] and yell at them… oh, they will suffer, too.” My opinions always get radical glares from EK.

“S’il vous plait, madame, ce n’est pas comme ca. God created woman to...”

“Maybe that’s how you feel about it, but chez moi, and even here, everyone has their own way of doing it.”

“No, en Afrique… [a slew of gross generalizations verifying that all Africans share his point of view].”

“Please, Africa is diverse, there are many different opinions in South Africa, Ethiopia… how can you know how everyone thinks?”

“Really, other Africans think like you?”

“Yea, even here, there are men who want to see their children born.”

“No, no, in Africa it’s not like that.”

“Oh, monsieur…” AI and I groan in unison.

“Ou bien? Rachida?” He appeals to this Muslim teen to validate his point of view.

She just looks at him, her bottom lip slightly hanging beneath a row of surprisingly straight white teeth. She was clearly nervous to put her hand in such a heated, and to her, less obviously playful, debate.

AI shifted the heat from her direction. “Monsieur, elle n’a pas encore accouché! How would she know?”

The debate ends as most do. AI and I shake our heads, she assuring me that he just likes to get under her skin. She jokingly calls him a liar and everyone walks away laughing, shaking heads, and rolling eyes. It’s just like when he tries to play blue on green cards.

Rachida and Akoh look kind of shocked but are trying to play it cool. Like they’ve never seen adults behave this way before. Women insulting men. Crazy!

“Ok, it’s 9:00, time to go home.”

It was a beautiful, breezy moon-lit night and I was eager to get a good night’s sleep.

At 6:00 am Rachida and Akoh came over to fetch me water, peeping through my window on the way to my door, seeing my lying in bed in a pair of shorts.

“Hey!” conjuring the most offended tone possible in my groggy state.

As they peeped in, I covered myself with a pillow. I haven’t fitted my bed with a top sheet since January. This lumpy pillow provided the most surface area. I felt embarrassed and angry at the carpenter who’s said for weeks now that he’s coming to repair my window screen.

At least I’m in a country where boobs are not private or proscribed.

I got over it pretty quickly. There are more important causes at which to lance my angry energy. Like the guy who caused a 14-year-old apprentice I saw yesterday to be nine months pregnant. (More on this topic soon.)

But I figured that in this “it takes a village to raise a child” village, I should do my part in the raising of these two generally awesome and curious kids.

I put my angry face on to mask my embarrassment and tried to summon some sense of authority, “That is my bedroom window. It’s private. You do not look in there!”

Shamed but beautiful faces with long black eyelashes angled at the ground.

“So you came to fetch me water?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Here’s a bidon, I’ll bring the cuvette.”

I tried not to smile and closed the door.

I had planned to go running this morning. And visit the cows of my Fulani friend to practice my milking skills (which suck). I texted her, “I’ve got to find water, I’ll visit tonight.”

Liar.

I’ve dedicated these next few weeks (pre-summer camps and PST for the new stage) to self-care.

I put on my running armor: granny panties, sports bra that used to fit, bike shorts to avoid the unanimously detested chaffing that results from exercising with thighs, a racer-back cami with a “built-in” bra for support, long shorts that almost reach my knees and a t-shirt (for village modesty and sweat-wiping since all of my bandanas are dirty; plus, I am reminded that they make me look ugly and I just feel like with the headband, sunglasses, and headphones, a bandana would further suffocate my face. Too many accessories…)

Then I waited for Rachida and Akoh to come back while I stretched and overly consciously hydrated. I turned on my iPod, the same music I’ve had for a year, though I’m not really into music as others are (I’ve recently been reminded…) so It’s not that big of a deal.

I tried just letting the iPod shuffle all my music.

I have way too much blues and folk and general slow stuff that inhibits and exercise momentum. (But I am not to blame since I’m not the one that loads my iPod. Dear friends, please hook me up.)

So as I’m stretching I’m noticing that where my muscles used to be located under my thigh fat, is no more. I have to poke a good inch in to find the muscle. Plus, the 10 or so squats I did yesterday have left me with what feels like an amber layer of lactic acid crystallized in my quads.

It’s amazing the things you notice when you’re not working.

Within the hour Rachida and Akoh had delivered 100L of water. They were sweaty and tired.

That’s what you get peeping toms.

I felt lazy and sneaky.

Within minutes I was attempting to jog along the national highway for the first time in (June, May, April…) several months. If I didn’t have the music to distract me I would have turned around 5 minutes in, but instead I ran for about an hour. Now I remember why I’m supposed to leave around 5:00 am for morning runs. The sun hits you on the way back.

Gross and accomplished, I laid my plastic matt down on my newly cemented walkway between my porch and latrine. Blue sky and birds above, walls on all sides (PRIVACY!), a cool breeze, and shade until 10:00. Whoever decided to cement in this area was genius, I tell you.

I stretched and crunched and forced myself through 10 whole sit-ups (ok, maybe I did the bent-knee ones…) and finally just relaxed, laying on my back, watching the clouds dance, and praying that one of the birds above wouldn’t poop on my face. Then I rolled over and started reading. Amazing. It’s been so long since I felt this calm, since I had privacy.

She’s Not There is a fabulous book I would recommend to anyone. I started it last night, upon recommendation of my sister (a year ago) who rarely recommends things. Mostly because things that would interest me are generally not alluring her. But this book was on her required reading list for some silly liberal arts class. Also required. She got through it and decided I would probably like it. She seemed content to have found a solution to the “what am I supposed to do with this now?” problem posed upon the completion of her course.

I love my sister. We are just different.

The book is about a transgendered woman (for my friends back in Texas, “transgendered” in lieu of “transgender” is a term of her choosing, not mine) navigating her transition. It’s the happiest account of transition I’ve ever read, heard of, imagined, etc. Plus, it’s easy reading (important for folks like me) and a great story about navigating compound predicaments as a family (so far). So I’m learning, not having to look up 3 words on every page (thank you, Bill Bryson), and really enjoying being reminded of friends and experiences far off Togo’s radar.

Right now I’m drinking sweet tea and making some sent-with-love-care-package Zatarain’s Jambalaya Mix, which I plan to eat for brunch and dinner, adding wagash (fried Fulani cheese) to the latter.

Ahh….

Un Grand Merci!31 May 2011

I have to dedicate a special post to the Texas churches who donated to our Conference for Better Living in Our Community 2011 via un bon ami RFS. Your support was vital to the success of this major effort and the village of Sagbiebou is very grateful for your encouragement. Major thanks from myself, the coordination team, and the whole village!

One Year In, One Major Project Down (almost)8 June 2011

The Conference happened. May 25th through 30th were probably the most exhausting days of my life. But I can’t remember being that happy in a long time, either. It troubles me that I’m so turned on by the thrilling combination of stress, lack of sleep, and last-minute must-dos. Despite or perhaps due to my workaholic fetishes, CMV happened. And the first edition of La Conférence pour Mieux Vivre Dans Notre Communauté was an undeniable success.

We brought in 45 trainers (23 Americans, 22 Togolese) from every region of Togo to host 26 booths in the Marché des Idées visited by over 1000 villagers (800 of whom we bussed in from surrounding villages in the canton) and led 10 workshops for 44 representatives translated from French into 5 languages (Anufo/Tchokossi, N’Gangan, Fulani, Moba, and Belba) with the help of 12 translators, a team of 8 coordinators and 12 spontaneous volunteers. Bad. Ass.

Topics presented in the workshops:- Solidarity and Action Plans- Raising animals (Elevage)- Courage for HIV Testing and Condoms- Sexual Harassment- Malaria and Neem Lotion*- Health Insurance* (Mutuelle de Santé)- Family Planning*- Girl’s Empowerment* (presented by two Togolese men !)- Simple Latrines*- Recycled Charcoal*

Topics presented in the exposition: (those presented in workshops* plus…)- Hand-Washing Stations- Moringa (Nutrition and Gardening)- Compost- Improved Cook-stoves- Importance of Vaccination- Importance of Growth Monitoring- Enriched Porridge- How to Create an HIV/AIDS Association- Nutrition and Protein- Gender Equity Relay Race- Child Trafficking- Malaria- Village Savings and Loan Agencies- Basic Marketing- Basic Accounting- PermaGardens, Shower Gardens, and Sac Gardens- Honey Cultivation and Health Benefits (he even dressed up in his bee suit!)- Feasibility Studies for Small Businesses- Water Purification- Local Microfinance Agency IDH

Our team, for the most part, rocked. There were so many things that came up at the last minute from hand-washing water to meat storage in a village without electricity to the layout of closing ceremonies. (Well, actually a lot of it was foreseen and supposedly taken care of, but not…) But our 8-person midnight meetings in my homologue’s small cement courtyard where we brainstormed how to get 4000L of water in two different locations, three times a day by donkey cart for the subsequent two days will forever be etched in my memory.

And that was probably the smallest of the last-minute hurdles. There were many other problems we solved (just a sample):- You wrote on the invitation that there would be a “reception” for the authorities, but you only prepared peanuts and drinks… a “reception” means meals. It starts in 30 minutes. à We got them meals.- The mass-purchase at the Sam’s Club of Mango forgot to include the canned drinks for the authorities for said reception. Plus we didn’t have any plates. à One of my students’ dad’s (a retired gendarme) took a moto around Mango hours before the reception searching for the drinks and plates. When he had interrogated every hotel as to the whereabouts of their dinnerware, a local couturière donated her large dinner party stash along with all of her apprentices (my students) to be servers. (They looked awesome in their matching Première Mai outfits.)- We forgot to order wood for the cooks to make lunch for 250 people. à Fortunately, by homologue had just the perfect amount in stock and donated it for later reimbursement.- It’s a day before the conference and we need someone to cook for 250 people. What do you mean you haven’t talked to them yet? à My sister did the same thing for a Red Cross meting. I’ll talk to her. On board. She just needs 25 kilos of beef for tomorrow.- One of the coordinator’s mother-in-law summoned her to the family compound to talk about why she’s been neglecting her husband during the conference. That’s not the kind of wife “they paid for” you know. à Still working on that one.- How do you get 25 kilos of beef in the middle of the night? à Pay a moto driver to bike it in from Gando.- Where is the DJ? Wasn’t he supposed to be “donated”? à Donor: I forgot. I’m sending one now. He arrived in the middle of the opening ceremony.- Shit, we have the closing ceremony in 30 minutes. Where are the certificates? Has the chief signed them yet? à Good thing the chief’s compound in close to the school… And he showed up at the ceremony cool as a cucumber with a great speech.- In general, we didn’t do a very good job of letting trainers know where they were supposed to be. à PCVs and homologues are very flexible J Thanks, yo.- Where are the scouts? They’re supposed to be chasing the kids away from the training windows. And protecting the people giving out prizes. Where are they!?!? à There they are! But it’s time for travel reimbursements. Where have you been?

Some things that happened the day before:- I went to Mango at 8:00 pm to type up the final minute-by-minute program for all team-members. I don’t think anyone used it.- We recruited two folkloric groups and my apprentice students to dance for the opening ceremony.- We ordered a banner.- Six trainers were on the poste bus coming from down south. The bus broke down twice and arrived in Mango around 11:30. We called them (or their PCVs back in village in the case of those without cell phones) to track their whereabouts. I got them picked up by a local driver at the post office when they arrived and they went directly to my compound at midnight. We fed them leftovers from the fancy lunch I paid my neighbors to make for our planning team (my first real meal all week- thanks WPS for all the power bars) and got them their check-in packets (badge, schedule, map, and opening ceremony program). Then three team-members and I walked the trainers to their home-stay families. I was probably most impressed by this cohesive and confident team moment of any during the conference. It could have been a total disaster.- I made over 1500 copies and folded over 400 programs.- Team members searched for materials requested by trainers for their workshops (basins of dirt, sand, branches, charcoal, water, saplings, shovels, machetes, buckets, rocks, etc.). We got most of them… I think.- We found some incredible villagers who volunteered their time and enthusiasm to make the conference run smoothly. One volunteer even spent a whole day noting feedback. Her calmness throughout the whole three days diluted my adrenaline- Merci beaucoup!

I was really grateful for how smoothly reimbursements and per diems (for translators and cooks) were distributed. I think our team fielded most of the first-line complaints. Most, I’m sure didn’t get to me. I REALLY appreciate them for that. I didn’t even have to tell people from centre-village that they (once again) were not eligible for travel reimbursements. We started with the furthest villages, worked our way in, and finished before dark… barely.

We were even careful enough with the budget that we had enough to pay the scouts for their travel. (18 of them had come from over 5 villages.) Our team acted like the chief scout was upset for lack of per diem, but he was totally logical and respectful with me. We gave them the travel reimbursements for the scouts from very far away- I couldn’t believe how far away they came from- and they decided how to split it up among themselves. I thought that was a creative way to blend standard reimbursement policy with tradition.

If you weren’t a part of the planning team, you wouldn’t have known the chaos, but you may have sensed a bit of stress. My job was to sit at the Welcome Table all day and I don’t think I sat down once from 5:00 am to 2:00 the next morning. On all three days. But it happened. People learned a lot and the outfall was minimal. Our biggest issue was that school directors were turned away from the authorities’ reception. And a lot of people complained about lacking per diems and t-shirts, but I expected and politely refused those.

Why do people feel entitles to payment for learning information that will benefit them and their communities? NGO culture… Another rant.

It’s definitely been a humbling experience, though I’m far from reaching a practical state of humility about it all. I’m more in a post-hypnosis, mildly diarrheic, and it’s-time-for-repos kind of place.

Still, we’ve got a few months of follow-up, a major final report, and some budget alignment to complete. This Friday we’re hosting a reception for all of the host families- who WERE AWESOME!- to get their feedback and just say thanks with the leftover peanuts and cookies the authorities found insufficient.

From July to August we’ll being biking out (again) in teams of two to all of the villages and neighborhoods to see what people did with the information provided. It should be fun, validating, and not too time-consuming for all of the farmers in our group during planting season. I hope. (3 days a month?)

I’ll be gone at camps, training the new stage, and working on our health publication Et La Santé? for most of the summer, so this is the stage where our team will really have to take initiative without me. That sounds a bit narcissistic, but I know that my American “timeliness” (for those of you that know me, try not to laugh too hard), holds the group to a different level of accountability. On va voir.

Most discouraging moments: During fund-raising treks around village and Mango, several authorities refused and insulted our team, “are you becoming beggars now?” The idea of fund-raising via letters and follow-up visits is a bit new en brousse. Our team was so discouraged but we just trekked on through. I think this will be easier in the future now that people see what we were doing (instead of pocketing the money, which is what many assumed).

“Where’s my t-shirt?” from random villagers I had never seen before. I had to apologize a few days later to two individuals that I went off on for this comment.

“Where’s the tchakba for the chiefs?”

When our planning team misunderstood my translation and thought that money had been donated for their personal use… causing a temporary strike against me for not turning the money over… It was resolved quite professionally (minus some crying) with some collaboration from my APCD, homologue, and the local social worker.

I was summoned to a director’s house for what I thought would be a discussion on how to improve the conference and kudos on a job well done. Instead I was lectured and interrogated as to why his (teen mom, not local) daughter wasn’t on our steering committee and why I didn’t save her a t-shirt. Also, when was I going to get her a correspondant who would send her money and when would I get her into university in the U.S.? I was super cool and just took it. Then, “that’s why I convinced her to bring you to visit our family in the [major tourist attraction].” I felt used. When leaving, I asked her, “is that what you want, to go to the U.S.?” Without pause she responded, “yes.” I have never felt so manipulated by someone I tried to help. Do I keep working with her? It’s not her fault her dad is pushing others to fashion her a solid future. He loves her. But what does it teach her when he uses power to bully others and disallow her own empowerment?

Most ego(personal and group)-inflating feed-back: “Only Lizzy could have pulled that off.” – Other PCVs The SG (second to the Préfet, who gave an opening speech) was impressed and said that he would neglect his entire program for the day because he wanted to visit all of the stands in the Marché des Idées. He had been one of our biggest overt skeptics, but turned into a major supporter.

There are already women in the marché selling Neem lotion and making recycled charcoal balls.

“You were really working!” To our whole team, from villagers who were confused by our time-wasting meetings.

“Congrats! I heard your project was a big success!” – Text from PC Country Director

Balancing the 9-page, over 500-item budget with receipts. (Almost done!)

“I would like to wish you well in this short life, that is happy and that you have pride because you are unique in the world. The day is beautiful. When everything goes wrong, remember only that today is the most beautiful day of your life. Have a good and blessed day.” – Text from an impressive local leader who likes to remind me that I know nothing.

“I couldn’t believe how calm you looked during reimbursements… I expected you to be like ‘how much did your ride cost?’ pay us and push us out the door, but you were checking in about host families and asking us about our experiences, if there was anything you could do for us?! I was very impressed.” –Another PCV

Two Fulani women approached my APCD after his workshop “Solidarity and Action Plans,” complete with skits and local language infusion. I have never seen two middle-aged village women look so inspired. “Thank you so much! What you said is so true! When I go to the pump they tell me to go away because I’m Fulani…[other examples of discrimination against the Fulani].” Further affirmation that my APCD is a rock star.

“I’m thinking about you and hope you are feeling well now. I’d love to see you smile because you deserve it.” – Text from a local donor.

Aside from the planning team, I was most impressed by the 43 host families who donated their homes, two meals a day, and attended two workshops about cultural sensitivity and hygiene. One gave a trainer a full traditional outfit (expensive) and others gave chickens or sacs of rice. All trainers gave reports of being over-stuffed and very few complained. There were only a few reports of poor mattress quality, but most handled it well. I was so proud of the families.

And the translators who worked for three days straight.

And the representatives who were super-attentive and serious about their roles as village liaisons.

I’m not sure I’m up for another round of this conference business, but I definitely think round I was worth it and any subsequent attempts will be a lot easier to promote and execute. I’m mostly impressed by my homologue, Afissetou, who kept her composure and uncompromising ethics throughout the whole experience with less sleep than I found. I figure, if she wants to do this again, I have to back her up. Ask me again when the report’s done.

In other news, I’ve officially been in Togo for one year and three days. I can’t believe I made it this far! With only 18 days written down as “want to ET [quit and go home] days.” So 5% of my time I wanted to quit, 25% of my time I was sleeping, and the rest of the time I was either apathetic, temporarily frustrated, blissful, or generally happy... I think that’s a decent set of stats.

Next year I think I’ll take it a little easier. Maybe spend a good chunk of time following my Fulani friends herding cattle, learning to speak Fulfulde, how to milk cows and make wagash. I could even mix some health causeries in the mix and make it more PC Goal One.

The new stage is here! And they’re awesome! I’m busy recruiting them to request the north. I’ll be spending three weeks with them during training and can’t wait. They’re so energetic, positive, and clean! Just looking at their feet… no half moons of dirt around their heels… it’s amazing. I’m going to have to work really hard at being a good role model and staying positive as I’ve found myself becoming increasingly cynical and negative during the past few months. Thanks to DM for the reminder J

Also, we said goodbye to DM, a fourth year volunteer transfer who inspired us all with his chill comportement and flawless condom demonstration. We were the only CHAPpers (health volunteers) from our stage posted in Savanes and I’m gonna miss you, yo. Thanks for the encouragement.

I finally finished Gender Outlaw by Kate Bornstein. I have to say the first half was my favorite, but I think that’s just because I don’t fully appreciate reading plays (a large part of the second half). I loved her frankness and unapologetic presentation of her life experience, acknowledging its subjectivity. The book also reminded me of parts of my pre-PCV community, mindset, and friends that are seriously lacking in Togo. It was a good grounder and I’m realizing how much I need grounding of late.

Future reading (hint: care packages…): Stone Butch Blues by Leslie FeinbergNeither Men nor Women: The Hijrahs of India by Serena NandaGender: An Ethnomethodological Approach by Kessler and McKennaMale Daughters, Female Husbands by Amadiume?My Gender Workbook by Kate BornsteinThe Hearts of Men by Barbara ErenreichThe Transsexual Empire by Janice Raymond (maybe not worth sending, but interesting like it would be interesting to read “Hilary’s Scheme”)

Films: OUT OF ANAPOLIS!

Also, apparently the iPod that I thought was erased, wasn’t…? A glitch? Was I hallucinating? Togo Togo. Either way, I’m really getting bored with the same playlists I put together a year ago… CDs very much appreciated J

Future PCVs: pack a spare camera battery.

Today I was visited by a student who I haven’t seen in about a month. She had this look like I abandoned her. “I haven’t seen you in so long.” Another student approached me in the street last week. “We haven’t seen our mama since a long time!” They’re on spring break right now, but I’ll be here for the next two weeks to close the class.

I asked one of them if she thought I should continue teaching or just do an after-school club next year, since I travel and am absent so much (very tempting). “Keep teaching, when you’re gone you can just leave notes and we can learn that way.” That seems so counter-intuitive to me… to leave notes. I feel like I should be in 100% or find some other way to contribute that I can commit to 100%. Thoughts?

Two of my CMV homologues also came over to pick up thank-you notes for distribution. I’ve been in a low place lately- partially because of a really fun intestinal bout, partially because of some aforementioned negative feedback. We ate chocolate-chip cookies (which they had never seen before) provided by PCV LM as a du courage present she brought when arriving as a trainer (with a bottle of wine, but I figured it wasn’t appropriate to share because they’re Muslim. It being noon wasn’t even a consideration. Togo.).

Their resilience, calmness, and togetherness really got me back in a good place. I told the story of how my mom used to make cookies for all my teachers at the end of the school year and they would tell us that they’d wait all year for them.

“You can make these?”

I asked if they wanted to put some in a bag to bring home or if we should finish them.

“We should finish them.”

Thanks to mom, Allie, LM, WM, dad, Miss L, ML, MW, and WPS for all your support! Also, grand merci to Michel for bringing my stool sample and blood slides (which I did myself!) to Lomé so quickly! And for the follow-up phone call!

A Bon Velveeta Day9 May 2011

Today I am loving the cool rains but praying they will hold off for the conference. I taught 25 apprentices how to make citronella candles and they were so into it. Then I went home, let a teen mom practice using Excel and took a nap. Then I went to a CMV coordinator’s house to pound the newly laid dirt with what looks like a longitudinally sliced bat with a bent handle along with 20 other women. We were beating down the dirt to pour a thin layer of watered down cement on top. It was dirty, a real neighborly moment, and super fun. I even fetched a bidon of water.

Then we had a CMV planning meeting. Only three weeks left! It’s getting serious now. After the meeting I went to check out some latrine holes. We told the host families that the first 10 to dig holes would get a free dalle, or floorboard (which can be the most expensive part). Our list of 10 is full and now we’re just waiting on me to get the money from the bank and into the carpenter’s hands. The two holes I checkout out tonight surpassed our 1m depth requirement. J

Four of my students still come over for an hour at night to study and tonight I quizzed them on English for the exam. One’s a real show-off, the others are just new to the subject. By the end of our hour their eyes are still eager to practice but their bodies are half-asleep. Or they are asleep. I don’t know how kids do it here- wake up at 5:00, fetch water (if they’re girls), cook (if they’re girls), get to school for 6:30, go to seven classes (often on empty stomachs), go home, study, fetch more water, do housework, and cook (if they’re girls), and work in the fields on week-ends. These kids are tough.

Travail Manuel2 May 2011

The rains have come early this year and last night was a rough one. The percussion on my tin roof woke me up with the mixed emotions of fear (my window was open and I was scared all of my paperwork for the conference and class notes would be destroyed) and disgust (I was enveloped in a pool of stale sweat that had accumulated in just one hour of irritated sleep). I closed my window and crashed again, this time, with my feet resisting relaxation in the marsh previously created by my neck.

Tonight the toads and the crickets reign. It feels like Genesis. Or was that Exodus? Whatever. It wasn’t even 9:00 and the crickets were gang-groping me in my bucket shower. At least they’re not blister beetles!

I’m so grateful to have the fan sent by ML’s mom. It goes through these crappy (and cher!) Chinese batteries like water in dry season, but it’s definitely allowed me to be more productive and sleep when the heat is unbearable. So far we’ve got 9 trainers, 48 booths, 41 representatives (from 23 villages and 5 ethnic groups), and 8 translators signed up for the conference!

We’ve completed 3 host family/ food-seller trainings on hygiene, cross-cultural communication, and latrine construction. Three families have already dug latrine pits. Next week we’re collecting donation envelopes next week from all over the Oti prefecture and training the translators and scouts (security). Logistical information for trainers will be sent out soon along with the update to the Prefet and the weekly radio announcements.

It’s going smoothly, except for meeting attendance among the coordinators. When it rains, our two farmers are in the fields. If there is an upcoming fete, our two tailors are busy on their machines. When a chief starts selling his neighbors daughters to the local Nigerian child trafficker, our village social worker is a bit occupé. And when there is a vaccination campaign, our three community health workers head out en brousse for three days of intense canvassing with basically no pay. All of this has happened within the last week, along with someone’s brother being in jail, someone getting sick, and an uncle’s death.

And I have yet to see someone complain. These folks certainly get perseverance.

So I’ve been repeating meeting notes to people in their homes just around dinner time. I enjoy it (so far) and they appreciate it. It’s not exactly easy, but it’s nice to get one-on-one feedback from people that don’t talk that much in larger meetings. It just can’t keep happening.

Yesterday was the fete of May 1st (Premier Mai). We went to the NGO and sweat until sun-down. There was dancing, food, and a horribly organized health debate. BUT! The girl who took my lesson plans to study won so I felt very validated and felt like someone I’m working with is actually learning something.

I don’t usually feel that way in my 7th and 8th grade HIV/STI class. Last week I even walked out.

“If you can’t respect that I am speaking and you should not be speaking, then I am going to leave. I will work with the students who want to learn outside of school, but I didn’t come to Togo to play games. I came to share important information and if you don’t want to learn, then I will leave.”

This has gone on for some time now. I send kids to kneel in the sun, but this is the lightest of their punishments, so I’m seen as a joke.

“You. Go kneel in the sun.”

“No.” Coy smile.

“No?”

Exhale snort-laugh.

“No?”

“Madam, you should beat him.”

“I’m not going to beat him, go stand in the sun.”

He laughingly gets up and takes five minutes to slowly Fonzie-walk out of the class.

I begin the activity again. Students talk among themselves, giggle, etc.

I pack up.

They whisper.

Then they realize I’m serious.

The sweet, brilliant, suck-up in the front row pleads, “It wasn’t us, it was him!”

“You are all have to work together, you succeed together and you fail together. You help each other learn or you inhibit each-other’s learning.” (I’m trying to get them to understand the idea of solidarity, hence random lectures on the importance of appreciating differences, etc.)

“Madam, pardon! Pardon! We want to learn!” He gets up out of his seat and claps the back of one hand into the palm of the other, a begging gesture. “Please, please, forgive us.”

“Don’t beg, change your behavior. Next time, if you can be respectful, I will stay.”

The major (first in class and official tattle-tale) runs out behind me to inform the assistant director who follows me into the office.

I’m crying. I don’t think the students saw me but the assistant director thinks it’s because the students upset me. It’s more because I didn’t want to walk out, but I felt I had no other cards to play; I wasn’t going to beat them. If I stayed, the acting out would just get worse. If I can’t manage the classroom, then what’s the point of teaching? They won’t be able to learn anything. And the next volunteer? If it’s a woman she’d be screwed form the start. If it’s a man, well, no problem.

And what if they think I left because I don’t care about them; I’m abandoning them. Don’t they get enough of that from parents who have to much to do trying to survive to pay attention to whether or not they’re doing their homework? I felt horrible.

The assistant director and one of the teachers were very supportive. They let me know that it wasn’t ok to walk out on a class, “They’ll think they’ve won.” He noted some common sayings about appropriately disciplining children being the foundation of a long teaching career. He promised to beat them for me.

“You can’t beat them because of me, it’s against my ethics.”

“You don’t understand, L’Africain, il ne comprend rien sauf le baton.” (He doesn’t understand anything but the stick.)

A million thoughts flash through my head. Cycles of internalized racism. You were told that, taught that, and now perpetuate that. If the fear of being beaten is the only thing causing them to learn (actually, memorize), then they’re not understanding the beauty of knowledge. They see education as a means to survive, make money, with no inherent value. And if you don’t lay off the baton and come up with some more creative punishments- or here’s an idea- incentives!- that’s all they’re ever going to see.

AT the Premier Mai party, the director approached me.

“I heard about last week. It is unacceptable. They are too disrespectful. I must beat them.”

I launched- in slow motion- into my speech.

“Can you give them manual labor?”

“That won’t work. You have to make them really feel what they’ve done wrong. I won’t beat them too hard, just enough to understand.”

“I have an idea. For the conference, the first ten host families to dig latrines will receive a free dalle.”

Ok, digging latrines is like, the worst job ever. After about three feet you hit rock and pebbles and it’s all been compressed under years of baking in the hot equatorial sun. And you’re working with a dulled hoe. Moments after you hot the rock your calluses break open. It sucks.

The director’s eyes light up. “See, I knew we could reach a consensus.”

I still think he beat them at the morning assemble. I’ll find out soon.

On a more pleasant note, I’ve had some time to read while waiting. Here are some excerpts that felt relevant from books I’ve enjoyed in the last few weeks.

Dreams from My Father- Barack Obama (interesting, made me proud to have a president with the capacity to genuinely analyze and empathize)

(124) The emotions between the races could never be pure; even love was tarnished by the desire to find in the other some element that was missing in ourselves.

(258) “The first thing you have to realize,” he said, looking at Johnnie and me in turn, “is that the public school system is not about educating black children. Never has been, Inner-city schools are about social control. Period. They’re operating as holding pens- miniature jails, really. It’s only when black children start breaking out of their pens and bothering white people that society even pays any attention to the issue of whether these children are being educated.”

(269-271) Just read it.

(286-287) And I would shrug and play the question off, unable to confess that I could no longer distinguish between faith and mere folly, between faith and simple endurance, that while I believed in the sincerity I heard in their voices, I remained skeptic, doubtful of my own motives, wary of expedient conversion, having too many quarrels with God to accept a salvation too easily won.

(381) But perhaps they could fight off the notion of their own helplessness.This is a good page about relative poverty.

(435) “I’m less interested in a daughter who’s authentically African than one who is authentically herself.”

The Bluest Eyes- Toni Morrison (enchanting, classic, poignant, Morrison’s a literary genius!)

I particularly identified with this character- a sex worker.(41) All her stories were subject to breaking down at descriptions of food.

(72) They has stared at her with great uncomprehending eyes. Eyes that questioned nothing and asked everything.

(95) Along with the idea of romantic love, she was introduced to another- physical beauty. Probably the most destructive ideas in the history of human thought. Both originated in envy, thrived in insecurity, and ended in delusion. In equating physical beauty with virtue, she stripped her mind, bound it, and collected self-contempt by the heap. She forgot lust and simple caring for. She regarded love as possessive mating, and romance as the goal of the spirit. It would be for her a well-spring of destructive emotions, deceiving the lover and seeking to imprison the beloved, curtailing freedom in every way.

Gender Outlaw- Kate Bornstein (a delightful mind-fuck or an assault on the foundation of your gender identity… if you’re a traditionalist. But if you enjoy reflecting on your beliefs instead of just sticking to them, this will get you thinking!)

(9) It’s “good manners” to say and ask nothing, and that’s sad.

(10) They [straight men] want to know, “what do lesbians do with one another.” It’s a sad question really: it shows how little thought they give to exactly was pleases a woman.

(21) Definitions have their uses in much the same way that road signs make it easy to travel: they point out the directions. But you don’t get where you’re going when you just stand underneath some sign, waiting for it to tell you what to do.Please read page 49.

(39-40) I love the idea of being without an identity, it gives me a lot of room to play around; but it makes me dizzy, having nowhere to hang my hat. When I get too tired of not having an identity, I take one on: it doesn’t really matter what identity I take on, as long as it’s recognizable.

If you’re still reading this, you must be as big a dork as I am. So, to wrap up…. It’s only taken 11 months, but I’m finally starting to feel comfortable in village; people know me and the other day someone (not on the conference team) actually acknowledged that I work, which felt incredibly validating.

Since I’m not a farmer, full-time teacher, or clinic worker, I think it’s difficult for people to conceptualize what I’m doing here. When I say I’m going home to work, they think, “Oh, battulé does laundry!”

The idea of workshop plans, agendas, or studying when you’re not a student- a bit loin. So when I say I’m going home, I get, “have a good repos!” which as a workoholicism-inclined American I incongruously find insulting. I think the rains help- the heat definitely made me crabby- and so did my new commitment to biking inspired by DM. I’ve been going on 30km bike-rides a few times a week and it really puts me in a good mood. I’m also going to paint the outside walls of my house with big health messages that can be seen from the highway.

Heading south? “0 to 6 months- only BREASTMILK!” Next to a huge smiling woman in green pagne whipping out a boob for her baby. I’ve got a sixieme (6th) student ready with a design!

Something like that. Or…

“In Sagbiebou, we don’t shit out in the open! Use latrines!” This one is such a lie, but I figure it’s a chicken-egg thing. What comes first, the message or the behavior?

If you have other suggestions, please post comments J

On the non-highway visible walls, I’m painting the three food groups as we teach them here (energy, construction, and protection) and maybe one wall on how to appropriately don a condom. My landlord (a devout Muslim) even ok’d the themes. He’s been so supportive of all my weird projects.

Thanks to Ms. L for the awesome package! Home-made granola, photos, and grits! Merci à R & IM for the beautiful letter. AND THANKS TO THE BUREAU FOR HELPING US WITH SPA- our check for the Conference finally came in!

Priests and Sorcerers

20 April 2011

Ousmane warned me yesterday that I should stop letting students come over through my back door at night to study.

“It could be a spirit sent by a sorcerer. If you open the door for it, it could take some of your shadow and then- you’re dead!” His voice expressed genuine concern.

I felt cared for and tried match his gravity in my facial feedback. I thanked him for warning me and promised to always ask who was knocking. If no one answered, I wouldn’t open the door for them to take my shadow and my life.

We drank coffee, probably his first time drinking something besides instant Nescafe and I’m not even sure he’s had that. He pored over my copy of 28 Temoins du SIDA en Afrique that I ordered from the bureau to teach my class. He’s fascinated by one story- Ibrahim Umorou- but I think that’s just because it’s the shortest chapter.

A few days ago Ousmane, whose English is pretty good for 8th grade, came over to help me translate primary school submissions for the International Art Exchange. I finished them in Kara with the help of LM and MM during VRF (our semester reports) cram-time.

I told him I sent some at the post office already, but it was really expensive so I will send the rest with the next PCV that goes back to America. I suggested he practice his English and send a letter to ML; I would mail it for him.

“How? Is one of your friends going home?”

“No, why?”

“Then how will you send it?”

“At the post office.”

Quizzical look.

“Have you ever been to the post office?”

“You mean the bus that passes by on the road? The big yellow one?”

“That’s a service of the post office; they do that to make money. But the post office’s actual job is to send mail.”

Slightly unfurrowed brows of understanding make his forehead look smaller. “How?”

“If you write a letter to ML, I will bring you with me to Mango and we will mail it together. I’ll show you how it works. C’est bon?”

Big smile. “C’est bien.”

Plans for the conference are shaping up. We’ve got a solid 19 Peace Corps staff and volunteers dedicated to lead workshops and host booths but we’re still soliciting more participation to reach our goal of 30.

Trainers will stay in host families who have already participated in hygiene and cross-cultural communication workshops. Nest week-end they’ll be learning about cheap latrine models and the first 10 to dig latrine holes will get a free base-board and latrine cover. A few have already dug their holes! I just hope the SPA (Peace Corps Small Project Assistance) funding comes in soon!

We’re also making plans to revitalize the latrines at the primary school and add hand-washing stations, recruit several large water-trash-cans for drinking water during the conference, and potentially involve apprentices in proselytizing door-to-door for family hygiene. I came to Mango to print conference documents (and send the test-tube version of a Jackson Pollock illustrated by my Ilium- remember my last post?).

I showed up at the CIB (cyber cafe) at 6:58 to make my few quick copies and head off to Sagbiebou for baby-weighing. Now, it’s 9:33. This is one of my major frustrations about Togo. The CIB is supposed to open at 7:00. [ Tirade.]

The first employee showed up at 7:10, but she didn’t have a key. So she sat under the false advertising that notes “printing, 50F,” when actually it’s only 50F is the director is there to print it off of the photocopier. Most of the time, it’s 100F. Another employee showed up ten minutes later with the key. I wasn’t allowed in, though, because they needed to clean.

The sun comes out and the only stoop to sit on is the pot of gold at the end of the UV rainbow. I scowl. I read a Time magazine sent up from Maritime by the generous JM. The article is about out investing in girls (instead of harassing them, impregnating them, or enslaving them before the age of 15) could accelerate development exponentially. True dat.

It’s 7:30, I’m not a leprechaun, and I forgot to bring deodorant with me last night. I go inside even though they’re not done. No smiles. These are some of the rudest people I have ever met. I am ignored. My presence is resented.

“Can I use the computer?”

“Not yet,” almost a whisper, but clearly curt.

“Can I print from this computer?”

“You’ll have to wait for the boss.”

“ Can I make a photocopy?”

“They’re all broken.”

8:00. I get online and wait for the director to show up while re-sending my SPA Abstract. I get on Facebook. Tornadoes in Kansas? A childhood friend seems to be enjoying her twenties and I’m jealous.

9:00. The director shows up.

“You can print now.” She directs me to do it myself (not standard). I could have done this an hour ago. The director leaves and doesn’t care to supervise me, which is why I waited. It doesn’t work anyway because the photocopier is broken. Genius.

“Can I print from the other [100F/page] computer?”

No response. I try to keep my cool. I’m next to her, she heard me, she keeps shuffling with stock records. Her subordinate doesn’t make eye contact, the awkwardness churning into tension.

“Madame?”

“What?”

“Can I print some documents?”

“I’m coming.”

She shuffles the pink stock records into neater piles and after a long 2 minutes sticks her hand out demanding my USB. One page prints, one doesn’t, she ignores it.

“Ma’am, I think there’s a problem with the printer.”

No response. A red exclamation point is flashing on the printer. She ignores me a few more minutes, then resends it to print. This charade of eye-contact-and-verbal-acknowledgement refusal continues for each of the 6 pages I print while my stomach crinkles over the fact that our budget doesn’t cover 100F/page but I can’t afford to come back to Mango when the other printer is working tomorrow.

A client comes in and she lectures him on how he screwed up something he purchased, it was in fine condition when he bought it yesterday. Knowing that she has all the power, he becomes a marshmallow supplicant. He is sweet, respectful, and has a confident lisp. She growls at him, creating cartoon anger lines in between and under her eyes. When the lines even out, she becomes uglier than she was this morning. After the lecture she simply ignores him and he leaves.

I get so frustrated with her rudeness that my eyes start to water. The fact that this “minor” (yet gruffly redundant) frustration is upsetting me so much is a clue that I’m probably starting my period soon. Great.

“That leaves one more page. Ma’am? Can you please print the last page?”

As soon as another CIB opens up in Mango, this place is screwed. I entertain the idea of a boycott. I could do week-end trips to Kara for printing and internet there is free. The CIB folks in Dapaong are really nice. When I was in Kara to send my VRF, I typed while eating a hamburger and drinking a cold Sport Actif. Then I have ICE CREAM. Yea, the two hour bush taxi is totally worth it. I’m even getting over the whole mountain thing.

On my way back from Kara, I shared a bush taxi with a dozen third-year seminary trainees. Priests. The first group of male strangers I enjoyed freely conversing with in Togo, even though they were trying to convert me the whole time. It didn’t matter, they weren’t overtly hitting on me in front of wives or trying to get my number because I’m white and the idea of being with a white woman is so fantastical that it’s worth sacrificing all dignity to acquire bragging rights or green cards. Hollywood, internalized racism, and overt patriarchy make becoming friends with men in Togo (outside of village) near impossible.

In Sagbiebou, I have filters. People are related to other people and they care about their reputation a bit more. Men aren’t as willing to screw up a work relationship. Thus my gross generalization should be taken with a grain of salt. Still, it pisses me off. I miss having male friends whose intentions I can trust and I hate that I prejudge every Togolese man I meet here. But if I don’t and I trust them (as I would rather do), I could end up in a dangerous situation- physically or socially.

It really all comes down to the need for Togolese women to gain authority (facilitated by the acquiescence of Togolese men) and demand accountability from their male counterparts. I would like to take this opportunity to thank the GEE (Girls’ Education and Empowerment) program for its existence.

Enough of that.

Mango season is glorious. The rains will come soon so the farmers are all out in the fields clearing their soil. The village is empty except for a few children to small to carry a hoe. I can’t wait for the rains (cool and private), but I hope they wait for our conference. If it rains, people won’t come. So cross your fingers!

It’s 10:26 and I believe the photocopier is working. I’ve missed baby weighing and I’m starting to stink, but at least I won’t be stressing about the conference falling apart.

Thanks to JM, ML, and AB for your letters and packages.

Dear Jejunum

14 April 2011

After 10 months of pleasant digestive survival in Togo, the microbes in my belly finally staged their revolution.

Day 1: My stomach is bloated and my farts are atrocious. Before making their graceful-as-an-elephant-on-ice-skates exit, they cause stabbing pains that make me hunch over and make weird excuses to leave the room.

“Hey look! Are those kids playing soccer!?” as I run out of the classroom during tutoring. The girls are working on an assignment, but my enthusiasm is disproportionate to the five little boys fiddling with a faux soccer ball. Luckily, remarking on the obvious is normal here.

Thinking my digestive disharmony could be the result of mango season, I stop eating the cabbage-ball sized mangoes that have the power to reinvent a shitty day. My quality of life decreases 5 points. Not because of the gas, but the lack of mangoes (but they were causing tons of inflation anyway- in the point system, not my intestines).

Day 2: I am starving, but I don’t want to eat A) because of the gas, B) I just don’t want to. The latter of these two being a revelation. Eating is my favorite sport and coping mechanism; I have trouble understanding the word full. Hunger doesn’t usually factor into my decisions of when to eat, I just always want to. (I realize this isn’t healthy… Step one.) No diarrhea or constipation so I rule out amoebas, dysentery, gihardia, and other scary diseases.

I wake up in the middle of the night with a pain that I try to convince myself is only in my dream. Then an anvil falls on my jejunum like a bad roadrunner cartoon and I leap towards the screen door, lucky to grab my pagne on the way, just in case someone is awake and peeping.

I leap into a squat over my latrine hole and 10-year-old Campbell’s chicken broth pours out my southern end. Great. My first “level 7.”

In stage, our lovely nurses provided us with an illustrated chart modeling consistencies of defecation. This way we would be able to classify our poop and better explain our symptoms should we experience a health problem in village. The chart ranged from level 1 (pebbles) to level seven (soup). Fortunately, I am one of the last from my stage to join the Level 7 Club. Unfortunately, I also soon joined the equally populated PCVs Who Have Shit Their Pants in Togo Accidentally Club.

Oh, Togo.

Day 3: 3 teaspoons of oatmeal for breakfast. That was all I ate all day. Still, the gas plagued and it was on this night that I submitted my membership for the latter of the aforementioned informal PCV associations.

I’m in Mango. Two other PCVs convince me based on their past symptoms that I have gihardia.

I called the medical unit. I can’t get treated until I get test results from a clinic where I can do the test with a microscope (i.e. not in my village) or from a MIF kit (a tube in which I whisk some of my shit with a glucose solution to sustain the microbes) that I mail to Lomé, which then gets mailed to the US for analysis. Then I can get treated. So, like, 2 weeks?

I read in my copy of Where There Are No Doctors, a fabulous Hesperian publication, an explanation of symptoms that leads me to believe I’ve contracted gihardia. Yay.

Day 4: I ate 2 small meals without much of a problem, until my intestines decided to go on holiday and refused to release anything. I found myself again poised over my latrine hole, listening to the crickets and patiently waiting for my lower half (clearly on Africa time) to get the ball rolling, while my upper half was working overtime trying to cool me off, punching fishbowls of sweat through my non-obliging pores. This resulted in beads of sweat hanging from my nose, pooling on my back, and traversing my eyebrows while I contorted in an attempt at relief.

I think god was mocking me. I hope someone got a good laugh.

While waiting for this light torture to desist, I had plenty of time to reflect on the most recent changes in my body. Due to a combination of circumstances- planning for the conference, hot season, flat tires, and travel screwing with my schedule- I’ve stopped exercising and doing home visits. The result of my inactivity, obviously, was that the number of dimples in my thighs has more than quadrupled since December. Among other things.

I reflected for a moment on how grateful I am to have a partner that will love me even if my thighs looks like bubble wrap and my arm fat swaggers like a drunk tourist on Bourbon. Or so I am persuaded to believe...

Day 5: We shall see… The plan is to teach my classes, find a taxi, get into Kara, find a hospital, shit in a tube, send in my annual report, mail the International Art Exchange pieces (that I spent hours translating with Ousmane), eat a hamburger (!!!!) and hang out by the pool whining about Togo with 2 of my favorite PCVs. I feel physically better, but I’m not expecting that to last.

Thanks for the post office love: AB, ALH, ML, and JK. I’m writing back, I promise… just a little behind.

Revenge of the Coque

31 March 2011

So I’m just about at the 10 month mark and life in Togo finally starting to feel comfortable. Bouging from village to prefectural capitals hunting electricity, the one ATM 3 hours north (if traffic is good), and oatmeal consistently interrupts any sense of “home” I’m trying to create in village, but I’m getting there.

I learn something new every day and I’m finally developing a network of people I’m sure I’ll still call friends when I get home. Yesterday, after weighing babies at the clinic, giving impromptu nutrition lectures, teaching computer skills, and biking to a village to teach Neem lotion (local version of bug repellant) with a student translator, I discovered that the dusty lot behind my house is my neighborhood’s official soccer field. As I was leaving for Dapaong, Baoule, a village about 12k north, was kicking our butts in clouds of dust. Children sold lemonade and “cold” water in plastic sachets like it was beer at a baseball game. (Not that I’m trying to claim any sports fan experiences…)

Just coming over a hump of light depression and discontent with village life, I am now in one of the most grounded and happy phases of this emotional roller coaster ride. Yesterday I found myself bouncing back and forth between market stands, ping-ponging across the national road in search of citron, dege, and mangoes before hurrying back to the gare to jump in a bush taxi filled with angry Kotokoli grandmas yelling expletives and climbing over seats. I enjoyed their passion and continued reading Dreams From My Father, which makes me more proud of my country than ever before. American people weren’t stupid enough to reject this guy because he doesn’t hide his experience as a black man in America. Or maybe those people who would discount him for not assimilating just didn’t read this book. Good. Keep it away from them until the next election cycle is over.

While in the midst of my slump I wrote down every day I felt like leaving, ET-ing (Early Termination) as we call it, and after seventeen days of purple ink scarred a piece of stationary headed, “New Orleans On My Mind,” I decided I was tired of being negative.

Around day I had a very vivid dream about leaving village. First a truck came from another village to pick me up, move me chez eux. A transfer. I refused. I just wanted to go home. These people seemed just like the ones in my village. Eager to bring in a resource, but once in place, too tired or unmotivated to take advantage of it. I could see the weariness in their eyes and feared developing the same look myself. Being in Togo, I’ve learned a lot about the osmosis of other people’s emotions into my own spirit. I waved goodbye as the truck pulled away, feeling guilty for not helping, but not guilty enough to retract my decision.

A second truck came filled with overly eager bouffers- People who talk the development talk, play the game, and end up with beautiful mansions haunted by the bloated-bellied street kids they were supposed to be helping. And they were all men. Sly looks and “tu me plait.” Goodbye.

A third truck came. I wondered how long this dream would go on. People soliciting my “help” or at least the increased social status a village can claim with a yovo in town. How many more people would I disappoint with my lack of enthusiasm; my total antithesis-ness of what it means to be a “good volunteer.”

This third truck stopped, but had not come for me. They were all Fulani, just traveling along themselves, a truck replacing their herd of cattle. They invited me to come along and I actually felt a desire to go. My dream self jumped in the truck, leaving behind all of the shit I’ve acquired thus far, and started learning Fulani. My real self, asleep, felt happy. I could feel whatever chemical substance that makes you feel happy being reluctantly fabricated in my rusty gear cells, cells that had been out of commission for weeks.

This experience (college, Peace Corps, life…) is what you make it. Sprinkling this realization with a little Catholic guilt, some dopamine (?), and telling myself that whatever I do here is good enough, I was on my way to recovery.

A few nights later a student of mine and her neighbor stopped by to see if I was back from my most recent trip. And your health? And the people in Dapaong? Are they fine? Oh yes, fine, fine. My neighbors came over to play UNO and I invited the girls to join, at least for the first round so they could figure it out. After one round, they’d have to go home. It was late.

They pleaded to stay, but not too much. When my neighbors stepped away from the game for a few minutes, the older student leaned over and asked me about periods. She had just started. Her first time, she thought she was dying. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this story. No one tells girls about their bodies and then one day fourteen or so years into live, they think they’ve been cursed and doomed to an early grave. Finally, they ask for help and an old woman laughs at them.

One girl I knew was so terrified by the whole experience that she refused to wash her own menstrual-soaked pagne throughout all of her teen years. Enabled by her coddling and empathetic grandmother, the girl finally moved on.

My neighbor came back. “Another day.” Later, we talked about how every girl’s body is different. She thought that if a girl had a heavy flow it meant she was no longer a virgin. A light flow, a saint. There were stories of girls having periods in their hands. Literally, blood flowing from their hands. Sorcery, rumors, it’s all pretty fun to debunk. Though, I always disclaim my understanding of sorcery.

We recently received funding for the Conference, an exhausting process of re-writing the same request over and over in the land of no electricity- playing with numbers and traveling back and forth to Mango and Dapaong. This along with the completion of our 35 village and neighborhood fundraising tour was cause for celebration.

The “party” was a pot-luck, of course. We were too exhausted to fully enjoy it, but appreciated being together without a three hour agenda inspiring cut-off demi-conversations.

My favorite part was eating the rooster that has enjoyed ravaging my slumber at 5:00 am for the past month. Take that bitch. And the rest of you- watch out.

Partially inspired by my dream, I’ve been spending more time with Fulani families in my village, particularly a wise old man dressed up as a 13-year-old boy who just finished Qu’ranic school training. He’s always excited to learn about health, agrees with my soft rants on gender equity, and is just a generally warm person. He even gave me a Fulani name- Innasuka, “mother of the children.” I think this is the third culture is which people have called me “mom.” What’s up with that?

Mango season. What can I say? It’s fabulous.

Thanks for the love: TR, ALH, Mom, ML, Aunt B, IR, BM, and MW. Bisous!

What Makes the News

12 March 2011

I really thought his names was Justin Beaver. Beaver. I discovered otherwise last night reading through old magazines in the Dapaong maison, craving information and English. I read for three hours while the power was out. Me on the floor with my flashlight reading about famous people I’ve never seen before. (Not that I followed pop culture in the U.S., but I at least recognized faces. Sometimes.)

Earlier in the day, I was reading a popular West African fashion magazine while waiting for a tailor. I’d placed an order in December and come back twice to find the pants I ordered were made for an elephant and the dress for someone slightly more pre-pubescent than myself. The second time, nothing had changed. The tailor had traveled, leaving the work to her apprentices, who smiled and made excuses.

In the back of the magazine I was reading was a two page spread covering the various methods of shaving body hair.

“Blacks are not developed... White women shave…. Here are 5 ways to remove body hair.”

Twenty or so years ago (probably less, unfortunately), the word “uncivilized” would have appeared multiple times in this article. The article was glowing with internalized racism and projected cultural inferiority. I made a disapproving face to signal to the apprentice that the article was offensive. Later I realized she may have interpreted this expression as, Blacks, always trying to imitate us, they’ll never catch up. Fuck.

You try to make things better and it seems you only make them worse. Togo Togo.

I returned to the maison in a funk that’s haunted me for the past few weeks. I have to change something. I hooked up my iPod to the house speakers. No one was home. I opened the doors to let in evaporating light and the rare reluctant breeze. I turned up the sound and jammed. Ballet to K. Gates. Mardi Gras parade sachets to Ben Folds. Weird weird stuff. And I felt better. Silly. Relaxed.

After reading American magazines for a few hours more, I was already starting to see my healthy layer of subcutaneous fat as a sin, my thighs as “flawed,” and my love handles as “blemishes” to my “shape.” I did some sit-ups.

Then I realized what was going on and ate a care package chocolate bar in protest. Oh, Victoria’s Secret models… you will not turn me against myself. Not in Togo.

Food and Fifty

19 March 2011

In Dapaong, again. I sent in my grant proposal last night. Relief, anxiety, an hope that I won’t need to do it again (a fourth time. After all of the revisions, the community is contributing 66% of the materials, labor, and costs. I’m hoping everyone comes through on their commitments.

This morning about ten volunteers from the region got together to clean up the streets in honor of Peace Corps’ 50th anniversary. MG planned for us to work with a local environmental group, so we followed them, many of us from rural villages being chastised for our tardiness. But you said seven. It’s only eight. We’re starting at nine, right? Apparently, people are habituated to l’heure in Dapaong.

We wrapped our hands in black plastic bags, wore our matching t-shirts, and started collecting ancient pieces of plastic and water sachets. After filling a few large garbage bags- well, mostly the local group was working and volunteers were there for moral support- we loaded them into a wheelbarrow and pushed it over to the local ditch-under-the-bridge, a piss-scented ravine filled with decaying plastic and broken flip-flops. We raked it into piles and burned it.

A few meters away a huge pig and her little pink clan plopped into a black hole of mud to soak up the refreshing coolness in the earth. I now understand why Allah made pork interdit.

It’s the beginning of Mango season. I’ve eaten grapefruit-sized mangoes almost every day. I even planted two of the huge pits, hoping they’ll sprout into shade-providing, happiness-inducing, and white shirt-staining glory for the next volunteer.

Thanks ALH, SJ, ML, mom, boo, and MW for the letters and love.

Mangeons

7 March 2011

In Togo, if you are eating it is common courtesy to offer your food to anyone with you or who greets you.

“Mangeons,” we’re eating.

In Ghana, they say, “You are invited.”

It’s polite. You never know if someone is truly hungry and it would be rude to taunt them. Often, however, it’s said out of polity in lieu of sincerity, which is confusing. I rarely accept an invitation to share someone’s plate, but on the occasions I’ve been d’accord, and make my moves toward the plate, it has often been empty. Other times, I take a gout.

As I may have mentioned, I like to eat. And I’m quite protective of my nourriture. I’ll share, but only enough to get a taste of whatever it is you’re eating.

In order to attempt integration, I’m trying to adapt this saying, but it’s hard. The eating of other people’s food comes naturally to me. I’ve had a lot of practice and I enjoy the tradition. It’s the sharing that’s difficult.

Mangeons with petits

Let’s say I have one plate full of food. Nazir (2 years old) comes over to my porch demanding rice with moringa sauce. I give him a spoonful. It’s too hot so he whines. I blow on it and hand it back. He tastes it, makes a face of disgust and rejects the alien mush. Then he asks for more. Repeat. He is not starving. Bloated belly? You get the whole plate.

Mangeons with friends or visitors

Will they eat all my food? Am I required to fill them up? Will they criticize my abstract definition of food? My gas tank is empty and I hate the idea of lighting charcoal to make more when I get hungry later. Couldn’t they just give me 20 minutes notice? I’m inclined to eat in my house, which is hotter, but where I can eat all of the food I made. By myself. I finally learn to make just enough food for me and now people want to share? Where were they when I got here, not knowing how to cook for fewer than four?

So you see, there is fear of rejection, fear of limited access to my favorite sin: gluttony, fear of disappointing those around me. There’s laziness, selfishness, and resentment. I’m trying, but mostly I’m confused. Every time I figure out the rules they change.

Grumpy and Adjusting

8 March 2011

International Women’s Day. I went to the EPP and gave 5 classes computer paper to draw pictures of women they respect, reminded them to tell their moms they are appreciated, and raise their hands if they thought women could do anything they wanted in life. The latter was a tough sell, unfortunately.

I was introduced as la blanche and blatant comments were made about how where I’m from, everyone is white. Anything outside Togo was chez les blancs.

Me: “I’m from America. Are there black people there?”

Class: “Nooooo”

Me: “No? Yes! There are many kinds of people. And in my village, most people are black.”

Class: Silent and confused. But the teacher just said otherwise.

I’d rather leave them confused than thinking that continents are segregated by god’s Jim Crow commandment.

Afissetou, Adjara, and I spent 2 hours after dinner (after a 2 hour meeting) revising the budget and reviewing the proposal, me translating every sentence into French. We’ll be posting an online donation link soon. Basically, we are asking for about $2,500 USD for transport, uniforms, and $16 a day for each Togolese trainer.

Reviewing the village description was actually pretty fun. Afissetou got into local fetes. She did a little dance, brought out pictures, and explained the migration of her people from Cote D’Ivoire; the event for which a colorful festival that tells this story through dance was founded.

We laughed until 22:00 and then she had to start preparing porridge for tomorrow’s market and carrying water into the house. She wasn’t able to do it earlier because she had been at my house since 14:30 planning with me. She’ll get up at 3:00 to start boiling water. She’s a rockstar. She’s even learned when to kick me out.

It had been a stressful day. One of the coordinators lost 1100F from the most recent collection (for which I was absent). He was busy and didn’t come to deposit the money on time and he thought today was Monday so he missed yesterday’s meeting. It was tough. He thought he was being confused of stealing the money and kept citing examples of his financial responsibility.

“It’s an error. We all make mistakes. But you are responsible for the money.”

“Ok, I will pay it.” He looked ashamed and confused.

He walked all the way home and brought back the money. Then we started working together and the mood got better. It was tense. I think I brought us down. Three people had made appointments with me today and none showed.

The carpenter didn’t show for the third time on this shelf he’s building that’s falling apart, molding, and unfinished. I paid his 2 weeks ago. Mistake.

One of my students dropped out of school for medical reasons and I offered to teach her computer skills and bring her to Dapaong to look for an internship. All she had to do was show up at 2pm. This is the fourth time at least that she’s stood me up.

But! Ousmane came over today. I taught his English and he’s teaching me Arabic. He’s copying 28 stories of AIDS in Africa, translating a paragraph a day. I’m learning the difference between “ha” and “ha!” and letters that apparently have no pronunciation??? He is doing a lot better, hearing again, but his memory isn’t what it was. He comes over every day to ask questions from his notes.

“What is épidémie?”

He comes. He asks. He cares. Favorite. Oops!

Now if only he could learn to ask his mother if he could come over. Good thing we’re friends, too.

Thanks SJ for the AWESOME letter!

Serentiy

6 March 2011

Atakpame. Got in Friday with the poste bus. We just finished a two-week marathon cotisation, collecting 100F from every adult in the canton. So far we’ve got about 150,000 CFA and we’ve been to every village and neighborhood.

A highlight: We were meeting the chief of Chigbenga. A sweet older, slow-moving man and his wife that carried more respect in her confident smile than most women I’ve met here. Looking at her, you knew her husband wasn’t on a power trip. It was comforting considering some of the other marriages I’ve seen in country.

He pulled out three bamboo “lounge” chairs under a giant shady tree and invited us to sit while waiting for folks to show up for the meeting. We shook hands. Small talk. We met the Community Health Agent. I recognized some women filing in from the Thursday marché.

He was being very professional and hospitable, creating a comfortable environment for us strangers. And in the midst of it all, literally, was a huge pie-sized piece of cow poo sitting between us like our fourth counterpart.

After 15 minutes the chief noticed it in front of him. Clearly he saw it as a blemish on the clean-brushed sand of his courtyard. Slowly and precisely he lifted himself out of the chair, took two intentional steps forward and slipped his hands under the pie, gently lifting and tossing it ten feet away like an amateur Frisbee player.

Mental note: do not shake hands.

He brushed his hands off as if they were covered in breadcrumbs and then gave a final brush over his tunic like he was just smoothing out the front pockets. He was sweet and the meeting went well. The overall casualty of the cow-pie removal experience still makes me smile.

Two days after we completed this tour I received a call from Admin about our grant proposal. 20 pages. I have no electricity. It took some effort. I received some positive feedback, but mostly I heard, “it’s too big, it’s too much, you’re not ready for a project this size and we won’t pay for it until you change it.”

First, we wanted to build latrines in the homes of people who will host trainers for the conference. Our estimate was 60 holes, wooden planks to stand on, with straw enclosures. It was too much. We should start with 10 and see how it goes. I can live with that.

Also, the budget to transport people to the conference is too high. We already told them we’d transport them and gave them bus ticket “receipts” once they put in their 100F. So we’re looking for other funding options quick. Otherwise we’ll be doing a refund bike tour and I’m not sure that’s a great thing for our morale or general health. At our Monday meeting after the week-end tour, everyone was exhausted and proud, but glad it was over.

I subsequently spent two days in bed with a migraine and I wasn’t sure why. Every time I bent over, tried to change position be it horizontal or vertical, my forehead and eyes would start throbbing to the point of me wanting to cry.

I drank tons of water and we ate well during the tour. I couldn’t figure it out. I called the PCMO who asked me to get a rapid malaria test, a TDR, just to rule it out. Then she gave me a strong combination of pain pills to take. I took a lot and it barely helped for the first two days. Afissetou called the nurse to come over. The last thing I wanted to be was a sick yovo marching through the neighborhood facing points, stares, and perhaps pity.

He came with an aid rather quickly. “We’re out of TDRs… we haven’t had them for months.”

“You don’t have any?”

“No, but from looking at you, I know it’s malaria. It’s sure. Come to the clinic and I’ll give you an IV, you’ll feel better.”

1) I’ve had malaria before, and unless this is some rare new kind, I didn’t have it now. 2) an IV of what? A quinine drip? I’m not putting unnecessary amounts of quinine into my body to cure a disease I don’t have. 3) You tried to diagnose a skin infection as a mosquito bite.

“I’m not allowed to take anything unless the PCMO authorizes it.” I called her and passed him the phone. She said to take more pain pills, ORS, and try to sleep it off. She called later to check in and Afissetou came by five times to check on my that day and three times the next. I was asleep every time.

People often ask me, “and the sun? You don’t have the sun chez vous, how are you doing?”

I like to remind them that the U.S. is a diverse place and it does get pretty darn hot chez moi, no, we don’t have snow, and yes, we do have sun like this. But maybe there’s something to what they’re saying. Maybe it’s just that here, there is no relief. You can’t go hide in the AC and the body forces you to slow down however it can.

I think I’ll be a little less assertive about defending the strength of my sun now.

I never really figured out what it was, but a combination of sun exposure and biking for two days straight left me in pain and struggling to walk, but feeling accomplished and proud. So it was ok. But that was my state when Admin called to deliver the discouraging news.

The next day another Admin came by to pay me a visit. He was supportive of my work and encouraging, gave out quite a bit of advice, and then said the “I” word.

“And how is your integration going.”

I look away. Try to choke it. I’m sure I was tomato red.

“Not good. Will you excuse me for a second?”

I got inside. Cry. Blow my nose without attempting to quiet the total lack of what some might call a “ladylike” snot extraction.

“Sorry about that.” Basically, I’m still not connecting with people in the ways I’m used to, the process of making friends is so much harder. I’m not really interested in learning local language because every time I learn one word in one language at least three other people ask me why I can’t say it in their language. People actually seem to be upset with me.

And then there’s the whole I wanted to work in a clinic where I could decide if being a doctor, midwife, NP, or something else seemed to fit me. And I don’t enjoy working at the clinic. So I only go to do baby weighing. I’m trying to start some kind of electronic health recording system to track babies, to have some sort of statistics or records on file. This, in contrast to sending people home with three papers that say the same thing and having them return stained, crimpled, and smelling like piss.

After baby-weighing this week, I wanted to cry. Again. The babies are really cute and the mom’s chatty, but working with the staff is a challenge. There always seems to be conflict, exhaustion by some, and frustration with those who try to look busy and avoid any major efforts to support the team. And some people are just rude. Rude to me, the staff, and especially the moms.

“Look at your baby! He’s so skinny! What kind of a mother are you? You need to take better care of your child.” This is dramatized with rolling eyes and several hand-flip gestures. The woman lecturing has no children, has worked at the clinic three days, and already made me cry once.

I just finished reading A Million Little Pieces. It was a good read but not super enlightening. There are a few things that stuck with me:

“That’s why dawn is called mourning.” I love this. I don’t really know why, but… well, I’m not a morning person.

The thing that has really helped me this week was being reminded of the serenity prayer. I’d heard it quite a bit before reading this book, but it was the perfect moment for re-entry.

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I said it about 10 times the day of the clinic day and wrote the word serenity all over my notebook during the CPC (baby weighing). Thinking about why it makes so much sense without a tangible reason makes me stop crying, just out of mental pre-occupation. It’s a useful tool and I appreciate it having been introduced into my life. Thanks.

People have stopped coming to the clinic. We have a large staff and we’re on the national highway, so we should be well-stocked, well-organized, and successful. But the staff profit off of patients by re-selling market meds at three times the price and over-prescribe because there are no diagnostic tools.

For instance: baby comes in with diarrhea. The mom is Fulani and no one on staff really speaks that “because we don’t speak their language.” So they get whatever information they can out of her in Anufo or Gamgam. They give the baby a prescription for ORS, de-worming pills, anti-malarials, and an antibiotic. The bill is about half the mom’s monthly income. The woman asks me, after leaving, what she is supposed to do with all of the medication. I show her how to make ORS and inspect her purchases.

“Do you give your 4-month-old water straight from the pump?” (In charades.)

“Yes.” She spoons some what into his mouth with a dirty bottle cap.

“Don’t. Breastfeed only for two more months. Then when you give him water, boil it first.”

She was relieved, confused, and probably worrying about how they would buy food this month.

At home, my gas tank ran out for the second time so I tried using a new solar oven. I apparently have no skill in manipulating the sun to shine into a black box to boil rice. I borrowed my neighbor’s charcoal and boiled two pots of water to made rice with Louisiana brand gravy powder and Tony’s (of course). I could seriously pitch all my spices sauf Tony’s and cinnamon and be just fine. Tony, wherever you are, I love you. Thank you for making my life easier and more delicious.

As I ate rice and started my new book, The Village of Waiting, about a PCV in Togo in the 80s who was posted near our training site, I listened to Celine Dion and “I’m a Barbie Girl” disturbingly being broadcast through my neighbor’s half-broken radio as he sat in a bamboo lounge chair soaking up the stars.

I brought the stove back later that night with the palm reed fan used to encourage the small purple and orange flames. MI had already gone to bed early with the boys. The boys have discovered new ways to spy on me while I work on my porch. They sneak around the wall and poke their heads out with very mischievous expressions. Can she see me? Will she tell me to go away or will she let me sneak in? The younger one just learned to walk and follows his brother everywhere, using all fours to mount a stair and resembling the peeping chickens when he looses sight of the exit and begins crying.

I looked at the bench MI sits on to make sauce in the courtyard. Before I’d seen them in Mali, I’d seen them in museums. Little blocks of carved wood. I was led to believe they were ancient artifacts. Or headrests for Nigerian village queens following Nefertiti’s epic fashion for centuries. They were in a history museum after all.

I started thinking about how we exoticise other cultures and relegate their validity to the past, reinforcing our own “modernity” as the linear goal of “development” and “progress.” Our direction is the direction and everyone else should follow so they can be like us.

We put MI’s stool in a museum in DC or New York and make her and this place seem ancient, seem “less evolved.” In reality, her way is more practical and should be considered as nothing less than modern.

I cook on my gas stove inside my house, heat it up and sweat all night. She cooks outside, the food (bugs) and the stove (heat) stay outside. I toss in a pool of sweat and she slumbers in a cooler, cleaner room. And her stool is the perfect height to prevent her from having some of the back problems I’m having. So why is her modern stool in a museum of “ancient cultures”?

Anyway.

The maison in Atakpame is full of volunteers in town to celebrate birthdays, have meetings, learn about perma-gardens, and get some work done. BJ and I are working on the health curriculum. Hopefully we’ll get it done before he leaves in August.

Some of us are starting a new volunteer support group.

We’re all sending in our applications to be camp counselors at the many summer camps for Togolese youth. Peace Corps has several camps: ESPOIR (kids affected by HIV/AIDS) has a week for each region; UNITE (youth solidarity and life skills) has one week each for girl students, boy students, girl apprentices, and boy apprentices; ScientiFILLE (girls in science); a Togolese women’s well-being conference; and a camp for kids who are handicapped (except for deaf kids… hoping to change that for next year). There are also applications to become trainers for the incoming PCTs.

I’m re-writing the donation application for the conference. We play SET. We watch movies. We drink. We trade books and news. We watched Black Swan and Chutney Popcorn. Tomorrow there is a perma-garden workshop and I’ve got to buy some computer paper for a March 8 (International Women’s Day) activity at the school.

I’m eating cereal with milk that was in the fridge and sitting under the fan. Not exactly ready to go home tomorrow.

Your Hair is Weave

4 March 2011

A few weeks ago MG had a birthday party in her village. There was food, drinking, dancing, and a glorious midnight rain in the middle of dry season. I sat across from her homologue’s wife, a hairdresser. She brought her nephew and two Fulani girl neighbors along with her son, Barack Obama. He was born during Obama’s election, so the name seemed fitting.

I asked about her work and she got into the science of it.

“Well, our hair is difficult. You have to add produit and…” [I forgot]. She went on for about 10 minutes about the complexities of African hair. “But your hair is mesh, so it’s very easy.”

This could become a “grass is greener” debate or an opportunity to negate some internalized racism. A microdot of it. Maybe. Also, my hair is not weave. Technicality.

“Actually, this is my real hair. It grows out of my head. I was born like this.”

“Yes, you were born with smooth weave hair.”

“But it’s not weave.” I smile and try to make it clear that I’m not mad, it’s just an incorrect statement.

She looks at me like I’m insulting her professional knowledge base but she’s too polite to let this become a debate.

I give up. Maybe “weave” hair is just the only vocabulary available to explain my kind of hair. Fine. We decide that it’s smooth so that’s why she calls it mesh. Neither of us is exactly happy with the well-mannered ceasefire.

I should have just stopped. But I didn’t.

“And it’s not that my hair is better than yours. It’s just different.”

“No, it’s better. Look at it. It’s long and smooth and look at this stuff I have to work with. It’s so complicated.”

“But you can do something with your hair and it will stay. Mine will fall out of shape so easily.”

“No, no, mesh is better,” giving me this look like I just won lottery and was dissatisfied because it was only 80 million instead of 200 million.

We were debating on principle. It was cordial but not totally comfortable. Awkward and heading towards divisive.

Barack made an adorable face and I used the opportunity to shift the conversation. “So how old is he then?”

Half of the party left before dark and the rest of us drank and danced until midnight. Then I took a moto home in the drizzle. The road seemed to last forever and it took a lot of focus to stay awake but we made it in about 40 minutes and I crashed.

Thanks mom, TR, SK, and ML for the fabulous packages and letters. Thanks IR for the phone call. They really help!

20 February 2011

Last Thursday the village social worker suggested that since we’re broadcasting our fundraising program through radio, we should probably tell the Prefet about it. We knew he would be in Gnoumonga for the swearing-in of the new chief in the morning, so we made plans to pay him a visit Friday afternoon.

We waited for two hours. We talked with the other chiefs waiting to see the Prefet: Gando, Mango, a smaller village. An RPCV from Benin was passing through doing a documentary on how Fulani lifestyles are changing because of fewer grazing lands. Or something like that. He was very friendly. www.pulaku.com He needed the Prefet’s permission before talking to anyone.

I went to the post office and came back.

We went into his office a little nervous. Neither of us had visited before. I felt very villageois. “Country” or “small-town.”

Introductions. A brief explanation of the project delivered exquisitely by the tall and charming serious but sympathetic Afissetou. I was so proud of her. Of us. Of what we were doing together. My seat had no support. I sank into it and my feet didn’t touch the ground. We asked for any advice he might have for us.

He asked us:

“Do you have my cell phone number?” He wants us to keep him updated on the progress of the project. Notes, calls, visits, anything. He wants to support us however he can. “The health of Sagbiebou is my health as well. The health of the canton is the health of the prefecture.” Something like that. Nice. He listened. He asked if I was learning local language. I delivered a phrase. N’Gangam? No, Anufo. Whatever, so the Prefet doesn’t know what language I’m speaking. There are lots. I heard him delivered a few momrized phrases at the Koudapaani Festival. He tries. We were already charmed.

“So how do you like Sagbiebou?”

I had spent the last few weeks bitching to other PCVs about how I’m not so happy in Togo. But I wasn’t about to show Afissetou any of that.

“It’s great! I’m so happy here!” lying through my teeth. But then I realized that it wasn’t that big of a lie. The frustration and discontent I was feeling seemed to be passing that very minute. Up-slope here I come.

We left his office- me, dressed in full pagne and Afissetous a 40-something mother of four- giggling like pre-teens at an N’Sync concert.

“Well, how’d it go?” said the film-maker RPCV.

“He’s really nice.”

“Uh-oh.”

“No, really.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

He really couldn’t tell through all the smiles and our happiness-induced shoulder-petting and giggle-tripping.

I tried to look serious. “No, really, he’s nice. He said he wanted to support us in any way he could…”

“Well, that’s good! I’m glad it went well.” His eyes were a little glazed over like he was in shock of witnessing us in our unfiltered enthusiasm.

We walked. Talking and laughing. We could have walked all the way to Sagbiebou on our high. We ended up at the CIB, the internet and print shop. Then my phone rang.

“Lizzy?” It was the Prefet. Oh, please don’t let him be another creep in power. Already? It’s only been 10 minutes since we left. He couldn’t have been tactful enough to wait until tomorrow before being a sleaze?

“Yes.”

“It’s the Prefet.”

“Yes, sir, how are you?”

“I’m fine. You left your water bottle in my office.”

Dumbass. Stereotyping (okay, but often accurate) dumbass. “I’ll be back in 10 minutes. Thank you so much.”

“No problem, I haven’t left yet.”

I taught Afissetou how to use Google. It was her first time using the internet. I sprinted outside to get a moto. They were all occupied. A man was stopped on the other side of the road. I crossed.

“Where are you going?”

He wasn’t a zed, a taxi-moto, but he had a moto and offered to drop me off. When we got there, the guard was leaving and had my bottle in his hand. He passed it to us and the teacher brought me back to the CIB. For free. Nice little chat, too.

I made Afissetou an email account. We ran into her cousin (the one she just told me we were planning to visit next week). He and his fried gave us free rides to the bus station and we got free water from her cousin there. Then she bought me bread. Then ML got a job. Did I mention it was Estherna’s birthday?

We called it “la fete.”

We started our fund-raising campaign yesterday. It’s gone pretty perfect-ily. Not even by Africa Time standards. But just standards in general. The standards of the “normative” powerful group that dictates what “standard” is. Awesome.

We have four teams: North, South, East, and West. Then we’re going to split up Sagbiebou-Centre’s neighborhoods for the final stretch. We all meet at my house at 7:00. Ok, 7:30. We’ve already got the routes mapped out. Every team takes their “temporary lock-box” (thanks for the Estee Lauder gift bags, mom), 250 tickets, a notebook to record sales, a receipt book in case of donation (I know, I know, but it could happen!), and a pen.

Each team has their own way of splitting the lunch deal. Matthieu and I take turns. Yesterday he made a fabulous fish sauce and we ate it with kafa. (Corn flour boiled with water and then left to cool and congeal in little clear plastic bags until you have a tennis-ball of expired play-dough that tastes like saltines. Hold the salt.)

Today I made peanut-butter and honey sandwiches. I warned him of my plan. Of my intentional and somewhat contrived cultural exchange. He brought rice and beans with meat. He still finished the whole sandwich, but it took two sit-downs and a lot of water.

For the northern team, Afissetou makes the food and Botchi (who also happens to be Aicha’s dad) brings the water. Two 5-gallon jugs that previously contained diesel, gas, and other likely-carcinogenic or equally dangerous substances to consume. But hey, it’s better than river water, amoebas, and worms.

Adjara and Amewu use his moto so they eat along the road. Today, Matthieu and I did, too. By accident. Botchi came this morning and said his bike was broken. It had been broken for a month and is chez le reparateur.

“Well, what bike did you use yesterday?”

“It was for a brother, but he had to take it back. It’s fine, I can walk. Dileka’s not that far.”

True, it was the closest village they would visit in their tour, but it was still 8k away. They weren’t just visiting the village where it met the highway, Afissetou pointed out, they were going en brousse a bit and then continuing on to Boni, even further along.

My maisonier, a.k.a. landlord, lent us his second moto. Matthieu and I took the moto West and Botchi took Matt’s bike, which was his “field” bike. It was the crappy one. Yesterday, he borrowed a better bike from a frère who happened to be a petit and the bike several sizes too small. He walked into our meeting this morning massaging his butt. Let me back up: this guy is about 5’8’’, has some meat on his bones (not a euphemism for obese), with a round face, almond-shaped eyes, and a big smile. He’s also my favorite tailor. In the states he might translate as basket-ball-star-wanna-be-but-too-sweet-as-pie.

So he walks in holding onto his butt, talking about how yesterday, the bike really did him in. He opens his eyes wide so you sense the gravity. Simultaneous big smile. “Hier la… hoooo.” (Dude, yesterday…) Then some more detailed explanation in Anufo and everyone laughed.

Matthieu insisted on wearing my bicycle helmet while I donned my moto helmet. Once he figured out the chin-snap, he was ruler of the dirt path and we were speeding out west in the oven-heated wind.

Yesterday we visited 3 villages, and today 3 more. In total, the group has collected almost 100,000 CFA by going from village to village, charging 100F for a conference ticket. Our goal is 6,000 villager contributions, a massive SPA grant (Peace Corps Small Project Assistance, which maxes out at 2,000USD), and some private funding from mostly local businesses. (But we could always use more help!) Our budget is massive, though about half the size of the Mali Signs Project budget.

The idea is to provide transport for all villagers to the market, where they can explore the “county fair” booths hosted by PCVs, homologues, and local entrepreneurs. All the booths have to relate to well-being, health, successful project management, topics that village chiefs and reps listed in our kick-off meeting. If they come early and answer questions correctly, they can win prizes. But only if they have a ticket to prove they contributed.

At the same time, we’ll have a formal training for two representatives from each village. Sessions will be led by PCV homologues and translated by local translators we’re going to train (briefly). By briefly I mean tell them, “You don’t get to add your own thoughts, opinions, expertise, definitions, etc. You have to say exactly what they say.” I obviously don’t’ know what people are saying all the time, but I can tell when my “Don’t give infants water” sentence turns into a 5-minute speech with wild charades about infant death and concluding with a man modeling breast-feeding on his insufficient chest.

They’re also going to get an orientation with the trainers the day before the conference. I find that when translators really know the material, like Matthieu, their elaborations are incredibly helpful. Sidenote: he never wants to lead the presentation, always wants to translate. He says people listen more to outsiders. They think the information is more important. I’ve been wondering if I think that’s true in my culture? Anyways…

So it’s getting to be stressful. Lots of work, everyone’s tired, but aside from Mariam (Ousmane’s mom who hosted her husband’s second marriage today and took permission) everyone was on their A-game.

The last two days have reminded me why I wanted to join the Peace Corps. Biking through the bush to talk to villages about making their lives better, listening to their concerns, scheduling rendez-vous to talk about pump projects and school building.

In Nayo (Ni-yoh), a village I visited once for an infant nutrition talk and again with ML to fete with my chicken cadeau, they showed me bank statements noting they had 150,000 CFA in the bank for a pump project. It was supposed to be organized through the CVD (Village Development Committee), but they never heard back. That was four years ago and the money is still there (hopefully).

150,000 CFA is usually the standard community commitment for a pump project. We can find a sponsor. We sent up a meeting. No promises. I almost cried when I saw the papers. PEOPLE WHO ARE ORGANIZED. PEOPLE WHO DO SOMETHING ABOUT PROBLEMS. We set up a meeting for two weeks from now. I’ll do some research, bike in, we’ll talk logistics. Maybe by next year they won’t be serving me swamp as the traditional arrival drink. You could not see through it. There were things floating in it.

River water.

No, I didn’t drink it, but I did feel like a HUGE tease, downing a liter of transparent water in front of 50 belly-bloated kids.

“Hey kids, look, this is how not to die this year… No, you can’t have any.” A hundred mahogany eyes followed the bottom of my bottle as it descended form my mouth. I felt like an asshole.

I’ve got a ton of work to do, but I’m really excited about Nayo. It’s where we ended our day of moto-induced relaxation and success.

Katchitoka was the first village we visited today. Their chief, in a baby blue and pink flower-bedazzled robe with Easter yellow embroidered pants, greeted us with his whole community gathered on time. He, as all of the other chiefs, was the first to buy a ticket.

“If the chief doesn’t put his 100F in first, who will follow? No one.” That’s what happened in Tchanweikou. The farthest village north. Afissetou and Botchi biked all the way their to be told, “We’re in Sadori county, if they start this project, we will join with our county.” They didn’t get it. The county lines include them in ours, but they didn’t want to take advantage of an opportunity. (Biased?)

In Katchitoka everyone squatted around the edges of huts and trees, never in the obvious, open meeting space. At 9:00, when the sun came out, I understood why. Everyone wanted a good spot in the shade. A whole 12 inches of shade. They crammed themselves into it. I have to say it was a bit awkward speaking over a wide open space to people gathered at the edges of a square.

Some villages required multiple-translation. I spoke French, Matthieu translated into formal N’Gamgam, a local translated into local N’Gamgam, and then maybe someone would translate that into Fulani for the minorities present. I like the layers. More layers equals more time for me to figure out what I’m going to say next.

On the way to Nayo from Tchitchegbwere, Matthieu said, “I want to piss.” Out of nowhere. Just like that. We stopped, washed our hands with hot water and hand sanitizer (one of the first times I’ve used it here), and decided to break for lunch.

We tried to find shade but the trees are all dried up twigs making the whole region look like Cyclopes ran through yanking them out of the ground and flipping them upside down. Eventually we found one and a few minutes later two Fulani girls walked by. One was carrying millet to grind at the mill, the other a small bucket of fresh milk. I mimed to her to ask her if it was boiled and then bought 70 CFA worth.

Matthieu gave me a look. “I’ve never liked milk. Since childhood.” He repeated it a few more times. It was boiled. More for me. We finished off my water bottle and filled it up. SO GOOD. Perfect with my peanut butter and honey sandwich.

We were actually ahead of schedule so we sat on two rocks under a “Shea” (?) tree until our butts hurt and we were tired of trying to speak in not-our-first-languages. Over the two days we had a lot of fun. I am so glad I got to see other villages and plan to invite myself over again.

Yesterday, I experienced one of the most beautiful visions I have ever seen. I don’t even think I can do it justice. Matthieu and I were in Yacoubou’s home village. We met him on the road in. No one showed up in his designated area, so he came to help us. It was 14:00. Yacoubou is average-sized, has a child’s laugh that masks his solemn secrets, and wears eyeliner (like many men), making his eyes look larger and his triangle nose smaller.

“You’ll excuse me,” he says with gravity, “I will pray and then we’ll go.”

Yes, of course.

Matthieu is one of few Christians among the group of people I am beginning to call friends. The Muslims I’ve met here respect other religions, noting that everyone (within the Abrahamic tradition, the only religious group that exists) belongs to the same god and are seen as family. Christians seem to see things a little differently. I’ve never seen a Muslim mock another religion, but I’ve seen plenty of Christians mocking Muslims, wagging their tongues in falsetto faux Arabic and waving their hands around their ears.

I think that’s why Yacoubou made the serious face when he said he was going to pray. Maybe he was just being a good host by explaining his action plan; it was going to set us back and he wanted to make sure we wouldn’t be upset. “God is bigger than y’all, you get it, right?”

So he washed his face, ears, hands, feet, mouth, and nose. He focused. He recited some precise and newly-accented words. And with two other men who appeared out of nowhere, he placed his mat under another Cyclopes-struck tree in the dimming afternoon sun and faced Mecca. I didn’t notice them, really, until they were half-way through.

Matthieu and I were talking. Laughing slightly and respecting the quiet required for concentrated prayer. Well, trying to. Two little boys were sitting across from us in the paillot (straw roof on four columns made from branches) staring at us. I looked up to let out a smile and saw them. Hands slightly raised, palms up at chest level. Profile. Looking straight ahead with perfect posture that only comes from a lifetime of carrying stuff on your head.

The lighting was perfect, the air dry and pensive, the heat making brush strokes through the holes where humidity used to hang, the sound of prayer so soothing.

I stopped listening to Matthieu. He didn’t notice my moment of awe. He probably just thought I was being weird again. I want to die feeling the way that moment felt.

Cool Moments from the Cotisation

21 February 2011

Coming home last night was amazing. I walk in. The floor feels different. Washed clean with soap. My laundry is in a basket covered with a small towel tucked into its circumference. No more ants. No flies. The dishes that were on the counter are now methodically placed in the drying rack like a Jenga puzzle.

“I love you, Aicha.” I think I said it five times in a row.

Coming home and not having to worry about how many gobelets I was going to have to wash for the next day’s guests, how many sauce stains I would scrub out with my knuckles, or how many ants I’d battle for my dinner was a huge relief.

I leave her notes in English so she can practice for the BEPC, the big exam at the end of troisieme (9th grade). She leaves me notes about how many dishes and clothes she cleaned. I leave the hot chocolate drink on the table, leave, and come home to zen.

I love her.

Saturday, while aicha was working her butt off to pay school fees, I was in a village called Mabuku with Matthieu. At the end of our talk, in the last village of the day, I decided we needed to do a cheer.

Yes, a cheer.

People like them here.

So Matthieu suggested the Banc des Moustiques. The mosquito cheer.

“You know how palu comes from mosquitoes? Well we have several ways to fight against palu. First, we can cover water so they can’t reproduce. Second, we can sleep under mosquito nets so they don’t pique us while me sleep. Or, we can kill them one by one…” clapping my hands together, killing invisibile mosquitoes.

“Clap three times, then you kill the moustique!” I slap my left forearm with my right hand.

I clap three more times, “then you scratch where it bit you,” dramatic tones and expressions. While I scratch my left forearm I make a face that espresses get this snake out from under my skin! Everyone laughs. In Togo, I am funny.

I clap three more times, “and then we kill all the other mosquitoes!” I clap five, ten, thirteen more times. I kill an imaginary mosquito over a child’s head, next to another’s ear, another one perched on an old man’s shoulder. They laugh.

A young woman who I’ve seen at the clinic for baby-weighing, Tchanilingnan, is maybe 17. Maybe. He baby has been steadily gaining weight. The first time she brought him in, he weighed 2 kilograms. Not a pre-me, not a twin. Two kilograms. Maybe it’s just because she is small I thought. She seemed detached, maybe depressed even. The baby was an obligation. Maybe she was nervous. First time teen mom and all. She didn’t express any emotion. I was worried. Two kilograms. Skinny. Fit in one hand. Pruney and almost the color of my palm.

When she came in the next month, I noticed. Three and half kilograms. This girl was for real.

Now I was in her village. Way en brousse. She stared. In CPC, she never smiled. She doesn’t understand French at all. When I started swatting around at the imaginary mosquitoes with the drama of a dinner theatre interactive production, she cracked. Ear to ear. Two rows of perfect white teeth hinged open against their will. She hardly emitted a sound. It was beautiful. I caught her right in the eye. She made a bashful look, dropped her eyes, waited for me to leave her alone. I waited another second. We smiled together. Another perfect moment.

Last week I finished The Unheard about the deaf PCV in Zambia. Good stuff. I recommend it, especially to PCVs. It made me feel better about my frustrations, grateful for my safety, and enchanted by Swiller’s way with words. A fan of the metaphor, each one was thoughtful, even if descriptive detail was overdone bit. I’m a fan.

I just started reading A Million Little Pieces. It’s come highly recommended. The style is new and interesting to me. I’m learning that I usually have a hard time with the first few chapters of a book, so I’m reserving judgment. So far, lots of blood and a world that seems far from the one I’m in right now.

Talking about pancakes and sausage and bacon in the treatment facility… Bacon.

Anyway… final tangent:

There are very conscious moments here when I realize, “I am actively becoming a better person through this experience.” Usually, those moments are not fun.

For instance, when the new birth attendant decided that we weren’t doing baby-weighing charting correctly. It took me several weeks to get the staff gmarking the weights so that they actually meant something and she came in and wanted to change it. The month would be noted on top of the line instead of under it. The information provided is the same. All it would change was how we read the cards, meaning that for ALL the babies previously weighed would need to verify birthdates. Basically; doubling the world-load and changing nothing about the information provided.

She and the mid-wife and I fought in front of everyone. I stifled tears for my lack of capacity to communicate effectively in French. Dogma versus the ability to think, “Why are we doing this? Why does this rule exist?” Colonization of the mind. All that jazz. It’s the saddest thing I see here; it’s what is going to stunt Togo more that anything: smothering creativity and questioning and independent thinking.

I know that you have to let people make their own mistakes even when it means watching something beautiful fall apart. This was one of those things. The growth charts are all scratched out and messy and incomplete. But this is empowerment, yes?

18 February 2011

A volunteer left an issue of OUT in Lomé at a fund-raiser garage sale; I took it and it often reminds of things from home that do not exist here. Like gay people. Did you know that “gay” does not exist in Togo? So say the authorities. Although, my experience has provided some contradictory information.

The other day a woman stroked the inside of my palm with her forefinger when shaking hands. This is something locally considered as bold and “dirty” that men do to say, “So you wanna?” I asked my neighbor what it meant when women do it, though it felt like the same meaning.

“She just likes you. A lot.” I searched for a hint of validation of the Queer existence in her expression. None.

Being a monogamous person and being someone who likes to avoid awkward flirtatious situations, I tried to ignore this come on while at the same time validating this woman’s identity (something I’m sure she doesn’t get much of). I wanted to say, “I’m proud that you have nerve to be this ‘out’ and make a move and all, but please stop coming to saluer me at home.” I was proud of her confidence but the conversation wasn’t that great.

Thankfully, she lives 30km away. Enduring awkwardness averted.

So today I was reading OUT, while seven neighborhood kids came over on their lunch break to read magazines on my porch. I read about a rapper named Top Kat that I want to look up in 2012, hear the sound the article described as “an undeniable sexy MC with the Barry White-deep growl.”

I work inside during these “library” sessions because my presence seems to convey the notion of supervision, best behavior, and polite silence.

As soon as I go inside I hear laughter and “hey look at this!” Then more questions about the GEICKO gecko in ads. “He’s soooo ugly!!”

The issue of OUT is from April 2008, entitled “Transgressive.” Filled with ads of clandestinely tattooed and buff young white men whose packages are just a bit too Photoshopped, queens, and gender-benders, I love the contrast. I feel like one of the kids on my porch seeing the cartoon of the elephant in a parachute.

An eight-year old opened her page to the Sun-made Raisin lady (who always reminds me of my mom). I brought out a pack of raisins sent in a care package and they all got a gout.

“Oooh,” seven simultaneous expressions of instant conceptual order. Putting the pieces together. Advertising. Here is a picture of the raisins. They want you to buy the raisins. It’s like when Togolese people put metal doors in front of their business to say, “Look, we sell metal doors.”

Me: “It tastes like dates, yea?”

Them: Blank stares. Lady, what is a date?

The date-sellers run around like ants at the duane in Mango. You can’t go to Mango and not know what a date it. These kids have never been to Mango. Oh my God. Have these kids ever left Sagbiebou?

I have been finding out more and more about how poorly exposed these kids are to the outside world. Even outside of their neighborhoods. It surprises me, even though I know plenty of kids in New Orleans have the same experience. It’s an income thing. Travel takes money.

Today I’m sending in the applications for Camp UNITE, a week-long American style summer camp for students and apprentices. They travel all the to Centrale Region; the farthest they may ever travel. It’s about 6 hours away.

When speaking to groups of participant and trainer-hopefuls, some encouraging adult would always chime in, “And I know some of you have never left Sagbiebou,” in other words, like 90%, “think about it; you will have friends from Lomé, Cinkassé, Kara!” The smiles emerged like crisp yellow tulip petals in one of those fast-forward camera-in-the-grass-for-24-hours nature film clips. Exciting stuff.

One of the kids I want to send is a favorite. Of course, teachers don’t have favorites. But I’m not quite a real teacher. He’s brilliant, well-spoken, knows how to be polite (different than “is always polite”), is creative, inspiring, confident. He still needs to work on respecting women, but he doesn’t actively disrespect them, just hasn’t quite learned to question is socialization as a young man.

He recently suffered his third crise.

When I got to Sagbi, I heard teachers talking about the imam’s son and how he caught a sudden illness. Was it sorcery? No doctors could cure it. “Stop beating him,” was all they said. All kids get smacked upside the head, lashed with reeds, or a palm-blow to the back every now and then. That’s where good Togolese manners come from.

The latter is what caused his crises. First, it was his dad. Then a teacher. Then, after his mom informed all of the teachers about the doctor’s order, it was a teacher again. A tall teacher with a big hand. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. He goes stiff and can’t hear. He doesn’t drool or anything. No seizures. It takes him a while to come to, but for those few minutes, he stops breathing.

Watching his mom describe these symptoms over and over every time I see her… it makes me feel like I swallowed my heart and it’s stuck somewhere in my esophagus. Or maybe it “went down the wrong tube” and it’s in my trachea.

There is nothing she can do. Nothing I can do. The most recent visit to the hospital in Kara (an expensive trip) determined that he has a spinal nerve problem. Something is not in the right place. When he gets hit on the back, even without much force, it pinches the nerve to his brain. Or quelque chose like that.

Today Ousmane is in Kara. He arrived yesterday with his dad, but the doctor didn’t have any time to see him after a long list of patients coming from across northern Togo. They don’t have family in Kara and can’t afford a pricey hotel, so they slept on the hospital floor.

Ousmane, who thrives on learning, hasn’t been to school in a week. After his last crise, he lost his hearing and it hasn’t come back yet. The nurse in Sagbie ordered a hearing test. He doesn’t talk. He looks like a sad puppy.

This animated, gregarious, passionate student of mine who came to our youth club every Saturday on time to learn about HIV and practice English looks numb. His eyes are wet but he’s too proud to cry. He looks six inches shorter.

The first time his mom told me about the crises and sorcery, I nodded and smiled. She said, “He doesn’t listen,” which is true. He often showed up on Saturday and his mom had no idea where he was. He would leave the compound with proud pre-pubescent shoulders and the strut of a 50-inch chief. I gave him a talking to about respecting his mother and bon moralité. If he got his grades up (genius does not equal good student) and changed his behavior, I’d teach him computer classes.

“That thing that looks like a TV?”

I blew off the sorcery thing and thought that the maladie everyone was talking about was something like ADD or something like a mild Autism. Serious but not life-threatening.

This time I get it. Spinal nerve. How many neurosurgeons work in Togo? My guess: zero. Even if there was one, is it reparable? His family couldn’t afford it on a farmer’s salary. They can barely manage Kara and back. I think they’re going to have to postpone his dad’s marriage to a second wife now because of all of the travel expenses.

Anybody know any good doctors who want to fly to Togo and fix up this future Prefet, labor union leader, or Ambassador to the UN?

He’s a special kid. I don’t say that lightly. And this just isn’t fair. It sucks, actually.

The one glimmer of a silver lining in this whole mess? What if the deafness is permanent? Almost anywhere else in Togo, he would become a lonely social bubble-boy. But I brought books about West African ASL. I could help him learn to lip-read. We could practice writing English. He could go to Gallaudet. Be the Benjamin of Togo.

Of course, I am not going to present any of this information any time soon. The family is grieving, suffering, and we don’t even know if it’s permanent yet.

In the mean time, we need to grow his smile back. I am going to send him to Camp. He deserves it. And I’m not sending him because I feel bad for him either. His application was the first student application I received and the best.

So today I’m sending it in. I’m getting together all the mail. A birthday package for my host mom. I’m ignoring Riduan and Nazir as they push their now twin-like faces against my porch screen door and bang on the lock with a stick. I go outside every now and then to lotion their shaved and razor-burned heads; to put a pint super-hero cape on Nazir. With his stick in hand and bright green pantaloons, he looks like a mini-Harry Potter from the Castro.

My homologue, Afissetou, and I are headed to the Prefet to tell him about the conference. We started radio broadcasts in four languages this week and will be biking from village chief to village chief to collect funds this week-end. 100F per person. It’s a lot to ask for something many folks can’t imagine.

Thanks for the phone calls and letters. Got a colorful package from dad. What’s with the four bags of balloons, though? (The Saturday kids loved learning about balloon animals. Ousmane was the only one who could blow them up, though.)

21 January 2011

The meeting with the chiefs, my students exams, and my new work with a young and motivated teen mom are all going well (by my new and more realistic standards). Some of my female students have returned to school after dealing with some sexual harassment issues at school. I’m trying to hide my knowledge of the situation and positively re-enforcing their presence and participation.

The major concerns the chiefs, village development committees, and women’s associations voiced was the timing. It rains in June, which means the rivers that are dried up now will be full and villagers will have a hard time crossing them to get into town. “Well, how do they get to the market? What if they have an emergency?” Maybe we can build bridges or get pirogues to fix these problems for the initial purpose of the conference. I didn’t mention that though because I’m nervous about over-commitment and setting expectations.

In the end, the chef canton (chief of all chiefs in the “county”) informed them that if our team goes through the process of planning a major event for the benefit of the canton, that they will participate actively. Done. The chief has our back and I’m thrilled. He’s starting to like me more I think because I get the felling that I’m the only person in the canton (besides the social worker) who comes to him bearing good news. Everyone else just comes to have him mediate conflict. And I always follow up on our meetings to seek his advice. (I know, such a suck up, but also important.)

We had about a 50% turnout and only started 2 hours late. So, it was a huge success. The Marche Mama even made it out and she will be key to planning the “county fair” section of the conference. So far, so good!

I’m in Mango for a few days for an annual fete called Koudanpaani. Genius I am, I forgot to bring all of the work I meant to do while here, but luckily I got a head start before leaving. I also managed to bust my toe open shortly before my departure, so I am now sporting a super-cute exaggerated bandage on my right big toe. I was a bit over-zealous with the medical tape and gauze, but I really don’t want to have to go back to Lomé to deal with an infection or amputation. So I am re-defining chaussure-style.

The fete is three days long. Last night we went to a Miss pageant. There were two choreographed routines, a traditional dance section, an interview section, and an evening wear section. Lots of teen junk-strutting and loud and for-the-most-part-entertaining musical guests. One group from Lomé was actually pretty impressive and made me want to join an African hip-hop dance crew.

Only today am I realizing that I may lack some rear anatomy necessary for such impressive dance techniques. But I’m not sure that’s enough to stop me. I’ve become accustomed to being the awkward one and enjoying breaking expectations for what is appropriate for a white girl like me. If nothing else, I’ll set a new low bar and make others feel really good about themselves and that’s a great thing to be able to do for humanity, I believe. I enjoy it when girls in my village try to teach me local Gam-gam and Anufo dances that for the life of me I cannot imitate. But their laughter greatly outweighs the respectability I sacrifice in the process. And who knows, I may just get it one of these days.

Before going to the pageant, we ordered dinner at the cultural center: couscous with amazing grilled pintade dressed up with some veggies we bought in the market. And of course coke with some white run sachets. Between drinks and dinner a shocking thing happened. Out of nowhere a pack of young white men in khakis, polos, and back-packs appeared out of nowhere. We all did double-takes. There with over 20 of them! In Mango! Fresh of the plane. WEIRD.

It turns out they were electrician, masonry, and carpentry students from France. Their professor was Scottish and remarked how bizarre it was to hear Togolese accents coming from five young white American women. “It is truly very interesting;” the look of awe in his eyes quite enjoyably entertaining. For y’all Americans: Imagine meeting a university graduate French woman who learned to speak English in Ghana or Jamaica. Yeah. “Interesting” was exactly the right word.

It was very overwhelming and physically shocking to see so many young white, “western” men waltz into our village lives. It took a minute, well a few, to get over the feeling. The rum helped. They were here for a 15-day tour of the country while on vacation/”humanitarian work.” It makes me wonder what it will be like to be back in the states. “Reverse culture shock.” I’ve had it before, but I’m pretty sure it will be a little different next time.

The pageant was very well organized and they clearly spent a great deal of time rehearsing. There were 14 contestants (all late teens in middle-school or apprenticeships), a few MC’s (all male) and behind-the-scenes trainers (all female). During their introductions they were asked to present their name, age, grade level, hometown, height, and weight. They all sounded rehearsed in monotone contrived/falsetto French, with the exception of one or two.

Two of their uniform wardrobe items included t-shirts and loose tank tops, which was pretty cool. You don’t have to be naked and anorexic to be sexy- a progressive (or perhaps conservative?) message. Can a message be both? Conservative progressive? Oh wait, I mean, this was a scholarship competition, not a pageant. The girls were competing for school funds, bikes, and a motorcycle. This had nothing to do with sexiness or the overwhelmingly male audience. Just like scholarship pageants in the U.S. The guys in the trees behind the center’s wall looking in just wanted to hear the music, I’m sure.

The traditional dance portion was interesting. The audience cheering and singing along was probably the highlight. A contestant would be wearing a traditional woven cloth skirt (modified by shiny thread or glitter) wrapped around her at the waist like a towel with a strapless-bra-like top and fancy head-wrap walking methodically to a modern recorded rendition of a traditional song, then she would kneel to collect fake water in a calabash or wave her arm with smooth intention and the crowd would roar, waving shoes and chairs in the air.

All of the contestants answered the same question for the interview; “If you were president of Togo, what would you do?” Many mentioned girl’s empowerment, a buzz word, or more promotion of the Savanes cultures within the national program for cultural preservation. One girl said she would be like the great president Barack Obama.

Of course, the girl from Mango won and there was plenty of post-pageant gossip about girls who lied about their age or school status. I find more and more each day that Togolese people are not very different those in the states.

Today we made omelets and toast with banana bread in MF’s Dutch oven. We’re planning jell-O shots, papaya, and sloppy Joes for later. So much for living the village life for a while.

Tomorrow is a more cultural event followed by a concert and then my return to village. It’s been really fun to have the volunteer cluster of Mango all together, well minus one, but the best turnout thus far. The volunteers here really are some outstanding human beings.

Thanks for the letter dad.

Adama

17 January 2011

I spent 20 minutes yesterday trying to figure out if U.S. money includes a 50 cent piece. It doesn’t, does it?

I’ve also discovered why dust ruffles were invented. I came home from Kara and cleaned ALL DAY with the help of AB. Well, actually, she was the one doing the hard work and I was organizing and “dusting,” if you can call removing a millimeter of dust from ever surface in sight “dust.” I still have a ways to go, but at least the initial footprint of Harmattan has been enlever-ed.

So the big trip: Well I picked up ML in Accra on the morning of November 20. We spent that night in Adabraka and traveled to Cape Coast the next day to visit the slave castles. Interesting, touristy, and way too much travel for the beginning of someone’s first trip to Africa. We were packing and re-packing, dealing with way too many hustlers, and trying to adapt ourselves to being in this new environment together. It was really stressful. We headed back to Lomé on the 25th and began the trip up north.

In Lomé, we spent some time with my language teacher IA, who is very interested in national politics. He and ML spent a long time talking about the U.S. and Togolese similarities, differences, problems… They had fun while I was working. We stayed at the Phoenicia, close to the border-town Aflao.

Balkissa came to visit that same week. We were actually scheduled to be at the Accra airport at the same time. She had been traveling all over West Africa trying to get to a conference in Nigeria organized by a global association for the Deaf. They had her scheduled to fly out of Accra via bus from Bamako to Ouagadougou to Accra. Craziness. She arrived two days late to the conference after a horrible (and dangerous!) travel experience. They should have known better than to send a deaf francophone woman to the airport in an Anglophone country via night buses where lip-reading is virtually impossible. Unbelievable.

On her way back to Mali, she returned with the attendees from Lomé and came straight to my village. We walked around a bit; she brought me numerous unnecessary but fabulous presents. I loved them but ML continued to refer to them as “maternity clothes.” Whatever. They make me seem more like “Madame” in village and I love the bright colors. I never thought I’d love poufy sleeves semi-reminiscent of Princess Diana’s wedding tent, but hey, living in Togo has led me to many new and interesting self-discoveries.

ML came with me to a week of training in December, just before we went up to Dapaong to celebrate Christmas with the Savanes PCVs in the new transit house. There were cookies. Lots of cookies. Mostly, thanks to BH’s mom who sends care packages every 2 weeks. (I know, “HOW?”) We also watched classics: Elf, A Christmas Story, Love Actually, and my favorite, A White Christmas. That’s the movie that really brought back memories.

My sister and I used to watch it and imitate the “sister act.” We even had little pink fluffy fans to re-enact the famous number. I’m not sure how much she actually enjoyed the movie or if she just wanted a playmate. I’m pretty sure that if she watched it today, well, she wouldn’t. But it reminded me of her and being with family at the holidays. I missed most of it because I was fattening up the Savanners with my quickly-becoming-popular pain perdu (French toast). But listening to the songs from the kitchen and getting glimpses of the fabulous wardrobes during serving times was enough to make it feel like Christmas.

We spent New Year’s playing cards with the neighbors in village and making enough spaghetti and bean burgers for seven families. (The local tradition is sending food for the holidays.) I even bought new thermal (?) Tupperware set in the market. It’s actually quite cute. Made in India.

ML and I spent the first few days of 2011 as our last in village. We got into a routine. I would go off for a few hours to teach a class, weigh babies, or have a meeting at the house while ML fetched water, made dinner, or did dishes (like a bon modèle) or slept and read books. At night we’d go out one of the bars for a soft drink or the occasional beer and walk home under a star-speckled sky.

We also really got into ML’s family’s card game, Demon, which I now miss terribly and doesn’t hold a candle to solitaire. AND I’M SO TIRED OF UNO. I gave the neighbors their own set for the holidays in hopes that they will play among themselves and not request that I join. I need to find other (fun) ways to interact with them. I do enjoy them the more I get to know them. The baby, Riduane, just started walking while visiting his grandmother in Lomé. He and his brother are so happy being able to play together.

Having a visitor was wonderful and challenging in completely new ways. I am still adapting to being alone and reflecting on what we experienced. I am relieved to have some time to myself, no longer be a translator, and not worrying about someone else’s safety/awareness. However, it can be very lonely and I miss our card games, fancy dinners, lying on the floor talking, and dates at the “bar.” I feel like I’ve been on emotional overload and I’m still coming down from it; I have a lot to process.

I thoroughly enjoyed watching someone else experience so many “firsts;” First drink of local beer (followed by first few days of giardia), first time being a yovo, first bush taxi, first time at the water pump… My village still asks about ML; “where has my husband gone?”

Followed by, “Your husband?”

“Yes, I am going to steal him from you. I want to go to America…” dramatized mischievous looks.

“Uh huh… well, you’ll have to fight me for him. I am the first wife and you know he loves me more. Has he even called you?”

“Yes, he calls me every night. And you know the second wife is always the favorite.”

I enjoy the banter, what ML calls verbal “dancing.” Also a first for him and not quite the favorite first. But it eases tension between strangers and alleviates that caused by grudges (which never last here because of it). It also makes me feel more intégrée.

The trip back to Accra was one of the highlights. We stayed with the host fam for a few days, went to the fields, learned how to make palm wine and sodabe (envision: moonshine in Appalachia, but Africa), and met everyone involved in my “namesake’s” birth. I even saw the birth certificate. I think being in Gbatope was one of the highlights of our trip. I had a great host family and it was so nice to be back “home,” at least my home in Togo.

We headed to Lomé, got a fancy hotel in Accra, and pretended like we were in America. I felt a little bad for turning ML’s first trip to “Africa” about living like ex-pats, but I think we both enjoyed feeling out that lifestyle. I thoroughly enjoyed the AC, hot water, laundry service, and CNN.

Saying goodbye was easier and harder that I thought. But I’m bad at goodbyes. The Mormon mission group behind us also made me feel a bit uncomfortable showing affection, a discomfort I thought I would be free of in Ghana. While I was waiting for ML to check in, one young Mormom mom instructed her child to return my wave, but then immediately avert her eyes from my direction.

I tried to ignore the awkwardness and stay in the moment. I was able to walk him to security and watch him go through immigration. Then I waited an hour or so for another volunteer flying in from Christmas in the states. Communication had been rough and I wasn’t sure if she’s be there. I planned out my article for Et La Sante, our CHAP publication, then I headed out to find a trotro.

I got to the border in a small van squished next to two very large, water-spilling women and a baby who kept giving me the stink-eye. She was pretty cute though otherwise. I got a strawberry Fanyogo and read Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, which I thoroughly enjoyed and recommend. It tied together pieces of a puzzle that’s been emerging throughout the “development worker” memoirs I’ve read and college classes. A bit “activist dramatic” at the end, but I get that. And it’s important even if it sounds cheesy.

Back in Lomé I ate pizza and cheeseburgers. My body didn’t react so well to the meat/protein overload. Luckily some former vegetarian PCVs were carrying the remedies I needed. I met with a German post-high school volunteer working with the Deaf school in Lomé and we had a project brainstorming session. I’d really like to get involved but I’m unreasonably far away.

There are three schools for the Deaf in Togo: Two primary schools in Lomé and one in Dapaong that I believe only has two grades. Basically: massive development led by Andrew Foster and then… think snails. Sick snails. The Deaf population in Togo does seem quite smaller, proportionally of course, than that of Mali. So perhaps the demand for such an institution is so little that development of the school system is not a priority. To anyone.

My theory on the population disparity: Harmattan winds lead to increased rates of meningitis, a primary cause of deafness in West Africa. Mali is more affected by the winds thus resulting in more cases of meningitis and more survivors who are deaf. Thoughts?

I got A LOT of work done in Lomé, preparing the CMV (Conference pour Mieux Vivre dans Notre Communauté) and even working on a grant proposal. Another PCV, LD, and I were lucky enough to get a car going north with NRM APCD and we stayed in her village. Then I headed up to Kara and spontaneously spent the day with PCV SO and her globe-trotting parents drinking by the pool.

This was desperately needed. I didn’t realize how much I needed to shake off the stress of travel. I just needed to laugh. And there is no one better on the planet to facilitate this than SO and her jumelle mother. I felt so refreshed and ready to go back to village the next day after her mom made us eggs with French bread swimming in sausage gravy. I felt like I was back in Texas. And they’re from Oregon! Now that’s a rare talent. A Yankee pulling off Texas cuisine. Impressive.

After a long period of aller-revenir I am finally in village for a while. Meetings for the conference are going well so far. Our big rendezvous will all the chiefs in the canton is tomorrow and we’ll see if it’s going to réussir after that.

My students are taking their second exam. It’s been majorly delayed due to travel and “surprise” annual national holidays. I’m making up classes during their free periods this week and I’m surprising them with a printed exam. (Usually, they have to copy the whole exam onto paper before taking it. With formatting concerns, etc. they loose a lot of time when they could be focusing on the material.)

I hope this helps them and I’m trying to show my compassion for their “speed-learning,” while maintaining a “tough teacher” persona. I’m the only female teacher and the only white person, and the only teacher that doesn’t beat them… so being the tough one is hard. All I can do is have elevated expectations and not smile so much.

I have been adopting some of the less harsh standard punishments to maintain some authority and order in the classroom of 80 plus teens. At the same time I wonder if my frame of reference is so off from being in Togo this long that I’m somehow oblivious to an otherwise obvious human rights violation. For example, today I made “the talkers” leave and kneel in the sun throughout the class period. (In the past, the director intervened and instructed me to use this punishment in the past. It works and doesn’t involve smacking anyone with a stick so I thought it was a good compromise.)

But I felt bad and half-way through let them back in. Of course I didn’t tell them I felt bad. Instead I mentioned something about how they can’t afford to miss the information I’m presenting. “This could save your life and I don’t want you to die, so pay attention.” We are talking about HIV, so I felt a bit less dramatic.

Thanks to Aunt B and BD for the incredibly thoughtful letters and packages!

p.s. I don’t have a fridge so Jell-O is hard to make in village, but we’ll make it the next time I’m in the big city!

ET LA SANTE Article for Togo PCVs

Le Bon Accueil

Minimizing stress while traveling with visitors from home

Oreos are my favorite. However, during my recent vacation hosting my partner from the U.S., I would have gladly sacrificed a six-pack of crunchy and creamy chocolaty goodness, for a little less stress on the road. Packing for an overseas flight is an art; every deodorant stick, photo, and headlamp adds up. I weigh my bags until each is maxed out to the centigram. When we have visitors, their bags are half cadeau. They often take pride in bringing us a little piece of America.

But lugging around even this small a piece of America can lead to complicated baggage arrangements on a bush taxi, more hustling during transport negotiations, and general exhaustion from hauling the Ghirardelli hot chocolate you couldn’t fête Christmas without. These stressors can cause tension between you and your visitor that isn’t worth spoiling your travels. Visitors are here for a short time. If you need the parmesan, you my want to help your stateside folk invest in a flat rate box at the poste.

Carrying an extra suitcase is just one of the mini-stressors that can add up as quietly as the granola bars you shoveled on your way to the bag check desk in D.C. If you are worried about money, safety, or paperwork, you won’t be enjoying yourself or your visitor as much as you could. Minimize the mini-stressors and have fun on your vacation. How? Bien préparer.

Help visitors prepare for the cultural and physical shock of being in Togo and prepare yourself for the stress of being a tour guide and translator. The sooner you start, the better, especially with people that haven’t traveled much before. Here are some tips from my recent trip to Ghana, but every volunteer has their own, so ask around.

Top 10 Travel Tips

1. Get visas ahead of time and make sure all passport and WHO card information is correct.

2. The guide books in the lounge and maisons are useful but old. Ask other volunteers about prices and places to stay to prepare you with realistic expectations.

3. Budget before you go and know what you can afford. Check the exchange rate before exchanging money.

4. For general safety and to avoid hustling, be friendly, confident, and know your limits. If people take/ offer to carry your bags, they want money; even if they say they understand that you won’t pay them. If you don’t want to pay, move fast. Otherwise, you may be facing an unsolicited, “you are evil,” lecture. Also, the fewer bags you bring the less likely you are to look like you want help.

5. To avoid the “Yovo tax,” ask other customers how much they paid for their bus tickets, luggage, and souvenirs. Be prepared to walk away.

6. If your visitor has the flexibility to choose when they come and how long they stay, there are many factors to consider: weather and health (Can’t hey handle the heat? Humidity? Dryness?), work and commitments (Are you able to put your responsibilities on the backburner while they are here?), and timing (Have you established yourself in the community yet?). You may love your parents, but can you live with them as dependants 24/7 for a month? Think about breaking up trips into pieces and take time to yourself once in a while.

7. It’s easy to be distracted with visitors, but remember to pay attention to where you walk. At a bus station in Ghana, I fell into a flooded gutter that looked like a small puddle. A three hour bus ride haunted by sewerage water is no fun.

8. Germs in neighboring countries are different than the ones in Togo. So while you may be able to drink water from the tap in Dapaong, tap water in Ouaga may lead to undesirable results. Drink Pure Water, bring basics from your med kit everywhere, and always have phone credit.

9. Remember that cultural rules about politesse in Togo may not apply in neighboring countries.

10. Open communication: listen to the needs of your visitors and make sure to share yours as well. The more you can explain expectations before the trip, the easier ca va aller.

Notes on Travel to Ghana:

1. There is Strawberry Fanyogo.

2. You can walk to the border town Aflao from the bureau.

3. A bush taxi from Aflao to Accra is 7 cedi and 9 cedi for a car with AC. Small cars can also be rented.

4. A taxi from the airport in Accra to Tudu station (cars going to Aflao) is 40 cedi. One kilometer down the road you can make the same journey in a trotro for 45 pesues.

5. Ask for Peace Corps discounts at major tourist attractions and hotels.

6. At the Accra Mall you can see a (new American) movie for 16 cedi. Check show times on their website ahead of time.

7. Be prepared to pass through two immigration “offices” when allering and reveniring.

8. When you buy an MTN sim card (for 1-2 cedi), you have to register it with an agent who has a computer (there are stations near the border and at the airport). Don’t expect it to work right away when you buy it from a street vendor.

9. Taxi drivers like to say they know where your destination is. When they get lost they want more money for the wasted gas. Verify that your driver knows where they are going by asking questions about neighboring features on your map (from the travel book you brought with you). Also remember that the map could be wrong.

10. Pure Water sachets are 5 pesues.

11. To get a visa, go to the Ghanaian Embassy in Lomé and pick up your passport the next day. Watch out for holidays!

12. Ghana may feel like America, but they still have malaria! Don’t forget your anti-malarials.

The last of my travels for a while is almost over. I’m relieved and avoiding returning to village, apparently.

I returned from Accra the 10th and got a lot of work done in Lome. Since training in December some counterparts and I (2 volunteer health workers and the social worker) are planning a canton-wide conference on well-being. In Lome I tryped up our schedule, budget, made budgeting worksheets for the team, and finalized the agenda for a meeting with all of the canton’s village chiefs.

I also finally got the dates for summer camps that might conflict with the conference. There are two Peace Corps-sponsored camps for youth: UNITE and ESPOIR. Each consist of four weeks: girl students, boy students, girl apprentices, boy apprentices. PCVs and HCNs (host country nationals) serve as counselors and prepare the logistics. UNITE is for teens and ESPOIR is for youth affected by HIV.

We’re scheduling the Conférence pour Mieux Vivre dans Notre Communauté(CMV) for June/July. It will be one weekend where volunteers from accross the country come with their homologues to set up shop in our marche and present their innovative projects related to well-being. It will also include a more formal training component for one man and one woman from each village and quartier in the canton (about 60 people) regarding subjects nominated by their villages.

There are many logistical hurdles to face but I think we have a good team and all I can do is cross my fingers, be patient, and work my butt off.

So my computer just shut down spontaneously and I lost the next 2 pages of me whining about my village and talking about my action plans for overcoming my grievances. Basically, if this conference doesn’t work out, I may try to move posts/ get involved elsewhere after the school year is out.

Heading from Kara to Sagbi in a few hours after hanging our with SK and her fabulous fam. I should be there for a while without having to travel, which I’m pretty excited about.

Thanks for all of the cards and packages, AB, DT, BT, mom, dad, and MW. Miss y’all!

4 November 2010

I arrived in Sagbiebou yesterday after a long voyage to Lome, Gbatope, Tchekpo, Pagala, Dapaong, and back “home.” I was exhausted and completely forgot 2 packages in the Lome Limo (our PC car that travels the national highway from Lome to Dapaong twice a month). Thankfully our driver is awesome and will drop them at my house on Saturday on the way back up. He was also kind enough to agree to eat my perishables in the meantime.

Lome: Medical chat with the nurse (nothing grave). We decided that I don’t have skin cancer. My moles are doing weird things because of the dryness and heat. I also got some fancy moisturizer.

Got my visa for Ghana and talked with our sweet-as-pie security officer about travel plans. He gave me all the contacts I needed and his brother with escort me to the border (a short walk from the office).

Bank. Emptied the account.

Went to the supermarket in search of spices other notherners commande-ed. Also sent a couple rolling pins up north via EMS (our mail service). AND THEN… I found Ben and Jerry’s in Super RAMCO. I think it was divine intervention. Fate. Forshadowed.

I recently received a package form my mom and sister. On their trip to Vermont they bought me a Ben and Jerry’s t-shirt and water bottle that I use frequently.

Less than a month later I’m in Lome staring at the same logo. I had to have it. Problem: not enough cash for the goods and a ride back to the bureau. I could walk… but then it’d be melted, so what’s the point? Plus I had the meeting with our security officer (and I was already late).

Visa! I had just collected my plastic from the safety deposit box at the bureau. This was the biggest yovo store in Togo. They had to take visa. I took my pint to the counter.

“You take visa, yes?” Pathetic. Desperate.

Scowl. “Yes.” She rings me up. “It’s a minimum purchase of 15,000 CFA to use visa.”

“Can I get cash?”

“This is not an ATM.” Scowl. Scowl. [Seriously, a customer service company could make a ton of money teaching Togo a few things.]

Fine. I run through the aisles looking for things that might add up quick. Luxuries. But things I will actually use. I buy 3 boxes of cake mix and 1 chocolate chip cookie mix. Sugar-coated peanuts. Soy sauce DM wanted but could have gotten in Dapaong (reimbursement- check!). Raisins. Not enough… I spend 15,000 in one month on food!

Our security officer calls.

“I’m on my way, sorry I’m running late… at the marche…”

“No hurry. I will see you soon!” He is so nice. If he only knew why I was late…

I get a giant container of FanMilk brand ice cream for the other volunteers in the office. That makes 15,000 CFA. I check out. Take that Not-A-Guichet McScowler.

18,500 CFA. Why can I not do math under pressure? Whatever. This is the first time I’ve used money from home and it’s vital.

I jump in a cab. Literally. I try to discuter the price, but I’m already inside- basically an invitation to get ripped off. I run into the office. Of course our security officer is by the doorway chatting with the guards.

“Sorry I’m late! I’m coming!” I run towards the lounge with 3 large white shopping bags and way to much money buried in my ensemble.

“No hurry.” His smile makes me relax; like I-just-did-an-hour-of-yoga-and-chillin-on-my-mat relaxed.

In the lounge. Dump all my shit. “Hey y’all, please eat this before it melts.” Ben and Jerry’s in the fridge. Whoosh.

Great meeting. He buys me lunch and we talk to the security office from Ghana on the phone.

“You’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Ugh… next month. Did you get my letter with all the dates?”

“Oh, yes! Sorry.” He looks embarrassed but I think this is normal- mixing up information. He is so nice. Doesn’t let me pay or do dishes. And he’s Togolese. This is crazy. Men you do nice things for women [and not trying to get in my pagne]???

I feel villageois.

Our meeting ends.

I sat in the volunteer lounge scarfing and savoring a pint of Benjamin and Jerald’s glorious Chocolate Macadamia creation. Flashback to mom’s cadeau: I would call that destiny.

Gbatope was awesome. I met some of the new stage. Weird. It was like being the baby but all of the sudden I got a little sister in three months instead of nine. The woman staying with my host family is cool. They made her call me when she was posted in Savannes. She’ll be in my cluster, too.

I planned to make it to Tabligbo (East on the same road off the national highway) for a basketball tournament some volunteers were organizing for youth teams. But it was late and I wanted to spend time with the fam. So I spent the night at the Tech House after some quality time with Esther and my new sister who was busy packing for her post visit.

Esther had “walked in water and gotten Guinea Worm” so her feet were itchy. She screamed bloody murder until someone scratched them and she couldn’t walk.

First of all, Guinea Worm was eradicated in Togo a while back and no one has seem a case in three years (don’t quote me on that). Second, it was both of her feet, so unless there were A LOT of worms, it’s unlikely that they’d get into both feet.

“Did you take her to the clinic?”

“No.” Guilty look. They know better. But people want to wait it out before shelling out the loose cash they don’t have.

The traditional healer had given them a solution for this problem. “It’s normal here.”

Yea, so is infant death.

“Lots of kids get it.”

Try to be culturally sensitive and respect that all medications come from “traditional” recipes.

The next day I strapped Esther to my back and we took a walk to the clinic. It was closed. There was a funeral and the nurse went. He’d be back later, but I’d be gone.

Estherna mixed salt with hot lime-juice and rubbed it onto Esther’s feet.

“Promise me you will bring her to the hospital.”

“Yes…”

I called later. They didn’t go.

Otherwise, we had a great time catching up. Estherna is 8 ½ months pregnant and on her tiny frame her belly looks ridiculous. She still looks beautiful and poised. Koffi must have learned about “positive reinforcement” or something because he kept telling me about how good it was that I visited.

He came by the Tech House around 7:00 am. I was asleep but someone told him that I left. I walked into the house around 9:00, giving them plenty of time to relax in the aftermath of the chaos that is Post Visit morning.

You should have seen the look on his face when I walked into the house.

“ey-Liz!” Big eyes. Hands thrown in the air. Shock. Confused smile. “I thought you left! You left without saying goodbye!”

“No, no… the guardien told me you came by…”

“I told Estherna to make a big breakfast… but because you left we ate it all… but we saved you some… sorry it’s cold, it’s not much… Estherna, you can make more!...”

“Oh, no… ca va. That’s already too nice. Thank you. This is plenty.”

“When you come home, this is chez toi you know, you are not to buy anything. Anything you need is here. You come here you eat, you sleep, you stay with your family, at home. Do you understand?”

He later told me about how he told my “little sister” all about me. “Esther even calls her Lizzy.” She misses you. Esther clearly just calls white people “Lizzy.” But it was awesome when Esther started playing the sniffle game with me again.

“In our culture, it’s not exactly the best to compare people… that might make her a little uncomfortable…”

Oh, god, she must have a replacement volunteer complex. They liked her better. I felt the same way when I was new, but this seemed different. Everyone knew Esther and I were close. She even came to class with me once.

“Maybe don’t talk about me…?”

“Oh... but you and Esther are so close!”

It was fun to be “home” again, to feel like I have a home here. Sagbiebou doesn’t feel like home in the same way. I always feel like I’m at work. I am. PCVs are on 24/7. It’s kind of stressful. And stress was the last thing I expected when I signed up. Ok, stress related to health and language… yes. But stress about being about to relax, be myself, make friends… no. It’s exactly the opposite now. Weird.

So I skipped Tabligbo and went straight to Tchekpo to visit TN (a SEDer) and chill while waiting for IST to start. She lives in the “friendliest village in Togo,” a place where everyone speaks the same language. And she has a GREAT house with a real bed. We ate eggs with Rotel and cheese. Garlic salt on toast. Some people in her village know English. Jealous much?

We had wine, FanMilk, and just talked. Some of the most comfortable conversation I’ve had in country. Then went up to Pagala for training.

IST (In-Service Training) was poorly organized but very useful in terms of idea exchange. I left inspired and depressed. The projects people are doing and challenges they’re facing gave me so many ideas.

It was hard to be around so many American couples and I was eating myself into a coma. The food was SOOOO good and I was in the perfect emotional state to abuse this.

I literally went to the kitchen and ate until the food was gone. When it was gone, I made friends with the kitchen staff.

“Is there any more bread? BUTTER???” REAL BUTTER.

Then I went to my room and laid down because my stomach had expanded to such a degree that I needed to unbutton my pants and could not walk. My clothes no longer fit. There are creases and rolls. That’s how good the food was. And I’m totally ok with it. It was completely worth it. And I’m not even ready to get “back in shape” because just looking at my new belly roll reminds me of good food. Besides, in my village, I’m in “better shape” this way J

Running starts again Saturday with the student group. Possible? On va voir.

Back to training…

So we saw BJ’s Health Stand in Tchare-Baou where he sells Neem lotion, bouillie enrichie, and sings songs about how to avoid HIV. We talked about care groups, a DPS (prefectural director of health) came to offer insight and try to understand what PC is all about. I got contacts for people who know the Deaf School in Dapaong. (Who knew that existed?) Mostly lots of learning what other volunteers are doing and feeling motivated. And bloated from all of the amazing food and lack of physical movement.

Then off to Atakpame to greet the Savannes stagaires on their way down and a pre-fete for Halloween, and then to Dapaong.

Halloween costume: Our training director, Blandine, is a large, fabulous, efficient, wonderful Togolese woman. During training she would always be reminding us to make sure we were preparing for post, “Go buy something for your house so you’re ready before the last minute, at least one gobelet [gob-uh-lay], cent franc [100 CFA].” Every time she would remind us, it was always gobelet, such a random suggestion. So for Halloween I dressed up as “Gobelet, cent franc.” I found a pink super-“person” cape in the marche among the “dead Yovo clothes” (clothes that would only be given away because someone died- talk about our materialism…) and sewed a bunch of plastic cups (gobelets) to it. Then I attached 3 in a pyramid shape on my head. Oh, and I wore my favorite green dress that I can’t wear in village because it doesn’t cover my knees, but I was at the transit house with other volunteers for the post visit party for the new stage so it was an exciting opportunity to not feel Amish.

It was interesting. Some folks from my stage made a fabulous dinner that we all ate off of semi-dishware. Some folks drank, we danced, talked… I took breaks to deal with the massive “bloat” I accrue while traveling and eating yummy things my digestive system has forgotten about. I made pain perdu in the morning and then the Savanners headed out.

Dapaong: So the plan was to fete Halloween, head to Cinkasse for my mattress and come back in time for the COS (Close of Service) dinner and Lome Limo. Well, the mattress guy didn’t get back from Ghana in time, so no Cink. I spent the day writing my 5th grade World Wise School penpals in Georgia (I haven’t started the English club yet, so for the moment they’re my penpals). Got some groceries that I left in the Limo (genius) and got home exhausted.

I’m trying to make the most of the next two weeks before I head out to Ghana J. I was pretty down and not looking forward to another cross-country trek until today. Yesterday I graded 140 exams and today we reviewed them in class. I was FUN and my students drain me of voice and energy and brain power but also put me in such a good mood. I went back to the marche smiling. I feel like I haven’t genuinely smiled in a while. Probably mostly because I was too full, but also because traveling limits my ability to accomplish anything. It’s a lot of sitting, waiting, and late schedules.

Today was good. We joked in English. We did cheers. They clapped when they got lots of points for correct answers. We finished perfectly on time. They take their grades seriously and several came to reclaim points they thought they had lost because my handwriting is different.

I even confronted several students about cheating.

“You share the same bench and misspelled this word with the same bizarre spelling. What am I supposed to think?”

One student was smart enough to say, “You would think I’m cheating.”

Another stared at me in silence. “Is there anything you want to say?”

“I want my paper.”

I felt like a grown up. A professional even. Except my handwriting doesn’t look like the Togolese standard French Script MT. And my spoken French is not up to par. And we do cheers. I don’t feel like a real teacher yet. But they treat me like one.

There is a lot of pressure to “not fail these kids.” I’m planning home visits to the parents of students who haven’t come back since the deadline for tuition passed. It’s mostly the girls whose time could be better spent in the fields. : /

I’ve got a home visit tomorrow in a village that isn’t on my hand-drawn map. Should be interesting!

19 October 19, 2010

Arrived in Mango today. Heading to Lome to kill lots of birds with one bus ticket: med check-up, visa applications, requesting med supplies not available in Togo (sunscreen and bug stick), buying raisins...

Then I have a day or so before I have to be at training in Pagala so I’m heading to visit some folks from my stage posted down south. I can’t wait to catch up on the last (almost) 3 months! Some of them are hosting a basketball tournament so I plan to watch, not understanding most of what’s going on: the sweat, jumping, screaming, whatever. I’ll enjoy my half of a beer (all I can manage here) and hopefully cook/eat something yummy. Mostly excited about the eating. It’s me. Fruits and veggies I haven’t seen since stage! Mmmmm…

A week of training in Pagala. My APCD called yesterday to ask what I wanted to learn at training, so I’m not sure how together it is yet. He wrote a letter requesting this information in the end of September, but I didn’t get it until the deadline passed in early October. Whatever we learn in training, I’m sure we’ll learn more from just talking to each other.

“How do you sleep with all the heat and the sweat?”

“Under a wet pagne. Ditch your mattress. It chauffs the lit.”

“Uh-huh…” Said with the newly adopted Togolese intonation; the short crisp “uh” and the drawn out “huh,” so that it correlates with your inhaling and exhaling.

“Have you noticed people make up statistics here?”

“Yea. Everybody does it.”

“So what do we do about it?”

It should be fun.

Then back to Dapaong for the post visit welcome of the new stagaires. I can’t wait. It was only a few months ago, but I remember really needing that support and regaining a glow I didn’t realize I’d lost after my first week alone at post. I loved post visit welcome. Going to the maison de passage. A little American oasis. Running water, butter, electricity, English! I’m excited to be there to watch the new stagaires regain emotional circulation.

Then I head up to Cinkasse, chez DM, to get the mattress he ordered for me from Burkina. I’m dying on the crappy piece of foam I got in Lome. It has a huge dent in the middle no matter how many times I flip it and it’s an incubator. And I have back and neck pain. It’s starting to smell like mildew, actually, from all the sweat. It’s time for an upgrade.

When I visited WM for shadowing I had the honor of sharing her spring mattress. Springs! In Togo! I was hooked. And it wasn’t much more than the fancy foam ones. I can’t wait.

Then, after 2 weeks on the road, I will be ready to come home to my clean, homey, home. With honey and my moringa tree, the step stones I laid a few weeks ago, and my first “crop” of yellow squash. My perfect shower-lighting stars, compost, tippy-tappy, and hammock. Never having to worry about where I will go to the bathroom, wash my hands, or “will I get sick from this?” Ok, maybe not never, but certainly less. And my students.

I left lesson plans and exams in the capable hands of my carpenter, the PE teacher. I also responded to about 10 of the SEVENTY questions they submitted in the “Anonymous Questions Box.” I wrote it up like an “Ask Abby” question-response on a huge piece of brown paper.

Some of the questions were shocking, some sad, some sweet, some vulgar. It’s a vrai middle school and I expect that the questions would be the same among American students in a high HIV prevalence area.

Here are some examples:

“How do I avoid HIV?”

“Can you eat with someone who has HIV?”

“If you want to have sex with a girl and she refuses, must you force her or leave her alone?” (This is complicated because girls are only socially allowed to “refuse.” Even if they mean yes, they have to say “no,” because “yes” means you’re a slut. Different problem than the American “no means yes” BS. But still culturally complicated BS.)

“How do you have sex with someone who is seropositive?”

“What is f***ing?” (Received many variations of this.)

“How do you use a condom?”

“How many times can you use a condom?”

“Why did AIDS come to Togo?”

“Do mosquito nets give you AIDS?”

“What does HIV do in the body?”

“Where does AIDS come from?”

“If I sleep with a boy, what do I do to not get pregnant?”

“How did AIDS evolve in the world and I want to ask Madame Adama to know this.” (I love it when they address me specifically in their notes or wrap their notes inside of multiple layers of scrap paper and write my name on the outside to be sure everyone knows its for me. Validation.)

“Why do you say AIDS is dangerous?”

“If you have a brother who is contaminated with AIDS, what do you do so it doesn’t contaminate you too?”

“My sister is ‘trapped’ by AIDS. How do I counsel her?”

“Someone told me mosquito nets give you malaria.”

“AIDS was brought by white people. True or False?”

“What’s a female condom?”

“How old do you have to be to have sex?”

And who says teenagers aren’t thinking about sex until the crazy liberals want to educate them about how to not get pregnant at 14? Denial.

13 October 2010

Since my last blog I’ve done three more home visits. Each time the cadeaux get better. Fresh ears of corn plucked from their stalks and a chicken that I hung by it’s feet from my handlebars in the rain all the way from Nassikou. But the best by far was a man who asked me how to “get his wife on Norplant.”

To the woman, “Do you want to be on Norplant?” Too bad her husband was my translator. But she spoke some French and seemed afraid to express her opinion. It seemed like a yes. Her one-year old weighed 5kg and her 2, maybe 3-year-old had a huge bloated belly (read: worms, parasites, kwashiorkor). There were 5 other mouths to feed- kids they inherited from family members poorer than them.

I explained that they should come to the hospital for a growth monitoring follow-up and bring an extra 4000 CFA for Norplant. But they should talk to the nurse about other options first. (There’s a reason why we don’t use Norplant in the States anymore.)

A man in Togo asking about birth control and family planning. Best cadeaux ever.

Another couple and their neighbors were very receptive to the nutrition and sanitation talk. I think their enthusiasm could have been primarily because a stranger (from another country, not just the big town of Sagbiebou) biked 22k en brousse to their house. But I prefer to believe they were inspired by the opportunity to learn.

When I met Mariatou at the clinic she seemed like a very simple, non-French speaker, in plain, torn clothes. She has a kind smile, one diagonal facial scar on her right cheek to signify she’s Gamgam and from around here. Oh, and the biggest drooping boobs I’ve ever seen on someone of her frame. She was wearing a bra and they were still resting around her navel. Her hair was cut short like most women’s, but lighter, and she had a soothing calmness about her, despite the back pain I assume she experiences.

I pegged her as average; she just wanted to nod, appease me, approve and apparently agree with everything I was saying. Her baby, Rachid, was the most malnourished child I have ever seen in person. Eyes bulging, the soft spot on his head palpitating, his arm as thick as my thumb. At 8 months old he weighed about 4kg. I watched his whole body try to breathe. I could see his lungs working. Tiny. Weak. Trooper.

“Your baby is very small; it could be because of a lot of things. Can I come to your house and talk to your family?” Translated by the matrone.

Yea, yea, yovo, ok, ok, you think you know what’s best. [Nod, smile.] You don’t know anything about this place and I’m not going to listen to you just because you’re white.[Nod, smile.] You just want to tell us Africans what to do. I know you have a French last name. you say you’re American, but we know… and those French…

This is the internal dialogue I assume most women experience when meeting me the first time. It’s not always internal. And I don’t blame them. Generations of colonization, rules that feigned to benefit them but were imposed without a needs assessment… ended up causing a lot of harm… the nerve. I get it.

When I got to her house she was out doing laundry at the river. A few kids ran off to call her. She came back and I had to tell myself not to stare. I’m used to women not wearing bras, boobs everywhere. Whip it out and pull it around so the baby on her back can eat while she’s busy doing laundry. Or just because it’s hot. But her boobs were easily at her waist. The entire length of her torso at 19 years old. Her frame is smaller than mine. God those things must drive you crazy; getting in the way all the time. Snap out of it.

“Hi, how are you?!”

She was so friendly. Quiet and shy but very friendly. She didn’t seem ashamed of her baby or her role in its present situation, which is good. Sometimes moms get depressed about it- about a situation they didn’t really know how to prevent and are struggling to ameliorate. They give up. Focus on healthier babies, assuming that this one will die no matter what they do. It’s sad.

She paid attention to her baby, constantly breastfeeding throughout our talk. Ok, it’s not that he’s not getting enough food… We talked about cleaning water.

“He drinks pump water?... And food groups?... Protection foods, construction foods, energy foods… Ok, pates, that’s only energy foods... He needs proteins too. Beans, fish, eggs... Too cher? Ok, beans, soja, and beans, lots of beans! Beans are cheap!” And they have all 8 amino acids…

“Did you plant the moringa tree I gave you? When that grows, give Rachid a lot of that! Remember how to prepare it? You take the leaves and…”

Mariatou just gets up and leaves. Internal dialogue validated?

She comes back with a bowl and a humble smile. Says something in Gamgam. I look in the bowl.

“Yes! Yes! Oh my god! You’ve already started drying leaves!” I did not give this woman enough credit. She had found tress in her area and started drying them as per the directions in a few days. Rockstar. Ok, we can move on. I started trouble-shooting.

So what’s up with this kid? The other kids aren’t nearly as bad off and the parents take enough care that it would be more logical for him to have kwashiorkor, not marasmus.

AIDS? That must be it. That would explain the emaciated old man with dementia that everyone obeys and pampers, entertaining his royal gibberish interruptions and exclamations. Wow, so this is what it looks like.

I think I’ve figured it out. I’ll come back and visit with another talk on condoms and HIV testing. Maybe they already know? Maybe they’ll “come out to me” about their status. Then we can talk about additional nutrition needs and care and transmission…

I’m looking through the children’s health records and making a family tree. Then, inside the third booklet, for a child of Mariatou’s husband’s brother’s second wife is a loose piece of paper with no name on it.

“Depistage… seronegatif…”

Alright, so not everyone has it… I open more carnets. One more seronegative. Good. Mariatou’s co-wife doesn’t have it yet. Finally I get to Rachid’s carnet.

“Seronegatif…”

What? I couldn’t believe it. No AIDS here. How is this kid such an anomaly? The others aren’t the picture of health, but they certainly don’t look as bad as him. What is going on here? Can it really just be malnutrition. Malnutrition can do this? Here? But there’s food. Access? Poverty?

I ask about other kids that aren’t hanging around, but that live in the house or with other relatives. Maybe they send their money to extended family instead…?

Another woman in the house tells me, “Four kids, 3 dead.”

So that’s why I don’t see it. It’s not just him. He’s just the only one left. All of the other kids are older: 3, 5, 7, 10. The ones that made it.

It’s rough out here. It was hard for me to bike here. And they live here… wow. The causerie is over and it starts to rain. I go inside with the two translators/ community health workers.

We’re all waiting it out in a small bedroom. The “mattress” is made of bamboo poles. A string extends along one wall to serve as a clothing rack. And a motorcycle. Wait. A motorcycle? You can afford a motorcycle but not beans?

Ok, no moto means no way to get out in an emergency, a long journey to foods and services and everything. Ok, moto may be vital. It means they know how to save, plan… they just didn’t know to give him beans and proteins and diverse foods… I talk myself out of judgment. They are so kind and mean well. Now they know; things will change.

As I am leaving the husband thanks me profusely.

“Cadeaux,” he hands me a rooster.

Really? I just told you your baby is about to die because he doesn’t get enough protein and you’re giving me one of your only sources of protein? Really?

But really, if that’s how grateful they are, then I didn’t understand how bad it was out here. And he doesn’t have teeth yet, so it’s not like Rachid can eat the rooster. And I was recently lectured on how rude it is to refuse gifts. When people have so little and give you something it’s an honor. You don’t refuse. It’s rude. I’m not rude. (Well, I try not to be.) I am still southern.

He ties the rooster’s feet together and hang it’s feet from my handlebars. It’s head sways in the wind by my tires as I bike back, stopping every so often to move it’s feet off of my gear shifts.

On my way back to village I encounter one of my favorite sights: a 16-ish boy who makes bicycles dance. He weaves in-between the lanes of the national highway with perfect posture, playing what seems like the most inspiring classical music in his head. He smiles coyly and dances on (through the insects).

If he was in America, I imagine he would enjoy things like Extreme Home Makeover and fancy mixed drinks. Well, if he wasn’t Muslim. Maybe play tennis in City Park.

I enjoy imagining how people’s personalities would translate into contexts more familiar to me. It’s easy in classrooms: now I get it, you’re the class clown, the suck-up, the flirt, the jock… Universals. Reframing people this way helps me “de-exocitize” them, which I don’t even realize I’ve done until it’s undone.

Other updates: made liquid soap with apprentices for Global Hand-Washing Day; established committees for small projects in Bogari; biked 36k to visit MG in Gando and enjoyed a DELICIOUS mayo, pepper, tomato, sardine, and moringa sandwich (something I never would have considered consuming pre-Togo but absolutely delighted in); it’s the beginning of watermelon season and my village is the center of it all!; starting to develop village friendships; lowering my standards for cuisine (not referring to the sandwich- in other words, I don’t have to cook full meals 3 times a day); and getting nervous and excited about ML’s trip.

Anyways. That’s enough. Thanks KD, SO, ML, KL, mom, dad, WM, MG, BH, and MF for all the support!

10 October 2010

Three days ago I did my first home visit.

Every Wednesday morning at 7:30 I go to the clinic. We do a causerie (health talk) about family planning (spacing births, family financial plans, birth control options, etc.) or nutrition (food groups, breastfeeding, the importance of growth monitoring…). The we- myself and 3 very underpaid if paid at all staff members- weight, measure, and document the growth of about 50 to 100 babies all screaming and pissing and looking really cute.

Then they get vaccinated (after their carnet is marked that they were vaccinated, which I think is a programmatic error that could lead to health problems… but I can only offer so many suggestions at a time).

After all of this chaos, around 11:30, I sit with the women whose babies are malnourished or at risk for, well, dying, if they don’t change something. So we sit down with multiple translators. (The health staff also serve as an interpreting service.) We set redez-vous. I write down the information and tell them to give it to their family member who speaks French or the community health worker they will request to act as translator.

I ask for their name, the baby’s name, the name of the house, their husband, and the village.

When the day comes I’m usually running late because someone came to saluer me, etc. I start biking in the direction of the village as it is laid out on a map that could have been drawn by an American 3rd grader. It’s about that accurate too.

So three days ago, after teaching two classes at the CEG (middle school), I got on my back around 13:00 and headed to a place I had written as Kpekong. It was supposed to be about 5k west on Kpayo. Kpayo (“pie-oh”) is about 12k south of Sagbiebou.

I get to Kpayo and ask a nice young apprentice for the road to Kpekong.

“Where?”

“Kpekong.” I’m trying to pronounce it every way I can think of “K-pay-kung” or “Pykohng”…

No luck. She consults with people that appear out of nowhere. The grass is tall on this third hill south of chez moi. That’s right, I said hill. (Anyone not from NOLA, read: incline.) Me. Hills. Imagine.

“I’m looking for Nanyuma Mateyindo’s house…”

“Oh, it’s over here.”

Great, closer to the road than I thought! I knew that map was wrong.

“Welcome, welcome! Thank you for coming to be my guest!” A young boy takes my bike to park it, taking great care. A bench is brought out from the circle of mud huts forming a lovely compound. We sit under a huge Neem tree.

“Are you Nanyuma?”

“Yes, yes, welcome. How are you?”

“Ca vat res bien.”

“And the travel?”

“Oh, ca va.”

“And the family?”

“Oh, ca va bien, merci. I am looking for Awa, mother of Nafissa.”

“Awa? Nafissa? Hmm…” Pensive look.“No, there is no Awa here.”

“But you are Nanyuma Mateyindo, yes?”

“Oh, no, I am Nanyuma [I forget…].”

“Well, thank you very much but I am looking for another Nanyuma in Kpekong. What quartier are we in now?”

Not Kpekong, not the right Nanyuma. It’s 14:00.

We make our way back to the road and head over to a small boutique. It’s not really a vrai boutique because they’re not selling anything, it’s an empty cement room with a door and a thatch roof and overhang providing a bit of shade. A man in his early 30s is chillin in a bamboo recliner.

“Hi, how are you?”“Ca va. Ca va?”

“Ca va.”

“You’re the white lady from Carrefour? My dad’s the chief. He gave you your name. Adama, right?”

“Yea, oh hi. How are you?”

“Ca va.”

“And the family?”

“Ca va.”

“And work? Ca va bien?”

“Oh, Ca va bien.”

“So… where is Kpekong?”

“Where?”

I let myself be distracted by the butterflies and gorgeous baobabs in the distance while they talk for nearly 10 minutes in Gamgam.

“Do you mean Kpongpong?”

“Sure, is it west about 5k?”

“Yes, yes. That’s the road there.” He points across the highway.

[Insert long “conversation” about les blanches and America ou bien, Europe? and how one day I will bring him there and maybe we’ll get married and how Africans suffer. I nod and thank him for the directions and it continues somehow.]

“Ok, thank you so much! If I’m not back by night send the police.”

“Oh, haha, you’ll be back. May god protect you.”

So I head off on what looks like a wilderness trail (drawn as a major road on my elementary map). With my “saddlebag” on one side and my handlebar mirror sticking out the other, my bike is wider than the bushes and weeds allow so they graze my legs, sometimes leaving surprise seeds or prickly things behind to bedazzle my pants (thinking of you, Shane).

The path is full of mini bike trenches, puddles, sand, rocks, and petit fleuves that I traverse wishing I had invested in boots. But I probably wouldn’t have worn them because it’s so freaking hot. Then again, they would protect me from snakes, like the one that bit EB when we were in stage. But I’m not going to get bitten by a snake.

So I stop the first person I see. It happens to be a buy, about 8, and his sister collecting water in plastic topless yellow jerry cans from one of the petit fleuves. “Excuse me, where is Nanyuma Mateyindo’s house?”

“Who?”

I try the other name on the list of people that live in her house; the brother-in-law that speaks French. “How about Lambima Ndembe? Do you know him? There’s a baby named Nafissa…”

“Oh, yea, Ndembe…”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Ndembe.”

“It’s over there! I will take you.”

I hesitate. This kid is way too excited. Though, that’s not weird; I’m probably the first white person they’ve ever seen out here.

We walk for about 5 minutes, passing a crazy old man talking to himself and carrying a machete. This is quite normal. The machete, anyway. He’s coming from working in the fields. Totally normal. I walk faster.

Then, I find myself under the most amazing papaya tree. I have never seen a tree this breathtaking. It’s leaves are the size of my entire torso and the budding papayas make my mouth water. How is it thriving out here? I notice it’s planted by the shower. Nice.

A woman comes out, surprised. I don’t know her, she doesn’t know me, and this house is not big enough for all of the people Awa told me live chez elle. This is the kid’s mom.

“Look, mom! I brought a Nasara home!”

Ca va x 12.

“I’m looking for chez Nanyuma Mateyindou.”

She yells at the kid for wasting my time and tells him to bring me to the chief. His disappointment from his mother’s reaction hardly masks his ongoing enthusiasm as proud escort. We greet the chief.

I so tired of ca va. But this chief doesn’t know a word of French so we both clasp our hands, smile, and bow a bit. I say the list of names I have and he gestures me to follow him.

“Gamgam gamgam gamgam [something about, “wtf is she trying to say?”] gamgam.”

I smile at the group of about 30 people gathered in a shady courtyard.

“It’s so nice that all of your family gets together like this!” trying to make small talk.

“We’re having a meeting.”

Oh, and I’m interrupting. White people are so bothersome, needy, and dependent en route to throwing money at people. (Stereotype enforced.)

Gamgam continues. Awkwardness continues. Everyone stares, points, etc. “White person- what is she doing here?”

Yes, yes, I’m white. I take off my sunglasses. Yes, yes, I can ride a bike.

A (former) student appears. He speaks French and Gamgam and he will take me to Nanyuma’s house. Ok! I think: it’s only 15:30 and the sun sets at 18:30. If I leave by 16:30 I have more than enough time to get back.

I follow the student (about 18 years old) along a similarly difficult path as the one previously described. For about 30 minutes. Think: Mountain-biking along NOLA-sized mountains.

Then we stop. Is it here?

“No this is the chief’s house.”

“I thought we already met the chief?”

“That was the chief of G----, this is the chief of Kpongkpong.”

“Oh.” Greetings and ca va x 12.

We add Nanyuma’s 12-ish brother to our caravan. His friend also sits on the back of his bike. We continue a bit further, cross a small stream and at the top of a hill I see the woman from the clinic. She really is a beautiful woman. Three other women and eventually two other men trickle into our meeting. We sit on a bench and I bust out my handout (all pictures).

The student translates because the guy that was going to translate for us had to leave. We talk about food groups, cleaning water, moringa (look it up!), enriched porridge, ORS… Questions? We plant a moringa sapling I brought on my bike and I hand them a bottle of bleach. We head back. It’s 16:30. I had been tempted to go home multiple times since the first Nanyuma; talking myself out of it with, “what’s at home, flies?” But at this point I was glad I didn’t.

We followed the path with the sun starting to set behind the baobabs. Then a voice shouted at the student. He seemed to know exactly where it was coming from but I was totally confused. “God, is that you?” Madonna begins playing in my head.

There are hugs piles of dirt in rows for miles. Then an old man covered in dirt appears and indicates that the student should follow him. They take off their shoes to enter the field, which seems counter-intuitive to me. Fields are dirty, that’s why you brought the shoes, no? Perhaps this is sacred ground…???

They reappear with 5 HUGE yams.

“Thank you so much!”

“For what?” I don’t know you, dude. I didn’t even see you.

Gamgam gamgam… student translates.

“He wants to thank you for going to his house.”

“Is this Nanyuma?!”

“No, but that’s his house.”

“Ok.” I’m tired. “Thank you so much for the yams!” Each one is larger than my forearm. Filthy and grateful, we strap them to my bike. I shake his hand. It’s rough, worn, almost the same texture at the yams. The man has really nice, calm, honest eyes.

“Thank you.”

We continue and the student takes the road past his house. “I would like to work with you!” He was a great help. I got his number and promised to come back. He pointed me to the main road. We were almost there.

I passed the kids who were still collecting water, the crazy man with the machete who was still wandering, and made it over the 3 kills back to Sagbiebou right as the sun was setting over the marche. Perfect.

1 October 2010

It’s 4:00 am and I just woke up to a fabulous rain storm. I ran outside to set out my basins (so I don’t have to collect pump water!) and found that my neighbors were doing the same. Apparently, I am starting to get the hang of life here. I couldn’t go back to sleep, though, because the huge dent in my 2 month-old mattress and cot set-up is giving me neck problems. I’m going to get a real bed made this week-end and hopefully have a vrai mattress by November.

Adjustments

Trying to keep a compost bin near the kitchen. Maggots like compost. Breeding maggots. In my house. The compost bin has not entered my house for over a week now. I dug a compost pile closer to my kitchen instead of burying my organic trash twice a week. Better. I’m still trying to kill the maggots.

The seasons are changing. Less rain = hot = lots more sweat. Or maybe my lantern just really heats up the room. Sometimes I don’t know if there’s sweat dripping out of newly discovered pores or small beetles trying to get closer to my light or flies or who knows what. I’ve become very desensitized to epidermal activity.

The corn is growing so high in my neighborhood I hardly recognize the foot paths. It’s like discovering a whole new village every time I stray from the national highway.

My running routine now, for the first time in my life, involves an iPod. It’s a very bizarre experience to run with music in my head. Now that I know how to charge it, I use it a lot. (I, genius, left my charger at home thinking that it was used as the cable to update songs, not charge. Since I didn’t bring my computer, I didn’t bring the cable.)

Pop culture is not my forte, if anything it’s my major faiblesse. I never know who sings what or what artists are connected how. So all of my music comes from benevolent friends who proudly school me semiannually by way of mixed CDs or iTunes overhauls. Thank you J. Every time I listen to a song I think about the friend who gave it to me or the last person I heard it with. Listening to my iPod has become almost as good as getting mail. (You might want to skip the next paragraph.)

This week’s soundtrack (and I doubt it will change for the next two years) has included Esperanza Spalding!!! (DT), K. Gates- Black and Gold of course (ML), Rascall Flatts (AB), Three Dog Night (N & SC), Eli Young Band (MW), Miriam Makeba (JA), Mali to Memphis Soundtrack (RS), Jason Mraz (M & TS), Sara Evans (a woman I worked for in high school), Louis Armstrong, Dr. John (chez moi), Etta James, Abi Tapia (campaign she performed at in college), Jack Johnson, Travis Tritt, Ben Folds (high school), Cory Morrow, Sara Bareilles (that song that came while I was studying abroad and everyone was sick of it when I got back and fell in love with it). All of you initials out there- I’m thinking of you!

Since being in Togo, my running adventures have become less dependant on the nearest source of drinking water. I ran nearly 10 miles last week and didn’t bring a water bottle. Ok, I would never do more than that mom, promise. It was overcast and the sun wasn’t sucking every drop of hydration out of my body, but still, I wasn’t thirsty.

I think this is partly because practicing Ramadan has increased my limits for thirst and hunger (not that it stops me from eating constantly). In that way, I feel like Ramadan is serving it’s purpose: to teach me my limits and understand the difference between desire and true need, to respect that for many people my choices for one week (I’m not up to the full month yet!) are their daily struggles, and to push my comfort zone and find my limits. Very clever, Allah.

The perfect place for a hammock: a diagonal line between the brick wall that ends my bedroom and that of my latrine (which thankfully still doesn’t smell bad yet). Semi-private and I still get the great sunset view behind the fields. Reading a book and watching the cytokinesis of the clouds (preferably rainy ones in the distance) is just plain goodness. Speaking of goodness…

Food

I love to eat. Having to cook each meal myself every day (or at least re-heat it and do dishes) is making me enjoy cooking less. But I still love eating. (Could there be something more cliché about a New Orleanian?)

About 2 weeks ago I discovered a great substitution for apples in baking- yellow roadside melons. I’ve made Melon Crisp twice now:

- Soak 2 yellow melons in citron juice overnight

- Mix ½ cup flour ½ cup brown sugar, ½ cup margarine (yes, I am advocating margarine!?! No fridge = no butter, the toughest adjustment yet.), 1 pinch salt, 1/8 tsp baking powder, and 1 tbsp cinnamon.

- Put melon in greased and floured pan; add mixture on top and bake for 30-45 minutes in Dutch oven on low.

- Top with sugar and let cool.

Yum.

I’m learning a lot about food here: How to pick the rocks out of freshly hulled rice, make salad dressing, and avoid making too much and having leftovers. (This latter part is difficult, because I can always eat more.)

Last week ML bought a plane ticket, so in a celebratory/ return-from-ville-with-lots-of-goodies fever I cooked up a storm and hosted an impromptu porch party with my neighbors. It really felt like one of my college pot lucks. I even passed out some Ghiradelli and World’s Famous Chocolate some fabulous folks sent my way.

Chez Nous

That night we also played UNO, which is becoming a very serious game in Togo. We’ve even invented new French words like “skipper,” because sauter and bloquer just weren’t getting the idea across.

My neighbors, the co-wives of my landlord, are two fabulous young moms with strong personalities. They both know about 5 or 6 languages but will tell you they aren’t very smart because they never went to school, so they “can’t understand.” However, they’re a lot quicker than me and eager learners.

I did a family planning presentation for them and we talked about contraceptive options, why it’s important to space births, and how each woman’s body is different so she needs to find the best method for her. They were very engaged and nodded in understanding. The second wife, MI, well, if she had gone to school she would have been the teacher’s pet.

“Oh, I know what that is! You take a pill every time you… you know… and you don’t get pregnant.”

“Actually, a lot of people think that, so I’m glad you brought it up, but you have to take it every day,” and then tried to explain hormones and monthly cycles in French. Brain pain.

They’re teaching me some Kotokoli, but I’m not very good at remembering it and distinguishing it from Fulani, Mossi, Anufo, and the other (apparently more than 15!) languages in my village.

I’ve also noticed that I spend most of my time with women. This is reflected in the fact that I still haven’t mastered the greetings for men in Anufo (Tchokossi). Perhaps I have a double-standard and greet men in French assuming (unfortunately correctly most of the time) that if you are a man you have gone to school and speak French. It could be that, but I think mostly I try to stay away from men. I don’t want single ones thinking I’m looking or have wives thinking I’m trying to be numero dos. So, until people get to know me, I’m assimilating in this way.

Work Updates

Community mapping in a nearby village is going really well. On average, 60 people show up each time and at our last meeting there were 46 women! We have another workshop today to look at project priorities and talk about funding options. I drew out a huge pair-wise grid and made a ballot box. We’re also going to play “cup of water passed under the legs to the person behind you relay race,” just to get people’s energy up. It’s going to be fun.

I started teaching an HIV/STI class at the local middle school. I only had one class and wasn’t prepared to teach. (I came to observe and was informed/asked to teach.) But it went really well and I wasn’t nervous at all! The students laughed at my stupid jokes and played along with the “I can’t hear you!” demands for volume. We did cheers and covered a lot of the basics.

Be confident, guess if you don’t know the answer, don’t tell me you understand if you don’t, we’ll go over it until everyone gets it, this is your life and it’s important to understand. This isn’t just a class; this is your job. You are privileged to be here. Your families have given you the opportunity to learn. It’s your job to share this information with them. Your life is important. Their lives are important. Can you do this job? Can you be responsible for learning and sharing the information we discuss in class?

“Est-ce que vous etes intelligent?!”

“Yes !”

“I said, are you intelligent?!”

“OUI!!!!”

“Are you capable of doing this job?!”

“OOOOUUUUUIIIII!!!!”

It was awesome. And perfect. They each handed in a “dépistage,” an exam that was “anonymous” just like the HIV test. I asked them the three modes of HIV transmission (blood, sexual fluids, and mother-to-child), a question they would like me to answer, how many people in Togo die each year of AIDS (about 9,000, though statistics here… that’s another blog), what HIV does in the body, and how many people they knew affected by HIV (orphans to AIDS, people who died, people who are infected, etc.). I started calculating the results last night.

Oh, did I mention there are 92 students in my class? Next week I will start working with two classes.

I’m still working with the apprentices. We finished our unit on hygiene and started nutrition last Monday. It was rough. One of the main translators was absent. But next time a community health worker is coming to translate. Maybe he can continue the class when I leave? Although, he is a man and that drastically changes the environment. I hope the girls still feel comfortable speaking up!

Growth monitoring (baby weighing) this week was also great. In the middle of the whole program we stopped to do a family planning skit. I had led the skit in the market and my counterpart translated. This time a community health worker led it in Anufo and a clinic staff member translated into Gamgam. I played the part of a responsible wife who got Norplant and then used condoms after having my first baby. 45 moms and their babies were there.

Afterwards I met with four moms whose babies were severely underweight. The kind of malnutrition they have is called marasmus. Basically, they look like the stereotypical “starving African children” from “save the children” ads or an MSP poster. It doesn’t get much worse than what they have. It’s not because there’s no food. (Have you been listening to what I eat?) Sometimes, they don’t have enough money to buy good food.

Mostly, there’s no standard nutrition education program talking about a varied diet, exclusive breastfeeding for the first 6 months, clean water, or protein. (Ok, there are officially programs… another blog.) So the kids have a combination of problems: Protein Energy Malnutrition (PEM), stomach worms, and diarrhea.

Diarrhea doesn’t seem like such a big problem in the U.S., but here in Togo it’s the cause of 5% of deaths among the total population, and 15% of deaths for children 0-5 years old. (Again, statistics…. but I doubt these are far off.) That could mean you had HIV and died of symptomatic diarrhea, you had a bad amoeba and died of dehydration… diarrhea can be a symptom of what killed or the cause of dehydration that killed, or something else. Basically, people don’t know how to clean their water. And even if they do it can be expensive or challenging for them to put into practice.

It’s the education piece and the infrastructure piece that are missing. In the U.S. we often don’t have to think about what we eat or drink in terms of survival. Exercising to lose weight or get “in shape” for aesthetic” purposes does not count. For the majority of Americans, we don’t have to worry that the water we drink or that lack of water during a hot summer could kill us. We don’t have to think about lack of variety in our diet: rice or pates (corn) for every meal. (Because nothing else will grow and no roads lead to village to bring it in from elsewhere.) We are generally taught to have a balanced diet (though are often targeted by diet gimmicks to believe otherwise.)

Here, people often don’t even know there is another way to live. They know life is hard, but can’t pinpoint problems or strategies to solve them. This is definitely a gross generalization and from my (new and non-integrated) perspective. However, the mother with the most malnourished baby (3.5 kilos at 7 months!) didn’t know there was anything wrong with him.

I made appointments to go visit these moms at home. We’ll talk about bouillie enrichie (enriched porridge), moringa powder (if you haven’t looked it up yet, do!), and basic sanitation. I’m excited to see some more rural villages and find my way around the canton.

Planning the trips was interesting…

“Ok, you give this note to the community health worker in your village. I will meet him along the roadside and he will take me to your house.” Or… “I will show up in village and ask for your husband between 9-10 am.”

Unfortunately, the new classes I’m teaching at the CEG (middle school) conflicted with some of the appointments I already made. Getting messages to these women was more interesting.

To my landlord: “Our neighbor told me that you know a lot of people in the canton [because of his tire repair job] and how I might get letters out to villages far away. Can you help me?” It was marche day.

“Yes, I’ll find someone to bring them.” Then, “Where is that village?”

I showed him the map.

“And this is the husband’s name?”

“Oui.”

“Yea, I’ll get it to them, no problem.”

Life without addresses.

Thanks SO, ML, MW, mom (I think I have enough potholders to last a lifetime, yet somehow I manage to keep burning myself…), KP, sis, and DT! Loving the packages and letters!!!

October 3, 2010

I arrived in Dapaong two days ago. After our very successful workshop in Bogari, the village nearby, I went home and cleaned for about two hours. (The last thing I want to come home to is mice!) I went to the syndicat and waited for a car to pass by.

After about an hour of reading First Comes Love, Then Come Malaria, one finally stopped at 14:00. The taxi I took in was really nice by Togolese standards: pleather untorn seat cushions and one person per seat. I got the driver’s number.

I sat next to an English teacher whose qualification was finishing high school. He was very nice and asked if I could give him any books to read in English or French. He loves to read but there are no libraries.

When my bike was unloaded from the top of the van I went straight to the bank, the poste, and the grocery. I bought three kinds of chocolate cookies, honey, cold yogurt, cheese, real butter, milk powder, Foster Clarks, and Paradise Powder (for heat rash- yay). I also picked up some eggs, onion, tomato, and bread.

Arriving at the house around 18:00, I was greeted by CK, BH, CM, and DM with ginger beer, lemonade, and banana milkshakes. Then we went out to celebrate D’s birthday with guitars and cold drinks. BH was even nice enough to share some of the no-bake cheese cake his mom sent in a care package. Mmmm…

It started raining so we stayed until is became less torrential, which was a long time. I fell asleep at several points (that was the morning I woke up at 4:00). And it was cold so I took DM’s huge plastic woven bag he brought his guitar in and wrapped it around me like a shawl. I wasn’t prepared for cold, so I wore a dress I love but can’t wear in village (above the knee and sleeveless, one of my most conservative summer dresses back home.)

The dress proved to be a mistake, what with wind, cold, and being white. I stood out as a tourist. The three guys fighting over who got to tell me I was beautiful first while buying phone credit made that clear.

“You are so beautiful!”

“I was here first, I think you are so beautiful…”

I am breaking out more than I ever have in my life. My hair is barely brushed and I am standing in the most unattractive slouch, in the rain and cold. Look of death. Are you serious?

“Where are you from beautiful?” Flashing smiles and standing way too far into my bubble. The salesman at the counter seems used to this charade, but isn’t going to screw up their game.

“I live here. Near Gando.”

Not a tourist. Not looking for “exotic” African romance stories to tell back home. Not going to play. Game over.

“Oh…” Smiles fade. I reclaim inches of bubble space. “So what are you doing in Dapaong?” Trying to play it off.

You should be embarrassed. “Working.” I look over to the mixed Togolese-American group at the bar across the street.

“You’re with them?” Smiling. Playing nice.

I get my change. “Yes, have a good night.”

Men (and women) here see dress as an advertisement of morals. Less cloth = less “morals.” We have this stereotype in the States, but it’s more subtly applied. In Togo, it’s blatant. I show my knees = I’m looking for action, no matter how many times I say I’m not. No usually means yes because no woman is supposed to want to say yes or she’s a slut. Unless she’s married, maybe… but then she’ll never admit it.

But I am a master at the art of death stares and body language here. It’s a major comfort in terms of safety. The guys were harmless, just looking to take advantage of an opportunity and initially misread my signals.

The rest of the week-end has been great. I’m working on finishing the block of butter before leaving the land of refrigeration, typing letters for resource requests, and preparing handouts for my nutrition visites a domicile. Oh, also hanging out with BH: frozen coffee, Arrested Development, and chocolate cookies from China (who knows what’s in them, but they’re crunchy and chocolately and that’s worth taking a few weeks off of my life).

Loving the letters! The one thing that is better than chocolate…

16 September 2010

So I’ve got a list in my journal of things to write about… This blog might be long so get your popcorn, mom.

Well the last few weeks have certainly been an emotional roller coaster ride. Some days I don’t want to leave my house and others I am racing to see how many people I can greet before sundown. Primarily, though, it’s been the former. Biking and endorphins are bringing me back to optimism and freeing me from my new experiments with hermitage.

Every time my leave my house or go to the market a gaggle of kids screams my name or the name of the volunteer before me demanding waves and ca vas. It never gets old. Market women, kindly trying to help me learn local language, are not very patient with my lack of ability to retain information. I will leave the market after an hour feeling exhausted, with a notebook page full of terms and expressions in at least three languages, and who knows what grimy cadeau all the kids left on my hands after a score of slimy mid-snack handshakes.

It can be wonderful and I learn a lot. There are certain faces that make it all worthwhile.

People I Like

One woman, M2, has the most genuine smile, is incredibly understanding and patient with me, and her kids all seem like wonderful human beings. None of them ask me for money. She has the air of a saint or a grandmother- I haven’t decided yet. I thought she was 30, but of her 7 kids at least four of them are in their 20s and several have their own kids.

When I see her in the market, I relax a bit. She doesn’t make me sit for a 30 minute lecture and exam, which I always fail. If I have a question, she explains it to me. She apologizes for not speaking French well and I apologize back. She invites me to learn she cooking secrets and gives me small cadeaux that are generous for her to be giving. It’s nice to know such a genuinely kind person.

There’s also my favorite koulikouli (yam french fries) lady. She’s Wahhabia, which means she wears a colorful burka-like head covering with a veil over her face. It’s amazing how lack of eye-contact can limit a human connection. I would never know who she was if I saw her apart from sitting on her stool in the market. Yesterday, the light was at just the right angle and I finally saw her face through the black veil.

My landlord’s apprentices are a team of rockstar youth. (One of them is M2’s son.) My landlord, AI, clearly picked them not only for their technical capacities, but also their morals and work ethic. During Ramadan, they all fasted and worked twice as hard, even volunteering to help me clear my garden space. I’m sure they were partly ordered to by AI, but they never complain and work with pride. When my furniture came, before I even got to the truck they had carried half of it inside. When there is no work to be done, I’ll pass by their moto shop on the way to the market and see them lounging in old tires or on benches.

When I buy kerosene for my lantern or water from the chateau pump, the manager’s little brother (YB) is always hanging around. (This gas and kerosene station is directly facing another, and down the street from 2 more. It reminds me of Exxons built next to Shell stations, but everything here is the same price. Doesn’t make much sense…) He’s this compact little Danny Devito character crammed into a 3 year-old boy. He’s got a big head with complimentary big features and a belly full of worms I’m sure. His deep, lispy, aged, and confident voice melts my heart and makes me want to laugh out loud at the same time. It seems impossible that a voice like that could come out of someone so tiny.

The look on his face implies that he knows he’s different, but he’s not sure how and he’s not in a hurry to figure it out. He walks like a humble 50 Cent. It’s very hard to explain. He always makes me smile. Sometimes I just catch myself watching him feeling like he’s got some great secret about the meaning of life. He responds “ca va tway bin” and continues playing like it’s his job and he’s gotta get back to it so he can feed his 12 kids.

Ok, enough, I could keep trying to explain this kid all day. Basically, he’s awesome and fascinating.

Compare and Contrast

I read an awesome blog by Linda, the previous volunteer, literally in 24 hours. ML was kind enough to send me the print out and MG to deliver it en route. Thanks! First reaction: eloquent, concise, and funny. You should really check it out. Her first month is basically my first month, so you ca read her blog and that’s what I meant to say.

There were some major differences in our experiences, so I’ll focus on those and you can assume the rest is the same. First, I did not receive any kind of welcome remotely akin to the bride’s party thrown for Linda (and the other volunteer stationed here who was medically separated after post visit). For post visit and the final drop off I was brought to my door at night, my neighbors helped me move my crap from the car to the porch and before the car left everyone was in bed.

Ok… for post visit the president of the CVD (Village Development Committee) and the secretary of COGES (the health committee) came to greet me. My counterpart was with me at post visit, thanked them, and shoed them away (one was his dad) to let me get settled. They promised to invite me to any upcoming meetings. I haven’t seen any of them much since (including my counterpart).

We have different apartments since the landlord moved in after she left and took the bigger one. That’s kind of nice, though, to have my own space. (And I’m grateful to have less to clean).

Our training did not involve field trips, FIVE days to shop in Lome (we had an afternoon to get all of our needs for post), or much hands on learning. But they have changed training quite a bit and hopefully we’ll get those hands on components in In-Service Training this October and December.

She was also able to participate in an awesome project called the AIDS Ride. I was very excited about this before arriving, but unfortunately it was cancelled due to health hazards. A group of volunteers would bike from Cinkasse (the northernmost city in Togo) to Lome (on the coast), stopping along the way to do multiple causeries (workshops?) each day. All of this was crammed into one week. Exhausting, challenging, rewarding.

And if I remember correctly, family and friends back home would pledge money to support the cause. Those funds would go to a girl’s scholarship called the Karen Wayde Scholarship. About 5,000 CFA ($10) puts one girl through school for a year. (Girls represent about 20% of students in high schools, don’t quote me on that.)

And then there were weird coincidences between us. She is from Houston and worked with the St. Bernard Project in NOLA. (I’m from NOLA and went to school in Texas.) There is also another volunteer from Texas who went to school in NOLA in my region. Weird.

Emailing her was useful, too. Basically, she’s confirmed several of my impressions of people: who’s flaky, who’s sketchy, etc. And she gave me a more realistic impression of her work. I’ve heard she was basically perfect, hosted a flawless AIDS Day presentation, and was best buds with everyone. She clarified. It took the pressure off a bit.

Alahua Akbar

Ramadan just ended. I fasted for the last week. Usually I do the first week and allow myself to break a few rules like drinking water and coffee (when I was as student) throughout the day. I do it because I like the principle: solidarity, understanding neighbors from different “class” backgrounds, reflection, appreciation for what you have, and something about Mohammed.

One of my favorite moments during Ramadan was on the ride back from Mango with AM, who helps me with laundry and cleaning in exchange for school fees. The taxi was falling apart (not unusual) and smelled like stale piss. Midway through the short trip we stopped to wait for a passenger, “I left my bag in the last taxi, I’ll be right back.”

An hour later we I was harassing the driver to give up. It was getting dark and we were hungry. She had clearly ditched us. But the driver wanted that 500 CFA. I started talking with another driver but he wasn’t about to screw his friend out of 2 passengers. There’s an ethics code, you know.

Finally a man about 6.5 feet tall squeezed in between me and an older woman gobbling down whatever the vendors stuffed through the window. All I could think was, “I know she didn’t wash her hands after she took a piss on the side of the road, Ew.”

It’s my job to tell people about hygiene, but I’m tired of feeling like the know-it-all, superiority-complex white person telling the “ignorant” African what to do and expect them to believe me “just because” I’m supposed to have credibility because I’m white, foreign, “educated,” American… It’s a complicated emotion. I’m hoping that over time people with come to believe me because they see improvement in their lives resulting from the application of my advice.

My goal is to improve people’s health, but that’s not generally why they’ll listen to me. I think a lot of people listen because they have internalized the idea that white represents better, richer, more evolved, “developed.” White people bashed (literally and figuratively) these ideas into African brains for centuries. I DO NOT want to reinforce this.

I spend a lot of time explaining that “America” is not “Chez les blancs,” and that Obama is not the president of an African country or a clothing line. That America is not in Europe. That I don’t have this information because I’m white and gained it intuitively, but because I went to school and learned it. Because my parents sent me to school, even though I’m a girl.

Undoing internalized racism is harder than teaching people to wash their hands. There are organic ways to combat the two simultaneously. For instance, “bleaching cream is bad for your skin and poisons your body.” Mostly I think the best thing I can do is ask questions; get people to think about why they value lighter skin. “Why would you want to use that anyway? Your skin is so beautiful.”

“Your skin is better. Lighter, teint clair, is better.”

“But why?”

Anyway, back to the story. The woman offered us some rice pates and we declined, informing her that we were fasting. She looked surprised. AM is young but observant and I’m, well, white and presumably Christian. She was pleasantly surprised by our dedication.

Because the driver had waited so long for the bag lady the sun set about 20 minutes before we hit Sagbiebou. The lady passed each of us a date (equivalent: chocolate bar) at exactly 18:19, one minute before breaking fast. It was gloriously sweet and the epitome of why Ramadan exists.

Eid was simple. Prayer at the primary school because the mosque isn’t big enough to hold all of the “Christmas mass” muslims. I missed it. Apparently everything here happens on Africa time (30 minutes – 2 hours late) except religious services. It lasted 10 minutes max.

Food, Health, Pets, Critters

Food. If you know me, you know this is a big part of my life. Well, I’m proud to report that I’ve got it under control. Surprise.

Today I had oatmeal with cinnamon and dates, a huge cup of hot tea, and banana. Lunch was fettuccini alfredo (powedered milk and vache qui rit cheese) and southern sweet tea “chilled” in my jar frigo. Dinner was rice and Louisiana Cajun Brown Gravy mix (ok, I know, that’s cheating- feel free to help, my address is above J) with tofu and small cakes from the marche. I bleach and boil everything, so (knock on wood) I haven’t been sick yet. Not even close. Unless you count over-eating. But that’s chronic and I haven’t found a cure yet.

Yesterday I started hearing rodents in my roof. This is expected. It’s not 10% as bad as the guinea fowl that wake me up at 6 am (when I’m not up before that) with a sound that must have inspired the work cacophony. And it’s loud cacophony. For the rodents I’ve thought about getting a cat, but they haven’t found their way into my house yet and I’m trying to keep it that way. A lot of volunteers do get pets and I’ve thought about it... Dogs are good for security here but my compound is a fortress and I don’t need a dependant.

But the day I see a mouse I’m going cat-shopping. It could help me kill the daily spider and keep the bugs out too. I’m making friends with the lizards (they eat bugs), but they’re kind of stupid. One was in my latrine last week and I just had a problem with it hanging out by my derriere so tried to move it before popping a squat. I chased it towards the “window” (hole in cement brick) with the toilet cover for about 10 minutes. Even when I banged the cover over it, “I’m going to smash you to death if you don’t move,” it stayed put. Then it fell and I swept it into the latrine. Natural selection.

The flies make me crazy. Yhey’re about the only bug I can’t kill with a 90% success rate. The best I can do is give them the evil eye because swatting is just a tease to them. And they would benefit from some family planning causeries.

Other random health-ish notes: I’ve been informed that Tchakba/Tchouk (local millet beers) make you poop a lot. That may come in handy. I’ve learned that in the morning I don’t really brush my teeth for health purposes, but because it helps me taste my food better. Ok, the next one is a stretch but I’m going to file it here because it was such a turning point in my mood, or mental health.

I was biking back from visiting MG at her post, about 18km away. I was leaving late because we were watching Mona Lisa Smile and eating popcorn; I was cozy on her couch in “America,” drinking mint tea. I left at 16:45 and the sun sets at 18:20. It takes an hour and half to get back (for me) and I didn’t want to be stuck in the dark. (Mostly, because I broke my bike light in week one and it’s now been converted to overhead lighting in my kitchen.)

Instead of freaking out, I let the perfect sunset escort me home. It was beautiful. Aside from a sore crotch and taught thighs, the ride flipped some sort of switch on. I was singing out loud (on the empty stretches) and greeting everyone I saw. It’s amazing how long one song can last, especially when you only know the chorus. But Travis Tritt’s, “It’s A Great Day To Be Alive” didn’t get old. When I arrived in village earlier than expected, I even went to greet clinic staff just to say hi. Weird- I thought I was becoming a hermit.

Around the Compound

NI is two. Super cute. Super serious and untrusting. I listen to him say “Mama” a hundred times a day, but he will hardly shake my hand. Last week we started a new game. He points to me, cocks his head back as if to say “what do you want?” He has really serious, inquisitive eyes. I point back, poking the air. This goes on until he cracks a smile at my ridiculous double-poke. “Stupid yovo, you clearly don’t understand how this game is played, but thanks for entertaining me.” He giggles and runs to his mom.

Nothing in my garden sprouted so I paid a student to come replant stuff in my beautifully framed beds. He didn’t follow my directions. “That’s the white seed, that’s the black round one.” I gave him 20 different packets of seeds. I don’t know what he planted where.

I have a few bean sprouts now and a couple of leaves on the tomatoes. Squash, moringa, and watermelon I started in sachets have been transplanted and are trying to survive having the water sucked out of them around noon.

Today I was digging a new bed, removing a small mountain of clay/rock used to seal the floor of the latrine, then dumped on the dirt closest to all “grey water” sources. A teen who clearly hadn’t seen me before was staring at me while I worked as he walked his donkey along the path to the grazing fields. I looked up. “Ca va?”

“Ca va bien…”

He was still staring at me and his donkey was trampling my bean sprouts.

“Hey, that’s a garden, no?!” Your donkey is killing my seedlings!!!

“Oh, I don’t know”

You don’t know? Isn’t it clear? The beds are lined with concrete brick. There’s green stuff… oh, maybe that’s why you’re confused. Because nothing is growing. Grrr.

While I was digging up this most annoying grey-iron clay ick, I was thinking about forced marriage, a problem in the village “suburbs.” I was discussing this with the village social worker, a man girls can flee to when their rights are being violated, assuming they know they have rights.

The day I spoke with him last week he had saved two girls from this situation. The law sends the suitor to jail if they are caught, along with the parents. This makes the girl and her siblings orphans or at least provides them with a more complex living situation.

Without means, the girls may be left to sleep with older men for money to survive. We’re talking 12, 14, 16 years old. This is not uncommon, however. Girls are often pressured to sleep with their professors to pass to the next grade.

The middle school director said, “they just don’t want to work as hard as the boys and so when the professor offers to help them, they take it.” Ok, hold up, why are the professors offering to sleep with them in the first place?

By the way, sex ed is only being introduced in the school system this year, so they don’t know how pregnancy happens or infections are transferred. Many teens drop out due to grosesse non-desiree. Let me clarify, teen girls.

“Well, why do you think they don’t want to work as hard?”

“They just don’t do the work.”

Naïve tone, “Do they have more responsibilities at home or something?”

“Well, yes, they had sweeping, laundry, and cooking [btw, this takes hours- no stovetop or microwaves]. The boys bring in the animals and it’s done.”

“I see, so maybe they don’t have as much time to study?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s a part of it.”

Wow. “Have you talked to the teachers about it?”

“I have to have proof.” True, but you are responsible for student-teacher interactions, no? “I can’t just follow a teacher to his house and see what he does there.”

He also told me that rich parents bribe teachers to pass their kids. That doesn’t bother me as much. On a systemic level, yes, but it doesn’t lead to pre-mature sexual experiences, disease, more unwanted babies to mothers ill-equipped to care for them, and increased drop-out rates of girls in middle school.

So I was thinking about my talks with the social worker and the school director and my mind spiraled to all the other social injustices in the world. I landed a place of gratitude for people who speak up, who can and do have an impact.

For some reason I was thinking about Jennifer Beals, not a poster child of any one cause that I know of, but she was in Vagina Monologues in New Orleans and I remember watching a news clip of her speak about heterosexism on one of those late night entertainment gossip shows. She put the anchor in her place, made her confront her prejudices. I was proud. And she was so poised doing it. Thanks Jenn.

Petit a petit.

Work

I went to the middle school for la rentree, the first day back from summer break. Apparently, the first week just involves cleaning the classrooms and the teachers were all still on vacation. The two buildings together hold 7 simple classrooms and a main office. One building is painted beautifully with, “Don Personnel du Son Excellence Faure Essozima Gnassingbe, President de la Republique Togolais,” written on the side. The other is basic brick, no paint, and cracked flooring. It was created by a collection from the parents’ association. I may be helping the director teach English or an HIV/AIDS class. On va voir…

Last week I biked about 8k with an ASC (Agent de Sante Communautaire), a health volunteer who works for the clinic for free to deliver information and materials to more rural villages in the canton. Bongari was quaint. I am amazed at how fast the corn has grown in just the month and a half I’ve been here. Our meeting involved 22 men and 4 women who sat in the back. The older men, several a part of the CVD (Committee Villageois de Developpement) sat in the front on the ground. They had spidery legs and smoked fresh tobacco (I think) from what looked like printer paper. One man who must have been 70 was hoeing the ground like a kid, or like someone who had been doing it every day of his life and didn’t know what to do with his hands if it wasn’t that.

We talked about why I am here and asked about problems they want to work on in village. Nose bleeds, bloody vomit, and headaches, temporary deafness (?), no vrai school benches (just logs), and moms who don’t have husbands don’t have enough money to put their kids through school. Younger kids don’t speak because everyone is gone to work so no one is around to interact with them, teach them, stimulate their brains. So they want a pre-school. Oh, and there’s no water in dry season.

I also met with a group of Fulani elders (all men), only 2-3 of whom spoke french, organized by the village social worker. I learn a lot about communication and facilitation from him. He’s a foreigner, too; from the south in Atapkpame or Kpalime, I can’t remember. But he speaks Ewe and his French is pristine.

The peer educators (the 2 who showed up) played HIV/AIDS Jeopardy on Saturday and didn’t know most of the information. (But have been trained in all of it.) I asked others why they didn’t come.

“We saw you travel to Mango.”

Oh. MG, another (white woman) volunteer traveled through my village.

Privilege

This is still an idea I’m trying to break down. Thoughts welcome.

Once a week a high school student AM comes to help me with laundry, carrying water, killing spiders, etc. I pay her school fees and she works them off. The day she comes is when I meet the peer educators, so if she comes early she collects water until I get back.

Last week it was raining. Hard. She had brought her little brother KJ who looks like a shrunken sage with her. He’s about two and was afraid of the thunder. They came inside, we had oatmeal, dates, and tea with honey. Once the storm let up I had to leave. I was already late. Did I leave her with the key to the front room and lock my bedroom? We were told never to give people keys or leave them unattended in our homes.

“Don’t tempt people.”

I usually lock and guard everything because I have a tendency to misplace things and assume they’re stolen when I can’t find them. This never ends well. I locked the bedroom and tried to give her the key.

“No, you can lock the front door.”

“What if it starts raining? Or Kodjo gets scared? You’ll get soaked. What if you need water to drink?”

She had confident responses to each of these. Then I thought about a workshop, Undoing Racism and Community Organizing, I attended back home in New Orleans. It was hosted by the People’s Institute for Survival and Beyond. Great stuff. Not perfect, but great, mid-expanding, self-reflection and evaluation inducing stuff.

“What do Black mothers tell there sons about dating white girls?”

A Black man raises his hand. “Don’t go near that. If anything happens, it’ll be ‘the Black man did it’ all over again. She’ll end up on the witness stand crying and he’ll end up in jail.” It’s not that multi-racial dating is bad or white people are bad. White people have the power in our country and in most of the world, often not using it responsibly, even know that they have it, or doing anything to get rid of it.

Have you heard of the Innocence Project? Or how many innocent black men are convicted of things like rapes and murders that are actually committed by a white person close to the victim? I don’t remember the numbers, but there are a lot. Too many.

When you don’t have social power, you have to think ahead about how you’ll be blamed. AM knew that if anything was missing, wrong, broken, she could be blamed. She knew that if we went to the chief, he would side with me. Maybe because I’m white. More likely because he doesn’t want to piss people off, like Peace Corps, America, donors, people that will make the village better and his life easier. He doesn’t even know what I’m doing here really, but if I’m gone, he knows that’s bad news.

No one would defend her, except for maybe her family. But then there would be a divide, sides in the “trial,” shunning, and stigma.

So she didn’t take the key. I left it outside and closed the screen door, just in case. She didn’t go inside and made sure she was in plain sight of the neighbors the whole time I was gone.

I can’t imagine how much privilege I must have to have never had to think about this. She’s 19. What else does she worry about? What else have I never had to think of?

Rain

A la Facebook: it’s complicated. When there is rain no one shows up; everything is cancelled. Plans get pushed back for the third week in a row. “Will these girls ever get to learn about oral rehydration salts? Will they always think malaria comes from the sun and working too long in the fields? I am accomplishing nothing.”

BUT: cool breezes, “a hurricane day” (for y’all Yankees, that’s a “snow day” J), no sunburn, fewer trips to the water pump this week, reading English instead of speaking French, and no surprise visitors asking for money or kids coming to play with the gears on my bike. If I shower in the rain, there are no bugs. Various animals stay out of my garden and my pathetic sprouts have a shot at another day of life.

Do They Hear You When You Cry and Other Readings

Just want to take a second to promote this book. It’s the only book written by a Togolese author I’ve found yet. Different from my experience up north, but addresses key issues. A random quote I liked:

“…the way he came rushing to tell her of every achievement as if it didn’t become real or meaningful to him until he had shared it with her.” (30)

Thanks for sending me news! I read in Time Magazine Aug. 2010 that the military still has trouble keeping our soldiers sane and problems are only getting worse. Every deployment increases a soldier’s risk of suicide by a third! Wyclef Jean, President of Haiti? Perhaps. Pros and Cons, but I think I see mostly pros, surprisingly. Though I have only read one article. Yele Corps, an aid group he started, sounded interesting…

Also, reading Hygiene Evaluation Procedures and Participatory Analysis for Community Action. Less fun but very useful.

Thanks to ML, Mom, MW, DT, and Dad and sending letters and packages. I love hearing from you all and especially appreciate the chocolate!!!

“Pourquoi tu m’as fait comme ca?” -AI26 August 2010

Today was my best day in Togo thus far. I was able to completely zone out and set up my entire house, I did not sweat profusely, had good digestion, and even made banana bread in my dutch oven. Everything happened so smoothly- when there was a problem, even a challenging one, the solution (obvious or creative) was right in front of my face. I did things I didn’t know I was capable of doing and had an amazing amount of energy. It feels as if a whole week has passed in the last 18 hours.

My cell phone unexpectedly rang at 6:30; I had planned to be up an hour before and go running, but that never happens when I start reading around 11:00 the night before… (p.s. loving The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo;realizing how little I know about Sweden…) The call was from a PC (Peace Corps) affiliate 30 K north whose furniture I bought and planned to have delivered tomorrow, but he just happened to get the truck early and was outside my house. At 6:30. In the morning. He apologized profusely and explained the situation. I looked like, smelled like, and felt like crap, but I was SO excited to finally have furniture!

I spent 7 hours removing spider webs from chairs and tables, sweeping, and using gymnastics/carefully and well thought out weight balancing tricks to move my large furniture over the concrete wall separating my porch from the empty apartment next door where it was being stored during the rain storm. I didn’t drop anything or get hurt. Shocking.

When my house was finally (and beautifully) in order, I showered, washed and conditioned my hair (which doesn’t happen every day), and went over to the market. My neighbor has giver me some bananas she couldn’t sell and I decided I was ready to try baking banana bread in my dutch oven.

The over works pretty well, but the only problem is that the pot is pretty small, so it’s hard to take things out without burning myself.

In the market, which was full of people and exciting new products. I boughtsoja, tofu in a tasty tomato-based sauce that tastes like glory. A vendor from one of the millet beer stands called me over and I tasted the local brew. Interesting.

I found some bike wires and paper clips. With these I used my neighbors pliers (previously used as a hammer…) to make a small basket to hold my oven pan and mixed up the batter.

I substituted peanut oil for shortening and realized that I haven’t seen any nuts other than peanuts in Togo. About 50 minutes later is was done. Delish. I shared with the neighbors, but it was late and they looked confused. It’s bed time… why are you eating? Clearly they don’t know me yet. I’m pretty sure I eat in my sleep.

I then devised a new system for washing dishes that doesn’t kill my back or require excessive amounts of bleach. Tables really help with physically preservation. Since being here I realize that most of the things I’m used to (fridges, counters of a certain height, gas stoves, shutters…) have all evolved for a distinct purpose, mostly relating to physical pain.

Random reflections/ moments to share from this week:

Asking “why” is not the norm here. For instance when people speak to me in Tchokossi, I ask what they mean and they don’t explain, just tell me to repeat. Because that’s how you say it. Also, tonal differences are difficult to hear, no matter how many times people repeat it for me. I know one day soon I’m going to try to say “I want to talk to you” and it’s going to come out “I love you.”

In lieu of Lincoln Logs, corn cobs can be substitutes.

Celion Dion rules all, as does the Titanic theme song, which I hear at least once a day and often as a ring tone.

A child less than 2 years old can shout “Madame Adama” with great enthusiasm from a kilometer or more away, and it will sound like they’re next to me. It takes me a good minute or so to find them in the distance, but when I do they are waving a running towards me just to stop, stare, and pant in front of me. “Ca va mon amie?” “Ca va TRES bien.” It’s never going, or going well here; it’s always going VERY well.

Being called “Mama” is new to me. Here, and in a lot of places, family terms are used in general and applied based on relative generations. For instance, anyone my grandmother’s age, I would call grandma. I supposed I’m technically old enough to be their mother, but some must think I’m older and some must simply “increase my status” because I’m a foreigner. “Mama Adama.” Yea, that’s gonna take time. But it’s sweet.

When plugging the official journee mondiales into my calendar, I realized that my sister’s birthday is African Women’s Day and the day I was supposed to be born is International health Day. Yea, I think that’s validation that I’m in the right place at the right time, and in the right arena.

Like I said, I’m reading Steig Larrsson’s book. This quote got my mind wandering for a while, so I thought I’d share: “It would be deplorable if the special interests had the power to silence those voices in the media that they find uncomfortable.” – page 267.

I asked for the translation for C-Section in Tchokossi: “Bu yo u juma nab u yi ba ni.” Translation: “They do your work and remove the baby there.”

Moonlight is light! Except for when it’s really cloudy or inside my house, I don’t really need light at night. Nature rocks. I’ve also learned to recycle everything into my garden via compost or ash. Mostly because the “garbage” dump is a designated area in the backyard, which does not mesh with my newfound obsessive cleanliness.

I’m living in a world without “Hooked on Phonics.” People are amazed that I can write in local language without speaking it. If they haven’t memorized a word, they don’t know how to say it. This feels ludicrous to me. Why are people not learning phonetics?! Check: privilege.

Playing UNO and SET work very well for crossing linguistic and cultural boundaries, once you find a way to explain the rules that is. “Comme ca,” and “Pas comme ca,” are incredibly useful phrases.

Once my neighbors finally got a handle on the games, which are a bit more complex than I realized, they started to get into the competitive spirit. Anytime there is a draw four, skip, draw two, or reverse played I hear,“Pourquoi tu m’as fait comme ca?” Yesterday, after hearing this phrase for a while and knowing what it “means,” I actually translated it.

“Why did you do me like that?” which feels semantically different somehow. I wonder if socio-linguistically that “slang” expression found in the U.S. has roots from immigrants of French-speaking countries? Just a pense.

I’m starting workshops soon and am glad to be finally settled in my house before all of that starts. Thanks for the letters and calls JJ, ML, and mom! For everyone else: I’ve got a new PO Box, please send me letters. I would love to write you!

“La raison et entre la philosophie et le pratique” -SA29 August 2010

Yesterday I met with the peer educators group. One guy who is a formateur and has attended workshops in Burkina, Benin, and all over Togo brought his training materials to show me.

One tool was pretty interesting. “The ocean of AIDS” was a blue pagne/blanket with attachments on either end. In the “ocean” were three “boats.” The first, Abstinence, the second, fidelity, the third, condoms. A forth pocket was made of the same blue material and was a hidden pouch. The pouch represented falling into the ocean and being captured by the rapture of AIDS. A bit dramatic, but it got the point across.

I figured the goal would be to discuss different behaviors that would fall into each category somehow.

Then he presented me with about 50 yellow cards the size of a half sheet of paper. Each had an individual photocopied onto it. There were people of all ages, genders, professions… The goal was to evaluate the person’s lifestyle base don the information you saw and predict where they would end up in the ocean.

The first image presented was a young woman in a wrap skirt and t-shirt selling some item from a basket on her head. She was walking and held her product out in her hand to advertise it. “This woman is looking for money.” Yes, she was a vendor, that makes sense.

“That means she’s having sex, if he product is worth 2,000 CFA and I tell her I will give her 10,000 CFA, she knows that means I want to have sex with her. She needs money so she will take it.”

There was no image of the person proposing this deal in the cards.

So, she would end up in either the condom boat or the ocean.

Then was a picture of a business man walking and swinging his suitcase. Rather stout and bald… he was clearly rich. “This man also loves money.” In other words, he’s paying for sex. We didn’t decide which boat he would go in.

I asked several times, “So you want me to judge what this person does by what they look like?” phrasing it differently each time. They laughed at my naivite.

He presented me with an image of a woman in a short skirt and a t-shirt. She was sticking her butt out. Everyone laughed, this one was obvious. She was a prostitute and she would definitely end up in the ocean.

I tried to explain that in my culture we have a saying, “Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.” This idea was dismissed, “here, you can look at someone and know all about them.”

Respecting cultural differences versus “la lutte” for social justice. Dilemma.

Other games included sketches/skits that provoked discussions on stigma against people living with HIV or AIDS, often labeled “SIDAyennes” or AIDS-iennes. (problematic…) Also, discussions regarding the importance of drinking clean water, exclusive breastfeeding for 6 months, preventing HIV transmission, and avoiding unwanted pregnancy.

A lot of the materials were great and I borrowed all of them, primarily to copy the images. Many were produced by religious or foreign agencies. At the end of a manual discussing HIV and AIDS there was a page about “hope for the person with AIDS.” It reminded them that god was looking over them and they would soon be in heaven with Christ…

At the same time, there are messages throughout society (here, in the U.S., etc.) about moral supremacy and that if you have AIDS it’s probably because you sinned and deserve to suffer and go to hell. (From similar religious groups.)

I find that as problematic as religion can be here, it is also seen as a necessity.

When discussing upcoming holidays with a member of the health staff at the local clinic (and I have this conversation several times a week), he asked about my religion. “I don’t have one… I like them all.” I explained that I have an understanding of “God” that I can access no matter the environment (mosque, temple, home, or church).

“But you should really choose one, you can like them all but each has it’s own rules to follow, and you must choose one to follow.”

“I think you should reflect on the rules before following them. Each religion has rules I find good and bad for life.”

“Like murder?” Yes, I agreed, that was straightforward in almost all religions and ethical codes, murder is bad. He still looked confused.

“For instance, parts of the Bible and Qu’ran say that slavery is ok. I don’t think it ever is.”

Ok… “What about polygamy.” That’s a tricky one. (Another blog.) Missing the point. This wasn’t about judging “god’s” individual rules, it was about evaluating the various philosophies regarding ethics found in different religions and traditions and combining them to create a faith of mélange-d ideals and trying to hold myself to those ideal standards.

Basically, he was asking which dogmas I followed, which rules I would be abiding by in my work, and hoping to fit me into a box he could wrap his mind around. In this way he could better understand “me” by associating me with stereotypes he knew. My “mixed-faith” beliefs did not fit conveniently into his understanding of the world.

“You really need to choose a religion.”

It wasn’t said in an evangelical way, but more out of concern. What would happen to me when I hit a rough point in life? What community and faith would I lean on? What would happen to my eternal soul? He was concerned for me. I was grateful that he didn’t use a patronizing tone.

Thinking outside of the box is not something I find here very often. Dogma, recitation, memorization, and following the rules. That is understood. That has worked. Uncertainty and failure are not options. There is no net to catch you if you are “wrong.”

We were interrupted with perfect timing. The debate I was trying to coerce into becoming dialogue had led to a stalemate- a much better outcome than how these conversations can end.

“I’d like to continue this conversation sometime.”

“Yes, we’ll causer soon.”

Making Dehydration Fun30 August 2010

Led my first causerie today ! I spent and hour and half talking to 30 teenage girls about dehydration and how to make ORS (oral rehydration solution?). It’s great for hydration but also hangovers, as many volunteers will attest to, though I have not yet tested this.

1L of water½ tsp salt8 tsp sugar

Optional additions:- 1 mashed banana- 1 cup fruit juice (or coconut milk)

The girls participated with hesitation, fell into all the traps I wanted to catch them in (to discuss misconceptions), and volunteered for my activities. We played games, did cheers, and they taught me the “Chineese cheer.” I asked why it was called that.

“That’s just how they cheer in China.”

By the end I think they were bored with dehydration, and tried of saying the monstrous word, “deshydratation,” which I can’t even say correctly. But I think everyone got something out of it. Most remembered to bring their cups to taste the bizarre solution and those who were fasting for Ramadan took some home.

Next week: diarrhea. Yay!

« C’est l’argent, pour que tu peux manger. »31 August 2010

I am so tired of people asking me for money. People will come over to greet me, even people I really like, and then slip money or cadeau into the conversation. “Je doit manger et je n’ai pas l’argent.” Even if they are in the process of eating a full meal. It’s annoying.

If it’s a child, I give them the cold should and tell that it’s impolite. If it’s an adult, I play along, “You’re going to give me money! Oh, that’s so nice!” Everyone laughs and tension is dispersed, though secretly, I’m pissed. I thought this “friendship” was more than a ploy to get shit from me. Though I don’t blame people for asking. You can’t get what you need unless you ask for it.

Some people, who clearly don’t need the help should be ashamed to be asking for it, “to eat.” But others, well, it takes courage to ask for help when you need it. So, my responses often depend on the situation. No matter what, even if I want to, I decided that I will not be handing out money, ever. It sets a bad precedent and expectations. It also further enforces the image of “the rich white person coming to pity and pay for the poor African,” which I detest.

Yesterday was the first conversation about money that made me smile. A group of little boys was hanging out on my patio. I had leftover baked goods and sweet tea, which I shared. “C’est doux!” Their eyes opened wide upon tasting all the sugar and they began looking around curiously for other wonders in the vicinity.

These kids knew I didn’t like it when people asked me for money. Then one piped up, “He wa….”

“I couldn’t hear you, whatdid you say?”

“He wants to ask you for money…” Their eyes waited for my response, know it would not be good.

“I am not here to give out money, you know that,” giving them a very intentional stone face and continuing wit my work. Their response was a silent equivalent to “ooooh, teacher’s mad.”

They went on playing and eventually left after hiding from my landlord (a very nice man who somehow instills the fear of god into children). I heard some whispers on the other side of my fence. Were they playing a game, scheming, or telling secrets?

A few moments later, three of them came back. They had big grins on their faces. “What is it?”

“C’est l’argent pour que tu peux manger.” One of the little boys handed me 10 FCFA. They were so proud of their collection. Before I could respond or give it back, they ran away giggling. Adorable and forgiven.

Livre du Moment1 September

I just started reading “Sex Is Not A Natural Act,” a book of short essays written in 1995 by a sexologist. It’s incredibly interesting. I never have the energy to read (and enjoy) theory in the states. There are too many other things to stress about and theory, well, it just takes time to process and in the United States of America there is no such thing as “free time.”

Now that my home is cozy and my workshops set up, I’m going to try keeping up with all of that and not adding MORE, which I have a tendency to do before I’m ready. So I’m thoroughly enjoying my free time.

The book talks a lot about psychology and communication, validates some of my ideas regarding sex and relationships, and introduces new ones. She talks about the medicalization and biological determinism often presented as given foundations of sexual study. As a consequence, health workers (like me) who talk about sex in a biological sense often have a monopoly on the public dialogue regarding sex and the expectations individuals have for their own experiences as consequence.

She talks about “normalcy” and the human desire to conform. For instance, when the dialogue regarding sex transferred from being a religious and moral issue to a medical and scientifically studied one, the definition of “normal” changed from what books said our lives should be like and what should be normal to what people said (what was statistically normal).

Also, as a result of cultural shifts relationships are no longer (in her US/European context) solely formed for the purposes of survival and reproduction. People have social and psychological expectations from their partner and feel their physical interaction is a reflection of deeper emotional connections. She debates whether or not a physical relationship is even an integral part of a partnership.

It’s interesting stuff and she is definitely more clear, reflective, and thought-provoking than my attempt to explain what I’ve taken from it thus far. I’m not sure I agree with everything she says, but it’s definitely logical, challenging, and relevant to the conversations I’m trying to lead. I would recommend it, even if just for the mind expansion.

P.S. JA, you would LOVE this book!

August 15, 2010

First week at post. I’ve learned so much. It was pretty rough at first learning how to carry water, boil, filter, and bleach enough and still have time to do other things with my day. Cooking three times a day was a big of a challenge in the same way, but I’ve learned to make just enough food for lunch and have leftovers for dinner. Though, this process requires being very wary of ants.

I’ve become obsessed with cleaning (there are so many ants and beetles!), covering my water (mosquitoes), and minimizing my light use (termites).

There are a few things I thoroughly appreciate: I have not seen ONE roach at my site. I think it’s too dry… ? The stars are amazing. I sometimes feel like I’m back home with all the crickets and traffic.

The frogs are kind of annoying- they could drown out any noise including the trucks. But because I know they’ll be gone in dry season and they’re just so amusing, the annoying factor is “diminuer-ed” un peu.

In Lome I bought a Lit Picot and small mattress instead of a bed and saved a lot of money for household items like a dutch oven. Now I feel much less stressed about money. I designed my kitchen countertops and once I save enough money I’m going to have them made! Planned to make a hammock and several hanging lighting devices. DM bought a ton of wood and is going make all the furniture for their house. I may take some lessons.

Market say was great, though very rainy. I realized that the back half of the market is all Tchakba stands (millet beer). The later you go in the day, the more drunks there are. Since a bought a plastic tub and carried my things around in it people kept asking what I was selling. “Bouillie, cent franc, cent franc,” I joked. “Let me see.” Inquisitive look. How could this Batoolay (local term for Yovo) be selling bouillie? “Oh, I’m just kidding.” Bursts of laughter.

I’m starting to learn Fulani and Tchokossi too- mostly in the market.

I spent the week-end in Dapaong (NW of village) with other stage-mates and volunteers. I’ve basically been eating constantly: FanMilk, pizza-ish, French fries, chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter sandwiches, chocolate crepe, OMG. I got a huge 120L plastic trash can to store pump water carried to my house in 25L yellow oil jugs. Also, special food items like Vache Qui Rit cheese, oatmeal, wheat flour, and a beautiful bamboo cutting board.

… And planning my garden with an NRM (natural Resources Management) volunteer CT- I can’t wait to get started! He gave me a book on permagardens and showed me jitrofa seeds. Plants won’t go near these bushes so it creates an organic fence. The seeds also contain an oil that can be extracted for fuel.

I may use moringa, though. This glorious tree provides so many benefits, primarily the leaves can be made into an incredibly nutrition-rich powder that helps malnourished kids especially.

I’m going to start with some herbs and veggies I can’t get: tomatoes, lettuce, carrots, etc. CT also told me about these compost circle things. You plant 4 trees around a compost “hole” near a source of grey water output (latrine, showers, etc.) The trees filter the dirty water and provide shade for plants that need less sun/heat. You put compostable materials in the soil between and you get nutrient soil, great veggies, and re-use normally wasted water and organic trash… in the middle of Savannes!

Like I said, I’m excited. Nothing could be better than a Papaya during dry season.

DT wasn’t feeling so well last night so DM and I went in search of a chicken to make soup. On the way was a glorious garden someone constructed on their terrace. He invited us in and we took pictures- inspiration for my own.

We ended up with a grilled guinea hen, tons of veggies and couscous. (I went a little crazy with the veggies because there aren’t many in village.) It was glorious. We’re going to have salad before heading out today (!!!).

I got a few things for my house: a shovel (!), knives, and fabric for drapes. I should be getting some furniture this week- at least a table, so there will be less bending and squatting for dishes, laundry, cooking, and cleaning (hopefully).

In September I’ll start teaching a couple of health classes at a new and gorgeous NGO “Un Pour Tous, Tous Pour Un” for their tailoring apprentices and a local mom’s club. Still trying to take it slow. Oh, and LOVING the care packages and letters! Thanks JJ (A LOT!) and mom.

4 August 2010

Officially swore in today and moved out. We haven’t had much time to prepare (a.k.a. shop) but we’re having a good time together. Esther cried when I left, which was incredibly sad to watch but also validated our bond (so I know it’s not just me). I’m really going to miss her!

I’ve been eating A LOT. And I’m super full at the moment. We had LETTUCE for dinner. LETTUCE. Normally you can’t eat such things because they have all kinds of bacteria growing on them. But today it was provided by PC and… OH MY GOD. I miss veggies so much. Especially leafy, glorious lettuce. Heaven. There are rumors of ice cream, mixed drinks, and hamburgers in Lome. We even have wireless at the hotel. Well, kind of. It fades in and out.

And we received our settling in allowances- 230,000 CFA (about 460 USD). It only took 4 hours of sitting in the bank to actually withdraw the money, but a little “Dieu est la” and “du courage” got us through it. I studied my Tchokossi/Anufo speech, which I suck at, but “ca va aller.” All of these Togolese expressions… there’s such a lack of personal power embedded in them or defeatism or something. But I think it also depends on how you translate them. Looking at “du courage” as “you can do it” is a little more familiar. Anyways, I felt rich for a whole 2 seconds and then…

From the allowance I had to spend 35,000 on a gas tank, 35,000 on the gas stove, and about 14,000 at the “Yovo” store specialty items like brown sugar, soy sauce, post-its, ketchup, foil, and rum. I’ll also be spending about 65,000 on a good mattress that will last the next two years, strapping it to the top of a van and driving it up to Savannes. I’ve already ordered several small pieces of furniture (desk and stool, small table, and kitchen cabinet) from a carpenter in Sagbiebou and that will take off another 45,000. I still don’t have a bed or kitchen counter or kitchen table. So I’ll be living lean for a while. Not really by Togolese standards, but I’m not Togolese. So I think my desk may be my kitchen table for a while… on va voir.

I got 2 AWESOME packages today. Thanks mom and ML!!! Chocolate. MORE. Vanilla. Candy and junk food are needed. Especially OREOS. Dried fruit would be good. Good jump ropes.

Ok, this last item is for serious  I’m planning to start a girl’s jump rope team. Many volunteers have worked with starting girls’ soccer teams since the majority of extra-curriculars and, well, schools in general are dominated by boys. Instead of going to school, girls are expected to help take care of the house, cook, and look after younger siblings or their own kids.

So having an activity where girls can get together to learn (e.g. a 15-minute presentation on nutrition, safe sex, or malaria and learning cool rope tricks) and then play (not be constantly working, participating in a group activity, getting exercise- not that they need it, and having the opportunity to take a leadership role)… well it’s all good stuff. They can be a support group for each when facing discrimination in schools and dealing with harassment.

This jump rope team would learn double-Dutch, singles, pairs, and group activities. So ropes of all sizes would be great. There are handles here, nuts, and clothesline, but I’ve never actually made my own (just seen it done… a lot). If someone could send good clothesline (not rope) jump ropes… that would be awesome!

In other news… EB rejoined the group after being bitten by a black mamba. The story we heard was apparently an over-dramatization, but it was still scary. We’re glad she’s healthy and back with us. We also heard LE is coming back soon!!!

I’m really tired of moving around and living out of suitcases, being slightly negative, and feeling dependant. Post will be a good change though I will miss the group, my family, and Fan Milk (frozen yogurt in a sachet). I am nervous about the isolation, motivation of my community, and learning local languages: Tchokossi/Anufo, Fulani, Gangan, Moba, Kotokoli, and others. But (get ready for this mom) I’m excited to make a community map, do a needs assessment, and get to know my neighbors better. It’s going to be a good two years I just have to get my head in the right place and set a good routine for the first few months.

My journal is filling up and I haven’t really had any major digestive problems, illnesses, or accidents. I’d like to run more and sweat less, but aside from living on a tight budget I can’t complain. I feel pretty in control of my quality of life and am thoroughly enjoying my stage-mates… well, now “PCV” peers.

Thanks for the support, again, the letters really make my day/week. Please send photos from home!!

July 24, 2010

The last month has gone by so quickly! The biggest thing so far was post assignments. I had “requested” somewhere with NO mountains (a.k.a. opportunities to fall off cliffs and die), preferably a religiously diverse or primarily Muslim community, a motivated counterpart, and a community that needs a lot of information on family planning and safe sex (my favorite topics).

My post is up north near Mango in the Savannes region. Because of intense dry seasons, famine, draught, and lack of veggies, nutrition is poor. Originally, I was disappointed because I thought my site would be only nutrition work. The only thing I am less passionate about is hygiene and sanitation, maybe dehydration. When KJ (a PCV Trainer) talked about FARN (malnutrition rehab mini-conference), it got me a little more excited about nutrition. I think I was primarily attracted to the organization and visual aides, but that’s something.

All of the un-sexy topics are also very important to introduce and reinforce, probably more important in some cases since diarrhea (dehydration) is the primary cause of death among kids ages 0-5. So I started finding reasons to get excited.

Then I found out that my village is incredibly diverse: at least 6 ethnic groups; an even distribution of Muslims, Christians, and Animists; and the community needs information on all of the topics. And I get to be in Savannes, which means that I get to see the whole country and will be surrounded by the most “chill” volunteers.

We did a week of post visit, which was mediocre. My “house” is amazing! It’s two concrete rooms that are newly painted with drop ceilings (a.k.a. no surprise mice and lizards falling on my mosquito net in the middle of the night), and my own brand new latrine! I have a nice little porch and screened windows with internal shutters. My apartment is in a compound I share with my landlord, his two wives, their two kids, and a teacher at the local middle school. They’re paranoid about security and are very welcoming.

I also got pretty close to my counterpart’s sister and her family. The teenage daughter brought me bouillie (porridge) every morning, to which I added about a cup of sugar in order to eat. It was nice to get into a routine of boiling water to drink, cleaning, and setting up house. I got to feel pretty cozy despite several less than exciting experiences. Because vegetables are hard to find I have to wait until Thursday’s market to get them and stock up for the week, which will take some getting used to, but hopefully by “spring” I will have my own garden going.

Returning from post visit was great. A few volunteer neighbors of mine came to visit at post and helped me get to the “maisons” or transit houses for post visit parties- one in Savannes and on in Plateau. I didn’t realize how much I needed to feel “at home” again. Those two nights of feeling “American” again gave me a lot of energy and re-inspiration.

Back in Gbatope it was SO nice to see my host family again. It was weird that this village I’d only known for a month really felt like home base. And I really missed Esther. Since I’ve returned I started giving her baths after lunch and we play new games of nose-poking, dancing, co-sweeping, and making weird noises together. We even got matching dresses!

She came with me to class once (accidentally) and sat through our session with the ambassador without a word. She slept on my chest the whole time. It was adorable. I still smile every time I see her sitting on the training potty in the morning with her combo “I just woke up, my hair’s a mess” and “how does this work again?” look (she sits there for half an hour). I’m really going to miss her.

I feel like in the states people are really protective of their children. Here, the mentality is more along the lines of “it takes a village to raise a child.” Getting to be a part of that village is a great learning opportunity and I really feel like I’m beginning to understand how parenting works. It takes a village to train good parents too, and I feel like I’m more prepared for that “future/potential” experience.

We’ve done a few “causeries” on family planning and HIV. I’m starting to feel really comfortable with it all. The facilitation piece is easy for me (I have no problem making a fool of myself or talking about ‘uncomfortable’ topics), but the language always makes me nervous. And using a translator makes it take twice as long. But so far so good.

Today- you’ll never believe it- but we found a pool in Tsevie. It’s fancy. There’s even a bar inside. It was glorious. And I feel clean. Except for my Chacos, which always smell funky. Only two more weeks until I’m sworn in as an official volunteer!!! Then it’s off to Sagbiebou!

I have LOVED getting letters, packages, texts, and phone calls- some days I really need the support. Thank you ML, AL, IR, and mom! I may be getting a new PO Box in Mango, just FYI. I will try to post once a month at least, but my nearest internet is about 2.5 hours away so we’ll see… no major health problems and lots of fun. Much love to LE and CJ- we miss you!

June 27, 2010

Today was an exceptional day. And exhausting.

5:30 am- Run on the road to Kodzo with host “dad” a.k.a. Fofovi (big brother). Stop at the top of the first hill where we can see the village and turn around because Lizzy doesn’t do hills. It was a nice 5K though Fofovi was consistently picking up the pace in his flip flops.

6:30 am- Bucket shower done and time for breakfast. The usual. Amazing French bread (the best ever) with an egg omelet inside. Hot Lipton with sugar. Esther does the usual: eat every piece of egg and/or protein on the plate (be it on your plate or hers) before entertaining the idea of carbs.

7:30 am- Walk with Estherna (my host “mom” who is a few months older than me) and Fofovi’s cousin to meet Fofovi in the fields. The trip is about a kilometer and when we turn left into the personal family field, the path turns from rugged brush surrounding a narrow path to a beautiful walkway lined with pineapple and baobabs. He later explained that he spent the entire day before preparing for our arrival by cleaning the path of weeds.

8:00 am- I learn how to plant manioc, peppers, and pineapples with a machete and learn where the former stagaires (trainees) planted their crops.

9:00 am- I learn how to build a hut and benches like the one Fovoi has at his field site. Using only a machete, palm leaves, bamboo, and string you can build some amazing stuff.

10:00 am- I learn how to make charcoal in only 2 days. You burry burning wood in dirt and palm leaves. We spent a really long time putting the steam out and collecting the charcoal. It smelled gross. Then the three of us (Estherna, Fofovi’s cousin, and I) carried large basins full of it back to the house. Estherna carried Esther on her back too, with no hands! Their balance here amazes me!

11:15 am- I’m covered in charcoal and dirt and sweat. 2nd bucket shower of the day.

11:30 am- Begin laundry by hand, including the sheets and pillowcase I haven’t washed yet and some of Esther’s clothes I volunteered to do (kids are SO messy). Junior also stopped by to give me a bracelet he had made with my name on it (a tradition he has with the stagaires in my host family).

12:30 pm- Break for lunch. Beans and rice with red sauce and tofu. Oh, and doxy! Lovely visit from the local chapter of Jehovah’s Witnesses. “You can make a financial contribution if you are able to in order to support the good lord’s work.” You can have the good lord’s work back. At least they don’t hide their message in music covers like the ones I’ve received back home. The lit here is pretty straightforward. Apparently he’s coming back next week to discuss my readings.

Am I being targeted because I’m one of the few Yovos who hasn’t gone to church yet? I don’t think so… and I would actually like to check out one of the services- there’s so much dancing and music you can hear it throughout the whole village. The only problem is that all services are 4 hours long and in Ewe. I feel like it’s more rude to fall asleep in a service than to just not show up. Plus, my host family doesn’t go and I am grateful to be relieved of that pressure.

1:00 pm- Resume laundry. Develop callaces and cuts that burn as well as back pains from hunching over. Also gain major sense of accomplishment for doing it on my own. Fofovi’s cousin walks by and says, “no.” “Quoi?” I ask. This exchange goes on 3 times then she walks away. My spirit of accomplishment is destroyed, but I get over it quickly. At least I’m getting better. In Mali people would just tell me to go sit down and watch.

3:00 pm- Several stagaires initiate a game of foot (soccer) next to the village’s Catholic church. Togolese join in and basically take over. P.S. this is the first game of soccer I’ve ever played and the Togolese have been basically practicing since they were in utero. I learned that you’re not supposed to touch the ball with your hands, but you can use your hands to get players out of the way. (For those of you at home: I applied my only hockey strategies, but no one was injured and there was no ref and no box).

Another trainee fell on her knee weird/ was kicked and the game ended. No worries, she’s well taken care of! Our initial instinct was to look for ice, but we don’t have that here so the Peace Corps driver took her to a nearby town to look for popsicles. The nurse in heading in tomorrow to check it out, give us another health talk, and check in on someone else’s explosive diarrhea. But, hey, no malaria yet and that’s a record for me!

6:00 pm- Estherna is a hairdresser and has her third or fourth client in the living room when I get home. I read up for this week’s training sessions on facilitation and communication. It’s very reminiscent of intergroup dialogue with fewer social justice foundations. Also read some of the PACA manual on how to gage a community’s needs and have them take ownership of projects to increase sustainability.

7:00 pm- Dinner: couscous with tofu and red sauce, grilled corn, and Crystal Lite lemonade + Emergen-C. Again, Esther eats all the proteins first and cried when you don’t hand it over. Another mechanism to assuage the pleur-ing is a ride on her mom’s back; the Togolese equivalent to a mid-night car ride to induce snoozing.

8:00 pm- Removed dry laundry and made bed by lantern-light. Finished up some letters, took 3rd bucket bath of the day, and talked to the ship mate.

10:00 pm- Way past my bedtime here. Will rise again when the rooster goes off (more like when the lizards and chickens begin to run across my tin roof).

Thoroughly enjoying the mail I’ve received. Please send more! I also received my post last week: Sagbiebou up north in Savannes! I’ll get to see all of Togo and be close to Mali. My village is facing a lot of health issues that will be interesting to work on: malnutrition, HIV prevention and AIDS care, reproductive health, sanitation, and children’s growth monitoring. I think it’s sad that Americans have to go all the way to developing nations to be able to teach/learn about reproductive health “the right way.” The model here is based on actual program evaluation regarding effectiveness in STI and unwanted pregnancy prevention. Imagine, teaching youth what they need to know in time for it to be of use!

Worriers: I have felt super-healthy since being here and had no problems. We’ve got a nice little jogging group and yoga is gaining popularity.

This recipe has been influenced by family, mentors, friends and interesting strangers. I'm working on it.

Ingredients:

- 1 cup coffee

- 1 glass chilled Sweet Tea

- 6 cups sifted humility

- 37 stereotypes broken into halves

- 1 pinch gumption (concentrate)

- 1/4 tsp confidence (sticky)

- 1 cup responsibility

- 2 cups accountability

- 3 cups solidarity

- 5 passion fruit carefully seeded

Spices:

- Country music to taste (and complimentary social critique)

- Sprinkle SEX ED liberally on top (shown to have many health benefits)

- Tony's (because)

Directions: In a humid, warm environment let the responsibility rise on a table leveled by social justice. In a separate rainbow bowl, alternately add the hot coffee and cold sweet tea. Mix the humility, broken stereotypes, and gumption. Scrape the batter from its comfort zone on the edge of the bowl and push it gently towards the learning edges in the center. Add the accountability, solidarity, and passion carefully. When adding confidence, measure accurately; too much will prevent the batter from mixing with the other ingredients and baking evenly. Place in the sunshine for 23 years. And always decorate with marzipan.

* Sometimes power is added as a catalyst. Make sure to check the brand, production date and place. Use wisely.

I am in the airport leaving the Clinton Global Initiative University conference in Maimi. Inspiration. Not just the speakers or that you know everyone you meet with be a rockstar for progress, but getting to reconnect with UT for REED and reflect on what we did, how we can do better.

We sat in the airport for 2 hours planning the next conference. Throwing our questions and brainstorming solutions. Baby steps.

How are we going to engage the Deaf communities in Mali and the US more? They should be leading this project. We need to teach fundraising, community organizing, and awareness within the hearing population in adition to computer skills and health information.

Do we host another conference or travel to different sites? How do we select participants? How do we manage translation and engage those without internet access or basic literacy?

Can you believe what we did? We organized a conference in another country, managing four languages, taught computer skills to people (many of whom had never touched a computer before), taught video recording and gathered 80 people from accross the country. As undergrads. As hearing people (complicated). We fundraised $15,000 and hosted an entire conference, purchased all supplies, and paid for flights with just that much. We stretched every penny. And though thr project may not be currently as sustainable and successful as we would have like ideally...

There is a teacher in Goundam working with Deaf students on skills he learned form us. He is teaching them how to type, how to film, how to protect their bodies, how to educate their peers. He is making movies and burning DVDS on the computers we brought. He may not be blogging because there is no internet... but he is working on progressing his community in way he was not equipt to do a year ago.

Can you believe we did it?

No. Yes. We can do better. We can invite contacts in Burkina Faso and Togo. They can participate and create their own conferences the next year. We need to step up towards the goal of eventually stepping back MORE.

We rock and we have a lot of progress to make.

We are starting a non-profit to be able to apply for grants and collect donations in a more accountable way. We are looking for new partners- preferrably Deaf, but primarily passionate- to help us build the technical and social infrastructure we need to keep these conferences going.

We are blogging about our meetings so that people who are building their own projects can see our process- our strengths and our mistakes. We want to create transparency for donors and so that we can get good advice about how to improve our approach and actions.

Discussing what we CAN do and HOW we are going to do it with Abbie, Jessica, and Urmi is always incredible. We brainstorm and predict roadblocks, question, and critique from so many angles. And it wasn't the same without Danielle. Our collaboration brings together analyses from so many disciplines, lifestyles, and belief systems. Cultivating and expanding that diversity is so important to our successful progress. I have so many ideas. So many plans.

Inspired.

When I returned to the U.S., I joined an organization called UT for REED (Rural Enhancement through Education and Design). Along with several members, I started the EDA Mali Signs Project which is aimed at establishing a video connection between the school in Bamako and TSD or other signers in Austin.

Ideally, each month, one of the schools would create a video based on some provided materials, topics, and their own research. Each video will have a theme (HIV/AIDS, TB, the common cold, etc.) and demonstrate some aspects of local culture. For example, the Austin students might film their piece at Barton Springs or the Bamako school might film theirs on the Niger River. A major piece of this proposal is to incorporate UT students in the process of video equipment training and creating content materials.

These students would also be involved in UT for REED’s management of the project through fundraising to supply video equipment, editing software, and shipping costs. This would also provide an opportunity for students studying ASL at UT to practice their communication skills with local high school students. In addition, as hearing people, a connection with the ASL department could ensure our (UT for REED’s) cultural competency in carrying out this project.

A colleague of mine and I recently presented the Mali Signs Project proposal at the inaugural Clinton Global Initiative University Conference in March. President Clinton’s representatives have recently contacted us about further support for this project. In order to make it a success, we need to establish initial support across Austin and Bamako communities

Next week I will be meeting with members of the linguistics and ASL faculty at UT as well as a representative from Services for Students with Disabilites where I used to work. On Friday, I will be meeting with former president Bill Clinton in Harlem to discuss the progress of this project. CGIU staff have been very supportive of our initiative. Any support, questions, or advice is very much welcomed from anyone!

UT for REED: www.engr.utexas.edu/ut4reed

CGIU commitment: http://mycommit.clintonglobalinitiative.org/node/2222/cgiu

The Deaf population in Mali, as of 2000, numbered around 200,000 people, mostly children. I found that less than 25% of the Deaf people I surveyed were born Deaf and more than 75% became deaf (all before age 15) due to some illness. Deafness can be caused by several infections (maternal or childhood), genetic mutations at one or several of the 120 loci related to hearing, or by physical damage to the inner ear. While most of my informants did not know the name of the illness leading to their hearing loss, several eagerly confirmed my finger-spelling of “meningitis.” Meningitis is a major known cause of deafness (the primary after-affect of the disease), visual, and sometimes mental problems.

Meningitis can be either a virus or bacteria which causes inflammation of the meninges (the tissue that surrounds and protects the brain). Six vaccines exist, but vary in terms of duration, are expensive, and are the only form of prevention. Every year, the Ministry of Health sends representatives to schools for Meningitis vaccinations. If infected, immediate doctor visits are necessary, but with symptoms similar to those of the common cold, most parents do not think hospitalization or medical tests are necessary.

In Mali, the disease presents itself in cycles of roughly eight years, and cycles are becoming more frequent. In 2006, the Ministry of Health declared a major outbreak in the region of Sikasso. Poor living conditions in river-based local markets, lack of preventative health education, and an absence of technology to predict outbreaks all contributed to the epidemic which quickly spread to eight other regions. While a three month project of The International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies did help contain the epidemic, install public health education programs, and vaccinate children, there is no record of the number of those left with disabilities from the outbreak.

The Need for Deaf Education

With a growing population of special-needs children comes an overwhelming demand for complimentary development in supportive education. Malian law requires all children to attend school and gives them the right to a free education. Handicapped children are not excluded. “One cannot leave them behind with only the option of begging… we must allow them autonomy… to know how to freely participate in active life,” says Paul Diarra, the director of Preschool and Special Education.

Language skills are key to such autonomy and Deaf children must be challenged- mentally, emotionally, and academically- by a community capable of communicating with them. “The language a child develops from birth provides the foundation for literacy, achievement, and full participation in the family, in school, and in society… All students have the right to gain access to the knowledge and experiences they need to become full participants in society and to seek challenging careers.”

Before the 20th century there were no schools for the Deaf in Central or West Africa. Deaf children’s accessibility to traditional forms of education from family and griots[1] was limited by their inability to sufficiently communicate. Without an adequate system for Deaf children to realize their right to formal education, much like in many isolated regions of Mali today, most went straight to work in the fields or as vendors.

First Actions

In 1957 Andrew Foster, founder of Christian Mission for the Deaf (CMD), began a project to form schools and corresponding religious centers of evangelism in Africa. His goal, as a Deaf American, was to open schools for the Deaf, help them develop a linguistic framework to understand Biblical teaching, and ensure that these programs would be sustainable by local communities. He working with the organization for 30 years before his death in 1987 and was named “the Father of Deaf Education in Africa,” by Gallaudet University in 2004.[2] CMD never opened a school in Mali, however, their literature and ASL dictionaries slowly crossed the borders from neighboring countries.

In 1982, La Fédération Malienne des Associations des Personnes Handicapées (Malian Association of Handicapped People- FEMAPH) was formed with the support of four other pre-existing organizations: L’ Association Malienne d’Aide aux Malades Mentaux (Malian Association to Help the Mentally- AMAMM), L‘ Union Malienne Raoul Follereau (Malian Union Raoul Follereau- UMRF), L’ Union Malienne des Aveugles (Malian Union of the Blind- UMAV), and L’ Association Malienne des Personnes Handicapées Physique (Malian Union of Physically Handicapped People- AMPHP).

FEMAPH outlined the following goals for Mali’s Handicapped community: “1) to promote the organisation and development of the programmes of prevention, education, readjustment and social rehabilitation in collaboration with Associations; 2) to promote the creation of suitable structures for persons with disabilities, 3) to help the authorities to adopt and apply legislation related to protection, training and employment of persons with disabilities; 4) to reinforce the capacity of associations to carry out their own programmes; 5) to found a coordination system for the activities of associations concerning the promotion of persons with disabilities, and to support the exchange of information and experiments between associations at the national, regional and international levels.”[3] Now, FEMAPH has over 15 member organizations and hosts regular trainings for new organization leaders in budgeting, management, and structuring new unions.[4]

With the supportive alliance of FEMAPH already in place, L’ Association Malienne pour la Promotion Sociale des Sourds et Sourds Muets (A.M.P.So.M.) was formed on the10th of July, 1989. [5] In 1992 the organization changed its name to Association Malienne pour les Sourds (A.MA.SOURDS). With the purpose of social advocacy for Deaf Malian people, both communities and individuals, A.MA.SOURDS’ primary goal was to create structures of support for social integration of deaf and hard-of-hearing individuals into the Malian economic sector. [6] This involved creating job training opportunities, social awareness campaigns, creation of labor cooperatives, creation of educational infrastructure (how, where, and what to teach and how to train teachers in sign language), and finding financial donors for all of these projects.

Specialized education for the Deaf community in Mali did not begin until the 1993 with the formation of L’Ecole Déficients Auditifs (E.D.A.) in the Hippodrome area of Bamako. [7] The first school was constructed without much collaboration from international organizations.[8] However, in 1995 another school for the Deaf was constructed as a joint project of A.MA.SOURDS and a Canadian woman, Dominique Pissoneault, who also documented BSL and published the first BSL dictionary.[9] This second school, Jigiya Kalanso, is located on the other side of the Niger River in the Nyamakoro region. By 2000, there were plans being made for a third school to serve the final 2 of the 6 communes in Bamako, the existing schools registered over 200 children through the 6th year, and a literacy center for deaf adolescents in Kita had been established. [10]

In her “Bambara” Sign Language dictionary, Pisonneault notes the vital communication needs of deaf individuals in the rural milieu who have little contact with a larger community for support with regards to health, education, etc. This is most severe for women who are isolated by communication and restricted by other social barriers (lessened access to education, expectations for work in the home, etc.). [11] In 1999 L’ Union Malienne des Associations et Comités de Femmes Handicapées was formed to recognize the different roles and serve the specific needs of Deaf Malian women. The organization helps women learn how to find work, form co-operatives, teach each other about the risks of HIV/AIDS, and organizes sport/recreation activities.[12]

Today, Deaf-friendly development and the formation of new schools is a constant goal. In 2002 the center in Kita was converted into a formal school, two new schools have been formed (one in Tomboctou, the other in Kita), and plans for two more (in Koutiala and Sikasso) are already underway.[13] Three radio programs have been aired (in 2002, 2003, and 2007) which addressed the realities of deafness, commonly misunderstood as a cognitive deficiency. [14] This year (2007), SOTELMA installed 10 telecommunication booths equipped with text messaging capabilities throughout the country for Deaf and hard-of-hearing people to be able to communicate long-distance without the possession of a personal telephone. Though slow-moving, Deaf-friendly progress is happening and greatly benefiting the community.

E.D.A. Support

Directed by --, the school employs a staff of 15 fonctionnaires (6 women; 9 men), 17 contractuels (6 women; 11 men), and 10 school-supervised personnel (7 women, 3 men). Teachers enter E.D.A. in one of two ways; either the government assigns them based on school need or individuals volunteer based on personal preference. Fonctionnaires are paid by the government (43,883 F CFA/ year for those not holding a masters diploma). Contractuels are paid privately but are assigned by the state.[15]

In the interest of government policies of déconcentration and decentralization,[16] E.D.A. is considered a private entity due to its affiliation with A.MA.SOURDS (as are all of the Deaf schools). However, the government does assist financially, places teachers, and collaborates with the Ministère de Développement Social, de la Solidarité et des Personnes Agées (Ministry of Social Development, Solidarity, and the Elderly) to increase Deaf education’s successes in both specialized and integrative settings.[17]

This current partnership for effectual education is critical due to the limited budget of a developing country. Specialized settings are the preference because having more Deaf students and faculty increases the opportunity for linguistic and cultural immersion. These schools would include E.D.A., Kalanso Jigima, and the other schools exclusively serving deaf and hard-of-hearing students.

While immersion is preferable, it is not always practical, financial or geographically. Over 80% of the Malian workforce is involved in farming or fishing and nearly 10% of the population is nomadic. This places many students far from major urban areas with substantial Deaf communities. With government finances aimed at supporting the most concentrated populations, major services for the Deaf in isolated areas are discouraged. This is why integration into auditory-based-learning schools is necessary in order for Deaf students to obtain an education and government policy will soon be adjusted to facilitate regional integration.[18]

Still, state funding is not sufficient to fulfil all of the school’s needs which, as a private entity cannot be dependant on government assistance. The school itself has formed several partnerships for financial and/or personnel support. Among these contributors are: 1) The Malian Government (pays state-contracted teachers, the water an electricity bills, and have assisted with donations of rice for meals); 2) Parents of students (2,000 CFA[19]/student/year for transport to and from school as well as lunch);

3) A.N.G.A.T.A., a Malian-French alliance NGO (helped build the school, funds for food); 4) Association Pays Bas (Van den Herik Kust-en Oeverwerken BV), a Dutch NGO (sports equipment, classroom materials, and out-of-country teacher training); 5) United Nations Children’s Fund- UNICEF (teacher training, educational excursions to Malian sites for the children and to international Deaf communities for adults); 6) Fondation pour L’Enfance (transportation); 7) Fondation Partage, founded by Alpha Oumare KONARE (a sewing machine to help teach job skills to students[20]); 8) Right to Play- an American NGO (extra-curricular sport activities); 9) Coaching for Hope- an American-UK funded NGO focused on teaching HIV/AIDS education through soccer (extra-curricular sport activities); 10) Handicapées Internationale- a French NGO; and 11) Private donors.[21]

Funding is not the only thing supporting the school and community. Simply having Deaf people around helps provide a much needed sense of social security in a hearing-oriented world. In order for Deaf children to develop a positive sense of self-worth and develop the confidence to set goals for their future, they must “live and learn in a community that demonstrates respect, acceptance and appreciation for differences, including the differences in communication needs and preferences within the deaf community.”[22]

L’ Ecole Déficients Auditifs

The first school for the Deaf in Mali currently serves over 320 students from preschool through the 9th year.[1] The community ranges in age from infants (informal visitors) to students in their early 20’s. Students enter the school at various ages depending on when they become deaf or hard-of-hearing, when they (or their parents) become aware of the school’s existence, or when they relocate to an area within bussing distance to the school.

The school itself is located in Hippodrome, a very urban quartier with a tourism-based economy. The school is surrounded by several bars, hotels, and restaurants targeted towards visitors. Next-door is a private high school attended by one deaf student who, when not in class, spends most of his time in the E.D.A. library.

The campus is composed of seven brick buildings surrounded by a high cement wall. On the entrance are the signs of the ASL alphabet painted in thick black lines by the art teacher, a very well-travelled deaf man originally from D.R.C. Visitors from NGOs, government organizations, tourists, and international students are not uncommon. At least once a day, a group of tourists walks past the school and takes a picture in front of the ASL mural.

The first building contains the lowest level pre-school, the art studio, storage space, the guardian’s quarters where he lives with his family of six, and a kitchen with an adjacent spare room. This building faces the black-top basket-ball court equipped with two portable soccer goals. Across the court are classrooms for the middle and upper level pre-schoolers and first years. Behind this building are offices for the school nurse (a deaf woman), the “pharmacy and secretariat,” the orthophonie (where aural tests are given by a hearing man), and a bathroom with four stalls. This building is separated from the next by a small garden which has over the years turned into a mini-jungle/trash dump. Next-door is the third academic building which houses a library of children’s books along with 8th and 9th year classes on the ground floor next to the adjunct director’s office. 5th, 6th, and 7th year classes are held on the second floor. In back of the building are Malian-style toilets and a small playground. The parallel building across a small paved courtyard contains the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th year classes. At the end of this strip is the director’s office where the secretary also works.

Classrooms

Every teacher and classroom is different and each teacher has strengths and weaknesses. Some teachers walk into the classroom and become completely inspired characters; others spend 20 minutes drawing on the board, write a few sentences and sit down while students copy letters that may or may not be understood. I watched the 6th year teacher sign and speak at the same time calling every student by name. The preschool teacher led students through standing, sitting, and various hand gestures which became a game to wake them up. Classes start late and are dismissed when students are finished copying the board.

All classes contain rows of desks to seat about 30 students (as opposed to 60 in the neighboring high school). Lesson plans are based in the same government educational philosophy in which the teacher copies notes onto the board out of their own personal notebook. Rarely do teachers ask for questions. After the full lesson is on the board, teachers often leave and questions (mostly regarding handwriting) are forgotten. Still, there is a tremendous desire to learn.

One of the times a teacher didn’t show up for English class, I was asked to help out. I walked in not really sure what to do since most of the ninth year students were my age or older. I picked up a piece of chalk and wrote on the board, “Hi Everyone.” No one responded. I had seen the class taught before but I did not have a magic notebook to tell me what to cover. I asked to see the previous lesson. Third year English was going over basic verb conjugation. So were the other two English classes because the teacher- who works only as a volunteer in E.D.A.- teaches two classes at the same time, running back and forth between rooms.

I asked if anyone had questions which seemed to be a puzzling request. Several people raised their hands to volunteer to answer questions but they didn’t understand the idea that I wanted them to ask me. I gave out slips of paper with scrambled simple sentences for them to translate and organize. When they finished or had a question, they each jumped up to show me and when it was wrong they went back to keep working on it. Everyone worked together and eventually I was surrounded by half of the E.D.A. soccer team poking and tapping me to try to get me to look at their notebook. I have never seen students so excited to learn.

Privilege and Safety

After having taught middle school with the Breakthough Collaborative, I was very quick to look for signs of gender and socio-economic privilege in the classroom. In every class, I drew diagrams of seating arrangements marking girls and boys. I noted when and which students were called upon to answer questions and who volunteered for which subjects.

Monsieur Coulibaly’s 4th grade class faces the playground. Before the lesson, all of the students walk in two straight lines into the courtyard in height order. Students range in age from 10-20 and the line makes age differences more obvious. Though older and walking with a limp, the teacher leads the class in push-ups, calf-raises, and other basic exercises which make them laugh and wake them up. After a while he grabs a long stick and pretends to round up the students like cattle and they return to the classroom laughing. Again, everyone is in height order- tall ones in the back. He checks the board to see who’s day it is to sweep up the classroom (girls and boys are listed in rotation).

He starts the math lesson. On the walls are pastel drawings on the back of what looks like old campaign posters and carbureted cardboard. The classroom rules, roster, and schedule are posted on the wall by the door. “canard, bœuf, nœud…”[2] The items in the pictures each have their defining word below them. Mr. Coulibaliy asks a question, “2 plus 3 equals how much?” The students scramble for chalk. Some left their slates at home and run to other classrooms to borrow a friend’s. He waits for everyone to return. All of the students are holding their blank slates in the air until the teacher waves his hand. They slam them on the desks and begin writing furiously. Soon the slates are all face-down on in front of their proud owners and the students have their hands behind their necks. Their eyes wander, checking to see if they beat their neighbors.

Walking down the aisles, the teacher checks each student’s slate. Those with the wrong answer are called to the front to repeat the problem in front of the class. In this group are two mentally handicapped kids, a girl, and a younger boy. After warm-up questions, he reviews perimeter and uses closely related word-problems and clear sign language to explain each question emphatically. Some students are signing among themselves- some are talking about the lesson.

One boy is causing trouble in the front row and Mr. Coulibaly calls him to the board to kneel in front of the class. He holds his hands behind his back and the lesson moves on. One girl shouts out an answer, “tan ni naani!” while others sign it fiercely. When students get an answer wrong, he signs, “Were you not listening? Stop talking and pay attention.”[3] When class is over several students run over to show me their notebooks and I give them all a thumbs up.

Surprisingly, I found that the teachers, although I did not observe all of them, seem to call on girls, boys, and those with mental handicaps equally. All were challenged to the same degree and teachers encouraged peers to be patient with each other. I found adults to be rather outgoing in terms of creating a space for the mentally handicapped- a significant population in the school due to concurrent after-affects of illnesses like Meningitis. At the same time, there is still a slight dismissal of some mentally handicapped children as whole people, depending on degrees of intellectual development.

Amina is a 13 year old girl who often sits alone on a large cement block, folding her arms and smiling. When I walk past I offer my hand to her as a greeting. Her smile broadens exposing light pink gums with some missing teeth, forming deeper dimples in her unblemished skin, and seems disallow anything but affection in my response. Some other students run over to shake my hand and I ask them all for their sign names. Amina doesn’t sign so I ask another young student what her name is. All of the children wave their finger or sign “nothing” and then place the middle and forefinger to their temples, bending them at both joints.

It wasn’t necessarily a disrespectful response to my question, but there seemed to just be an understanding of difference in ability to understand certain things. No name, just “retard.” The sign doesn’t have exactly the same connotation of that word in English because several mentally handicapped people I met described themselves with this “matter-of-fact” sign. This is what all mentally handicapped students are called by signers of all ages.

A teacher explained to me that Amina used to sit in her house all day. She wasn’t given tasks to do, but was left to be by herself. One day someone visited the family and told them about E.D.A. and the parents were happy to have something for her to do; a place for her to go. When she started, she was very thin- thinner than the tiny glowing person I saw in front of me- and I couldn’t believe it. Even though she doesn’t understand much in her 1st year class, she is healthier and probably happier being in the school.

When I asked informants if they thought there were many Deaf people in Mali, some responded, “no,” and that they felt limited by the communities they could join. Others responded quite seriously, “yes, maybe a million.” When the population of the entire country is 11 million people, a Deaf population of almost 10% seems improbable, but sentiments contrary to isolation are very encouraging.

AMASOURDS stresses that, “these educational institutions for the deaf youth, despite their insufficiencies, are cause for much hope for the deaf youth themselves and for their parents as well.” [4] The schools give the opportunity for professional training an allow them to live independently. [5] Some teachers clearly, intentionally created a safe academic or community space whereas in other classrooms and school areas, the students controlled the atmosphere. In either situation it was obvious that E.D.A. is a space where “deaf kids” get to be just “kids.”

A Social Niche

Students arrive at school between 7:30 and 8 in the morning, depending on whether they walk, get rides from family, or are picked up by one of the school’s two drivers (who are sign-named after the color of the vehicle they drive- blue and yellow). Students often play soccer in the morning, chat, or study before class and every morning before I got to the front gate, at least three of the younger ones would tell me about who just slapped who on the back of the head.

During the day, E.D.A. hosts four merchants in and outside the gates: a deaf vendor who sells tea, cigarettes, and lollipops in a standard roadside stand; the guardian’s wife (hearing) who sells sandwiches; a half-deaf woman in the courtyard with a bucket of home-made snacks and candy; and a half-deaf previous Olympic runner who now mends and polishes shoes by the road. Deaf families, mostly former students who are now new parents, visit the school daily. The library and adjoining breezeway are the main gathering places where people often study (whether students or not), causer, and have meetings. The merchants, families, and previous students all help younger ones practice signing and build a feeling of community on Deaf ground.

At night, the women go home to take care of family while the men either remain at work, watch films in the 9th year classroom, or causer in front of the school with the two vendors who work nights there and sleep in the school as guardians. Every night, Saturday, and often Sundays, the Causer Crew (a group of 3-10 men) gathered, drinking tea while the merchants waited for business.

I received three random phone calls one night from strangers. The third call I actually understood. A man, Adama, had found a young boy in Sabalibougou who was deaf-mute and lost. The boy had a small backpack with him containing a nearly empty notebook and my project survey which had my phone number on it. The boy’s E.D.A. identification card wasn’t in his bag and Adama had taken the boy, about 7, back to his house to eat and sleep. With no other contact but me and not being able to communicate with the boy, he asked me if I could help. I was in Kalaban Coura on the same side of the river and said I would be right over to take the boy back to E.D.A. where his parents were probably waiting for him.

When I arrived, the boy (who I didn’t recognize or remember giving a survey to) was sleeping on a mat in a mud-brick house with another boy about the same age. A crowd of women and girls followed me in with candles and flashlights. I went to gently wake him up, not wanting to scare him. Instead, it took about 20 minutes and three of us to coax him from his coma-like state which I initially took to be serious illness. I spent half of that time signing “name,” and trying to get him to open his eyes while Adama’s wife held him up and the other women pointed to my hands. Eventually, he regained consciousness and we got on Adama’s motorcycle and drove across the river to E.D.A. He seemed totally complacent being guided by strangers.

I wondered how this small boy who didn’t seem to have any money had gotten all the way across the river and ended up alone. At the school, Adama and I exchanged numbers and he went home. The Causer Crew told me that the teachers had been on strike and students who came to school were told to go home without supervision or guidance. The boy’s parents had been by earlier but there was no contact number for them. The guardian’s wife and several others offered him a place to stay for the night. I was living in the back room and had an extra bed so we made plans for him to stay with me and wait for his parents in the morning.

Solo, an 8th year, and I took him to dinner where he finally signed a few words, but we could only get him to eat goat meat and drink coke. Walking back to E.D.A. past a hotel, a young man stopped us and asked where we were going. I explained the situation and the boy pointed down a road as if to say, “I need to go home now.” The man said he recognized the boy from his neighborhood and knew the house. A friend who worked at the hotel confirmed this stranger’s reliability and so the boy, the stranger, and I hopped on another motorcycle and drove to the boy’s house.

There, a co-wife of his mother’s recognized us in the doorway and offered a smile of relief. We knocked on his mother’s door. After waking up, she ushered the boy inside and said “Merci, bon soir.”[6]I expected the boy to be received with a grander welcome and asked the motorcycle driver if this was normal. “Yea,” he said, “kids are always getting lost, but eventually they find their way back.”

Home Life

Just as each classroom was different, so was each family. Some students lived in mansions with 15 refrigerators and several maids whereas others lived in mud-brick compounds far from the school with 30 other people. Visits were always pleasant but I often noticed the Deaf seeming a bit distant from their families- this could also be because “the Deaf” were hosting company- me.

Hearing Friends and Siblings

Sitting in Salima’s salon with four other girls from E.D.A. I asked them each about their brothers and sisters, what they wanted to be when they grew up, and if they wanted to marry a deaf or hearing person. It felt a little like teen “girl-talk” in a Disney Channel movie but was casual, comfortable, and fun. She went to get rice and we ate Tiga Dege Na with our hands which made talking very difficult. Her uncle was observing us but I didn’t notice his curious gaze for a while. He said something to Salima in Bambara, she read his lips, and responded in accented, but clear, Bambara. He thought I was deaf and Salima instructed me to prove otherwise.

I asked if they hung out a lot together in her house. “Yes,” it was closest to the where ‘Blue’ (the school van) dropped them off. Salima’s mom seemed to recognize the girls though not particularly affectionately. From the way she looked at a gestured towards us, I got the impression our small group was, to her, just more mouths to feed. Salima’s house was the last one I visited so after we ate and talked the girls all walked me to the bus-stop. As we were leaving, Salima’s older sister, an unemployed teacher, met us at the door. Apparently she and her sister are very close. Salima taught her the ASL alphabet and she signs BSL very well. I asked her if they grew up together or ever shared a room. “Of course! She’s my little sister!” She said that Salima tells her everything and recently she’s been bugging her about getting married.

In most home visits, I noticed at least one person who greeted the Deaf child or adult I was with. Generally, these were people that my informants had grown up with- people who knew them before they were deaf. Sometimes there was a favorite cousin or sibling who the student told me was his/her best friend and often this person was several years older. Only a few students told me that they felt like being deaf limited their ability to make friends or have interesting conversations with family. “It’s frustrating when I’m trying to talk to someone and they don’t pay attention or care to learn and I have to repeat myself over and over. I get tired of trying to explain and they get lazy and give up easily. It’s really hard to talk to hearing people sometimes.”[7]

Deaf Relatives

Jeneba and Kunandi are twins who live in a rather dangerous neighbourhood (or at least that’s what they tell me). They used to live in Sikasso with their mom but when she died they moved to Bamako to live with an aunt and go to school at E.D.A. Jeneba was born first and the first to lose her hearing. They both wear a specific color of hijab which help people identify them since they wear the same clothes every day (which most Malian twins do). Walking to their house I was stopped by a teacher and his wife who asked what I was doing “in the boonies.” I explained my project and they seemed very pleased. They shook each girl’s hand in a respectful manner rarely offered to strangers.

At the twins’ house, I met their aunt, a thin, older-looking woman who just stared at me as if puzzled. There was another woman who they share the compound with and she didn’t seem too excited to have our small parade in her courtyard. I tried speaking to the aunt in Bambara and we had a broken conversation.The other woman was not interested. No one in the house speaks any sign and the girls depend on lip-reading Bambara. This was the first time I had heard either of them make sound. When I asked the girls if their aunt signed, they said, “No, she’s scared of the Deaf.”

I didn’t really understand the details then, but later an informant explained it to me. The school has an annual holiday party at the end of the year and a few years ago the girls stayed late and spent the night in the school. The aunt didn’t have a phone so they had no way of contacting her. When they came home the next day, the aunt assumed they had been having sex and was scared they would be pregnant. Everyone was very angry and a fight broke out. The girls hit her (I don’t know if it was intentional) and ever since she’s been afraid of them. Their uncle decided the solution was separation. If the girls didn’t want to do housework, they didn’t have to, it they wanted to sit around, the aunt was told to let them be and to do anything to avoid conflict. So, now the girls mostly keep to themselves.

In my interviews, home visits, and guided surveys, I found that when children who were not born deaf contracted the illness leading to their hearing loss, they sometimes had a sibling who became sick at the same time. I met four families with more than one deaf person and visited two. It seemed that because of peer support and company for conversation, having a deaf sibling made life more comfortable, especially when there was conflict within the family.

Hearing Friends and Siblings

Sitting in Salima’s salon with four other girls from E.D.A. I asked them each about their brothers and sisters, what they wanted to be when they grew up, and if they wanted to marry a deaf or hearing person. It felt a little like teen “girl-talk” in a Disney Channel movie but was casual, comfortable, and fun. She went to get rice and we ate Tiga Dege Na with our hands which made talking very difficult. Her uncle was observing us but I didn’t notice his curious gaze for a while. He said something to Salima in Bambara, she read his lips, and responded in accented, but clear, Bambara. He thought I was deaf and Salima instructed me to prove otherwise.

I asked if they hung out a lot together in her house. “Yes,” it was closest to the where ‘Blue’ (the school van) dropped them off. Salima’s mom seemed to recognize the girls though not particularly affectionately. From the way she looked at a gestured towards us, I got the impression our small group was, to her, just more mouths to feed. Salima’s house was the last one I visited so after we ate and talked the girls all walked me to the bus-stop. As we were leaving, Salima’s older sister, an unemployed teacher, met us at the door. Apparently she and her sister are very close. Salima taught her the ASL alphabet and she signs BSL very well. I asked her if they grew up together or ever shared a room. “Of course! She’s my little sister!” She said that Salima tells her everything and recently she’s been bugging her about getting married.

In most home visits, I noticed at least one person who greeted the Deaf child or adult I was with. Generally, these were people that my informants had grown up with- people who knew them before they were deaf. Sometimes there was a favorite cousin or sibling who the student told me was his/her best friend and often this person was several years older. Only a few students told me that they felt like being deaf limited their ability to make friends or have interesting conversations with family. “It’s frustrating when I’m trying to talk to someone and they don’t pay attention or care to learn and I have to repeat myself over and over. I get tired of trying to explain and they get lazy and give up easily. It’s really hard to talk to hearing people sometimes.”[7]

Children of Deaf Parents

In one family, I met four deaf children with a deaf mother. All except for the year-old baby had been born hearing as had two other siblings. This family had their own way of communicating. The father was hearing and worked as a builder. Three of the children attended E.D.A. and the mother had never finished school but work as a hairdresser. She was very reserved but I did tell me (through translation of her son) that people treat her differently at work. They don’t even greet her, just sit down and wait for their hair to be done up. She doesn’t like hearing people very much and keeps to her family. Her children have E.D.A. names in ASL (letters accompanied by a specific motion) but she does not use them. For one son, she bites the side of her lip, for the younger one, the whole bottom lip gets tucked in.

They live in an apartment building surrounded by busy, hearing, working women of all ages who seemed to pretend that the family wasn’t really there. The younger deaf sister sat at a table facing a blackboard attached to the wall while she copied the spelling of French numbers 1-50 into a notebook. We talked, looked through pictures, and the family seemed to keep eyes on peering neighbors.

While this situation was rare, I did meet several deaf parents in the school with children, mostly infants of previous students. I also met couples in serious relationships and I asked them that in the future if they were to have children, would their children understand sign and what kind of school they would go to. “Absolutely! They must understand sign!” said Aissata Diarra, a 9th year at E.D.A.[1] She said that if her children were hearing, they would go to the hearing school and if they were deaf, the Deaf school. These were universal sentiments without exception among everyone I interviewed and those deaf parents who already had children confirmed that their children spoke BSL fluently. Younger parents expressed the desire for their children to understand ASL as well.

Marriage

The subject of marriage was where I encountered the largest variety of responses. Some said they only wanted to marry a deaf person, others said only a hearing person. Reasons ranged from wanting to be able to fully communicate with their partner, to “because it’s the only option my parents gave me.” Some said it didn’t matter; love, or god, or religion would make the choice for them. I met happily married and divorced couples from all situations. There were a few cases in which a man had settled down in a child-producing relationship with a deaf woman, refused to marry her, and then married a hearing woman. These cases were seriously looked down on because the community felt that he did so with the mindset that a deaf woman wasn’t as good as a hearing woman.

This was only a couple of isolated cases and for the most part, Deaf people marry within the community. Younger generations of Deaf Malians generally are beginning to have more power over choosing a partner than in the past, as are their hearing counterparts. And in general, marriage seems to work for the Deaf community within the same ethno-religious systems as for other Malians.

Between Deaf and Hearing Communities

The Deaf community is a linguistically-based subculture within larger Malian cultures. Deafness does not separate deaf people from being Malian. Things like greetings- asking about family, work, the day, and reciting the sinankunya jokes that never seem to get old- are equally standard among the Deaf. E.D.A. has an annual “Traditional Malian Outfit” party every year, just like the school down the street and every class has its bullies, nerds, day-dreamers, cool kids, and know-it-alls. Still, the small difference between the Hearing and the Deaf causes a huge, passive segregation, primarily because of communication barriers but also because of misunderstanding and disrespect of deafness itself.

In my surveys I asked students if they felt hearing people treated them differently because they were Deaf. Although this question was incredibly difficult to articulate and I received a wide variety of answers, the surveys show that Deaf youth do not perceive hearing people as “meaner” to them because of their being Deaf. Instead, it seems that these youth see hearing people as nothing more than diverse members of their larger geographic communities. Most commonly, people responded that they felt more comfortable with Deaf people because of a common language, experience, and, I would assume, corresponding subculture. This conversation involved editing my survey question (#8) so the exact numbers do not reflect accurate perspectives for this question.

Communication

Taking the SOTRAMA home one day, a woman who encountered my advisor Balkissa and yelled at her to move over and make room for another passenger. Being hard-of-hearing, she didn’t get the message and the woman shoved her over with frustration. A man sitting across from them had seen Balkissa signing and explained to the woman that Balkissa was deaf. The woman didn’t understand what “deaf” was. She had never heard of it. After a long explanation, the woman started crying. Balkissa said she didn’t understand why.

With a mélange of Bambara/maternal language lip-reading, French writing and lip-reading, American Sign Language, and local non-standardized sign language/natural gesturing (which I will refer to as BSL- Bamako Sign Language), whatever works for the moment seems to be the standard philosophy for communication. French, American, and Quebecois sign languages are recognized in Mali but have yet to replace local sign languages.[2]

The majority of faculty and staff at E.D.A. are hearing, but all teachers are required to participate in basic Sign Language training before they can teach. Everyone who works in the school- or in the case of the Guardian’s family, live in the school- is reasonably conversant in BSL. The school director offers Saturday lessons for families to learn American Sign Language to be able to communicate with their child and develop skills together.[3] Recently, however, lessons for both parents and teachers have stopped. Informants suggest several causes including travel distance to the school, illness of instructors, lack of payment, and disinterest. As a result, these auxiliary community members have become reliant on “informal observations,” natural gestures, and/or simply writing without the use of sign.

This limited access for hearing relatives of the Deaf to develop communication skills is very problematic for Deaf children. “To acquire solid early language competence, deaf children need frequent and sustained interaction with people who use a language that is fully accessible to them. Family members, whose active communication with the child is crucial, as well as deaf peers and adults whose primary language is American Sign Language, play very important roles in promoting that competence.” [4]

“Deafness is a handicap,” says E.D.A. director Balla KEITA. [5] Deaf children are different than hearing children in society because it’s difficult for them to understand much until they go to school and meet other Deaf people. Hearing kids go to school around age six, but Deaf children start visiting around age one or two and start preschool around age five.[6] While hearing children begin to learn basic communication skills, vocabulary, and grammatical structure in the home, Deaf children generally cannot. They require immersion in a different and often distant linguistic community from infancy in order to equally reach their scholastic potential.

Respect

I was walking back to E.D.A. one night and saw two new people sitting with the Causer Crew. As I got closer I noticed they were talking to each other and were distinctly separate from the usual Crew. Ousmane, the cobbler, looked particularly displeased with their presence. I greeted everyone and asked Ousmane if they were friends. I could tell by the look on his face that I had asked a really stupid question. Of course the two men began speaking to me and I greeted them before they started asking if I was married (the standard introductory question for women). Ousmane said that they had come two hours earlier to get their shoes shined and they hadn’t left. They just sat talking and ignoring everyone. One of the men interrupted our conversation to ask me more questions and tell me that my friend was crazy. Forcibly redirecting my attention, he told me that he had paid for the deaf man’s business and now had a right to sit and causer for as long as he wanted. Someone in the Causer Crew signed something to the degree of, “hearing people… always rude.” I asked the two men why they didn’t try to sign with the others. “I’m not deaf, why would I need to?”

The first challenge in creating Deaf schools, convincing parents to send their children to them, and fighting mockery, disrespect, or dismissal is helping hearing people understand the nature of deafness. Often when I walked down the street or rode on motos with my deaf friends, I would hear the word “bobo” shouted in our direction in the same way “tubabu” is shouted towards me as if to announce my presence in the quartier. I asked several random hearing people what this word meant and they all defined it differently. In general, the consensus was that a “bobo” is someone who cannot speak.

Labels

In several home visits I realized that parents would shout to get their deaf child’s attention. If the child didn’t respond, they shouted louder until someone redirected their focus. For the most part, I found that Bambara-speakers associate hearing deficiency with a lack of speech because it is the most obvious difference between deaf and hearing people. At the same time, when people translated the word “bobo” into French, they always came up with, “sourd-muet” (deaf-mute) with no equivalent for just, “sourd.” Others explained these words in French but suggested that there were no exact Bambara equivalents.

In Kati, I visited a small group of Deaf men centered around a barber shop. Apparently there are Deaf women in the area but they, like most Malian women, were working at home. The barber, Abdramane, had gone to school at E.D.A. and signed clearly in ASL. He also had an AMASOURDS poster in his shop that resember some of the association’s stickers I’d seen on motorcycles at the school. Except for an older man who only smiled and nodded, the rest of the group was all younger. Two of the young men worked together as wood-workers and trained a younger boy (about 14 years old) in the same craft. I called him “Bouba” in my journal because he doesn’t know his name and his parents are too poor to send him to school so far away from home.

As the deaf men gathered in Causer Crew style, a crowd of hearing men and children surrounded us. They, also, demanded to know more about me- clearly and unapologetically interrupting our sign conversations. One teenage girl flaunted a pair of fancy sunglasses that had one lens missing as she pointed, laughed, and said something about “the tubabu and the bobos.” Unable to ignore the 20-something aged man who was repeatedly shouting my name, I turned to him (signing), answered, and asked several questions of my own. In an uninformed tone, I asked him what the word “bobo” meant. It took him a minute to find the words. “It means, “sans parler,” without speech. I asked if bobos could hear. “Yes, they just can’t speak.” Then he repeated himself several times to make sure I understood.

A few minutes later another, very friendly man walked over with a huge smile on his face as if he’d been summoned as the local expert. He explained that he was kind of like a bobo. I was confused because he had heard and understood me perfectly when we greeted. “I am a bègue. It means, “avec un peu de parler” [with a little speech]. It’s different than bobo. I can speak, but there is a problem with how I speak.” As he continued explaining with glowing, humble pride, I realized he had a very pronounced stutter, but it didn’t seem to phase what felt like complete confidence as he spoke.

The men in Kati’s Causer Crew seemed more “silent” in the presence of hearing people than I had experienced in Hippodrome or at la Grande Poste. Only two or three of them besides Abdramane had gone to school and they were the only ones who really opened up to me. Two of the older men, one of whom appeared very sceptical of me, didn’t sign at all but somehow slight glances or gestures told the younger ones what to do. Bouba didn’t understand much ASL or BSL. I asked if his work mentors taught him sign. They answered for him. “A little, but when we are working we can’t talk because we have to use our hands. That makes it hard to teach.” They didn’t seem to be too affected by the crowd of hearing disrupters and seemed to be well-practiced in ignoring such discourtesies.

At the Centre d’Animation Pédagogique, I asked the secretary what the Bambara word for, “deaf,” was. “Kulogeren is someone who doesn’t hear, bobo is someone who can hear but not speak.” I asked if she thought tulogeren and bobos were just as smart as hearing people. “They are just as intelligent as you and me,” she said, with a kind of surprised tone.[7] Another woman explained to me that tulogeren is someone who, “doesn’t hear, like stubborn.”[8] This woman gave an example of someone giving directions, the words going into a tulogeren’s ear, and then the tulogeren changing or not understanding the directions leading to a slightly different action than the one given. She also said that a person can be tulogeren and bobo but offered no word exactly for “sourd,” (deaf).

Bambara teacher Mahamadou Lamine Bagayogo directly explained the Bambara vocabulary. He said that a tulogeren is someone who can’t speak because they are deaf or hard of hearing; they are either born with it or become that way because of old age or sickness and he cited Meningitis as a common cause. Dagaran, a word I hadn’t heard before, is the Bambara word for bègue; someone who stutters. I had previously been told that “bègue” was a Bambara word but Lamine explained that Bambara borrows many words, changes the pronunciation, and claims them as a part of the maternal language. Bobo, he says, is a person who is “naturally” born with the inability to speak and possibly the inability to hear. In other interviews, whether bobos could hear or not seemed irrelevant and the focus was on their speech ability. Lamine says that Tulogeren and dagaran are both types of bobo. [9]

Teachers

Those who choose to work with the Deaf are clearly distinct from those with no connection to the community in their understanding of deafness. Faculty and staff all enter the school with different goals. Many informants suggested that some hearing people enter the Deaf community “looking for money,” and it is understandable that teachers could be just trying to work in a country with a high level of unemployment. These comments were generally directed towards certain individuals and only rarely stated in terms of the general hearing population. Several of the hearing teachers were placed in E.D.A. because of school request. Others- for example, one of the pre-school teachers- asked to teach in E.D.A. specifically. She told me that she has always loved working with the Deaf and has been fascinated with signing since she was a kid.

Even with kind-hearted intentions, most hearing teachers are not fluent in any sign language. The most prevalent concern in the Deaf community seems to be a lack of qualified teachers in the schools. A.MA.SOURDS’ 2000 publication acknowledges this deficiency as have informants in nearly all of my interviews. This is not to say that teachers lack understanding of subject material, but they often lack the linguistic skills to convey this information in a way that Deaf students can find value in it.

According to certification requirements, mandatory training for special education is assessed by the Centre d’Animation Pédagogique.[10] Several students commented that most teachers must “lose” this training shortly after. “The most important thing we can do is to help deaf children understand their language,” says Balkissa Maiga. [11] A teacher being able to speak the same language as their students is a vital component of this duty.

One of the major differences between the Deaf and Hearing teachers in the school was that during strike days (or weeks) I noticed that often, many of the Deaf teachers would come to school and work with the kids, even if they weren’t teaching. I noticed a couple of hearing teachers do the same, but much less often. I feel that his shows a sense of community devotion that claims superiority over pay-checks which often don’t arrive as expected. One informant showed me a list of teachers that hadn’t been properly compensated for several years. Half of them were teachers at E.D.A.

The problem, it seems, is that in order for paperwork to go through payroll smoothly, teachers need all of their credentials. These are nearly impossible to obtain when Deaf students are not accommodated and often not permitted in high schools and especially not university. Teacher training certificates seem to be accepted but payment is not always guaranteed.

The need for qualified, concerned, and paid teachers who are certified in standardized sign language is vital to successful education and was the primary desire of all informants. The other major community need that stems directly from the former is the need for Deaf High Schools as well as access to and accommodations in Hearing High Schools and Universities. Currently, literature exists on the Programme National de Réadaptation à Base Communautaire (National Program for Adjustment of the Community Base- PBRC) led by the Department of Preschool and Special Education under the Ministry of Education. The program outlines educational integration as a fundamental human right and “supports access of handicapped people to all social services of the base within their community, including school.”[12] The Deaf community will hopefully benefit from this new integrative school philosophy in the near future.

FEMAPH

One day after school when all of the students had gone home for the day, I was sitting in the library with some friends when a man in a black tank top, jeans, and Will Smith sun-glasses walked into the room. He held one leg as he walked to hold it in place and seemed to be very proud to be carrying a long envelope in one hand. He asked Balkissa to step outside with him for a moment. After he left, she explained to us that he was marrying his second wife and inviting everyone at the school to celebrate.

There is a special relationship between the Deaf community and the Handicapped Hearing communities (member of FEMAPH). They invite each others for baptisms, weddings, and other festivities where a crowd is a requirement. FEMAPH helps introduce these groups to each other and they, by extension, have a larger community of generally open-minded people.

Conclusion

Throughout my research I was reminded that diversity exists within all communities. No uniform “Malian Deaf” perspective, community, or need exists and everyone perceives their own world and place in it differently. I asked everyone I met about what their dreams for the future of the Deaf in Mali were. The question didn’t translate very well but there were some common themes: teachers who understand sign, no more embezzlement, buses instead of vans crammed with 40-50 students (a need that has just recently been fulfilled), building construction finished, child supervisors to prevent students from getting lost going to and from school, a restaurant in the school (or school lunch everyday), help with job training and finding jobs (one reason given was to prevent unemployed men with harmful intentions from hanging around the school), to be organization leaders, a hospital in the school with deaf and hearing staff, a soccer-field, a Monday-Friday boarding school for students who live far away, a better source for potable water, and standard out-of-country ASL training for teachers.

Still, no third school exists to serve the Deaf children in Bamako’s two remaining communes and no high school specifically serving or accommodating deaf students exists in Mali. Access to university education is practically impossible as are visas and entrance exam requirements for school in other countries. A High School for the Deaf, teachers certified in ASL or some standard sign language, and better practices for child safety are the necessary next steps for Deaf-supportive development.

As the process of development in general continues, living conditions and opportunities for the Deaf will be greatly improved while some (and hopefully all) of these dreams for the future become realities. Childhood illness will hopefully be reduced and although the number of deaf people may not change, the causes of deafness probably will.[13] More children will be born deaf as opposed to becoming deaf or hard-of-hearing which will affect the age at which they begin school and how their academic skills will develop. As a result, sign will more rarely be seen as a second or third language learned later in life as is now it for those whose hearing loss derives from illness. Instead, BSL, with its mélange of roots, will become more of a maternal language as Deaf education and ideas about deafness change. These changes must be intentionally considerate to all communities (varying abilities, genders, ethnic/linguistic groups, etc.) in order to simultaneously advocate for societal and educational rights of

The Republic of Mali is a country in West Africa bordering Algeria, Burkina Faso, Guinea, Cote d'Ivoire, Mauritania, Niger, and Senegal. Ranked 173/177 by the Human Development Report, Mali is struggling through development in all sectors.[1] The most severe issues include inadequate supplies of potable water, and an infant mortality rate of over 10%.[2] As the country struggles to develop its public health measures, children face achievement challenges in school with illness, malnutrition, under-nutrition, and the burden of being called on to be financial contributors in the home.

With a literacy rate of 46.4%[1], the country is focused on expanding availability of quality, accessible education, especially in maternal languages. Progress is slow and even with higher level education it is difficult to find work due to such high levels of unemployment. (In 2004, the unemployment rate for youth who had finished school was 12.5%.[2]) Additional pressure is placed on developing the Deaf education system due to the increasing number of Deaf children in the country whose hearing loss is a product of childhood illness.

[1] Ibid.

[2] TRAORE, Fousseini. "Chômage et conditions d’emploi des jeunes au Mali." University d'Auvergne, 2005. Centre d'Etudes et de Recherches sur le Développement International . 1 Dec. 2007 .

[1] United Nations Development Programme. 2007/2008 Human Development Index Rankings. 29 Nov. 2007 .

[2] Central Intelligence Agency. “Mali.” The World Factbook. 15 Nov. 2007 .

Today is World Malaria Day.

Awareness factoid: Over 1 million people die every year of malaria and 90% of them are in Africa.

Persuasion: People need access to affordable medication, bed-nets, and prevention education. Governments and NGOs need help providing these resources. Anything you can do to spread awareness helps: write a letter to your representatives about supporting policies that affect drug patents, trade, and federal aid programs. Or make a charitable donation to groups like Partners in Health, Doctors Without Borders, or more local NGOs like Plan Mali.

Catch-up:

Wow, it's been a long time since I updated everyone... So here's the short version for now...

I moved into the school for the Deaf and lived there for a month in a back room. It was the most amazing experience of my life. I met inspirational people and became very good friends with Balkissa among many others. I spent most of my days observing classes, visiting students and their families, interviewing government officials, and just trying to understanding what it meant to be Deaf in Bamako. I wrote up a final paper called “Bobo in Bamako.” Bobo means someone who doesn’t speak properly which is how deafness is defined. I also discovered that stuttering and hearing impairments are grouped under this category. While many of the more educated city-dwellers I met understood that deafness is an inability to hear, some of the more rural or less educated people I met didn’t seem to make a large distinction between people who are deaf and those that stutter.

The most important thing I learned was that education for the deaf requires cultural competency, and that need is not being met in the school system despite the efforts of many administrators. Balla, the director of the school, committed much of his time at one point to teaching parents how to sign and communicate with their children. However, an injury and the low attendance caused him to stop these Saturday sessions. Most of the teachers are hearing and most of them don’t sign well enough. A few teachers, both deaf and hearing, really impressed me with their dedication to the students.

I spent a long time my last day in Bamako walking around by myself, trying to log everything in my memory. I will upload my journal again eventually but being back in school has been a big adjustment. Below is my final paper “Bobo in Bamako.” It is in serious need of editing… sitting in an internet café for hours at a time on a PC from the stone age was not my ideal writing environment and unfortunately I haven’t had time to go back and re-write it. I’d love to answer more questions about my time there so please leave me comments!

Mali is a beautiful country with incredible people and I highly recommend you go if you have the privilege.

“Bobo in Bamako”

Deaf Community in Hippodrome’s l’Ecole Déficients Auditifs

Bamako, Mali

Elizabeth Dupont dit Bintou Konate

Project Advisor: Balkissa Maïga

Academic Directors: Modibo Coulibaly and Harber Mama

School for International Training (S.I.T.)/World Learning

Fall Semester, 2007

Dedication

To Mariana for setting a rare example of what life should mean

Remercîments

Balkissa Maïga, ce projet aurait été impossible sans vous. Merci pour les leçons, les repas, les embrasses, la patience, et l’amitié.

Ousmane, Fousseyni, Oumar, Maurille, Benjamin et Marthe, Mamadou, Luntala, Solo, Cheik, Nouhoun, Mariam, Tonton, Aïssata, Fidèle et famille, ces pour qui je seulement connais votre noms dans la langue des signes, et tout qui m’a donné votre hospitalité et votre amitié, je vous donne beaucoup des remerciements.

Merci au Centre d’Administration Pédagogique, La Direction Nationale de L’ Education de Base, L’ Association Malienne Pour Les Sourds (A.MA.SOURDS), Balla Keïta, Yaya Doumbia, Modibo Coulibaly, Harber Mama, Lamine Bagayogo, et Edmond Togo pour avoir m’aidé manager ma projet entre langues et autorisations.

Merci aux enseigneurs à l’Ecole Déficients Auditifs pour votre patience et vos bons accueils. Et finalement, merci à tout les étudiants « la bas » et votre familles pour vos souris et vos enthousiasme.

I ni cε caman, caman, caman

Table of Contents

Opening Thoughts…………….…………………………….4

Introduction………………………….……………………….5

Methodology………………………………………………....7

Background ………………………..………………………10

The Large Deaf Community in Mali……………...10

The Need for Deaf Education…………………….11

First Action………………………………………….12

E.D.A. Support……………………………………..15

L’Ecole Deficient Auditifs………………………………….18

Classrooms………………………………………….19

Privilege and Safety………………………………..20

A Social Niche………………………………………23

Home Life…….....…………………………..………………26

Hearing Friends and Siblings.…………………….26

Deaf Relatives………………………………………27

Children of Deaf Parents.………………………….28

Marriage……………………………………………..29

Between Deaf and Hearing Communities……………….31

Communication……………………………………..31

Respect……………………………………………...33

Labels.…………………………………………….…34

Teachers………………………………………….…36

FEMAPH………………………………………….…38

Conclusion…….....…………………………..………….….40

Final Thoughts………………………………………….…..42

Appendix A:Questionnaire.…………………………….….43

Appendix B: Questionnaire Results……………………...44

Appendix C: Glossary of Bambara and French Words…45

Appendix D: Glossary of Acronyms………………………46

Opening Thoughts

Less than one-fifth of all deaf people in poor nations receive any education.

Most deaf people in poor nations cannot read their own name.

Most deaf people in developing nations cannot count to 10.

Unemployment rates in the deaf community are high.

Many developing nations deny basic human rights to their deaf and hard of hearing citizens.

According to statistics released by the World Federation of the Deaf (WFD), at least 26 nations do not permit their deaf citizens to earn a driver's license.

A few nations have put legal limits on the rights of deaf people to marry and raise the family they choose.

Deaf people in some developing nations do not have the right to vote in elections. [1]

Introduction

With the career goal of practicing medicine in West Africa, I came to Mali knowing my ISP would involve working in a maternity. I wanted to see if I was cut out for the work and test how much I’d romanticized the experience. I wrote up my proposal and planned to move into a maternity up north in Bla. Classes continued and I was ready to begin.

One day in early October I was going to buy post cards at la Grande Poste to send home. I walked inside and, thinking the vendor behind me just another tourist-hunter, I put on my “serious tubab” face. I turned around and he handed me a paper that showed he represented a Malian association for the Deaf[1] and he was looking for donations. I knew a few words in sign language and, forgetting that there are many sign languages, greeted him in my awkward American Sign Language (ASL). It was kind of fun but nothing revolutionary and I continued to plan for Bla.

Two weeks later I went to send a package and met two more men from the same organization. I learned the signs for Bamako and Mali and we signed about the weather. I really enjoyed our conversation and planned to return a few days later to causer.[2] During my third visit to la Grande Poste, I met Mamadou and several others who were incredibly welcoming and patient with my lacking communication skills. I learned about a deaf school down the road and was anxious to go visit. An American missionary who knew some ASL from a childhood friend was also there (by chance) and helped me translate. I planned to go with Mamadou on Monday to visit the school… but I couldn’t wait and Raye, another SITer came with me. There, I met Balkissa- my fabulous advisor- and Benjamin who gave me my sign name.

After a couple more visits to la Grande Poste and the school, meeting a deaf merchant in every city during our S.I.T. “Grand Excursion,” and several attempts to deny my change of heart, I switched my project and moved into L’Ecole Déficients Auditifs (E.D.A.) Thursday; November 8th, 2007 to begin researching Deaf education in Bamako, and to be more precise, those linked to the Deaf community through E.D.A. (west of the Niger River).

My goal is to provide a brief overview of this Deaf community’s socio-educational history, present, and desired progressions for the future. By sharing some of the greatest challenges in their daily lives, learning, families, and work, I hope to provide opportunity for more awareness of the Bamako Deaf community’s needs and experiences.

Methodology

For one month I lived in a spare room behind L’Ecole Déficients Auditifs. Generally, I spent my days researching and my nights practicing signing with the crew of vendors and friends who seem to continually causer in front of the school. (I refer to this group affectionately as the “Causer Crew”.) During my time spent in this community, I was guided by several questions: Is deafness seen as a disability, advantage, or variance and why? Who has been most involved or influential in the development of the deaf school system and the implementation of deaf-friendly policies and social services? Where are current services for the Deaf and what plans are in progress for expansion? What has been the influence of outside NGOs in the development of deaf-friendly infrastructure (financially and philosophically)? Where are the hubs for Deaf communities to develop and why? Why and how do certain hearing Malians choose to enter the Deaf community? How are deaf or hard-of-hearing individuals in isolated communities, or without a Deaf community, integrated into their ethnic culture and viewed by family or community members? How do cultural conceptions of gender, age, and privilege relate to diversity in Deaf communities and relationships with Hearing communities?

In searching for answers to these questions, I formally observed 12 classes in E.D.A. (years 2,3,4,6,8,9, and middle level preschool) and one in the neighboring private high school with one Deaf student (year 10); conducted over 50 informal interviews and guided discussions (small group and individual) with Deaf students, youth, and teachers; visited 22 homes of Deaf people; visited 7 workplaces of Deaf people (not including teachers); formally interviewed the E.D.A. director, A.MA.SOURDS representatives, the Adjunct Minister of Base Level Education, the Director of Preschool and Special Education, and a Center of Instructor Animation (CAP) representative; and lead 36 survey-based interviews with students and youth.[3]

The surveys were initially meant to be completed individually but I did not anticipate French reading comprehension being so problematic. I assumed that because lessons are taught in French (often exclusively), that comprehension would not be a problem. However, with students constantly getting up to ask questions, the process was a bit chaotic. Directions should have been clearer on the form and BSL (Bamako Sign Language)-ASL translations were absolutely necessary for every question for every person. Each survey was carefully reviewed by me and at least one other signer with the informant in the effort to maintain accuracy. Still, I have doubts regarding a couple of surveys in which the informants, either tired or embarrassed because of peers repeating misapprehended questions, resigned to choosing arbitrary answers. Quite a few incomplete or unverified surveys were discarded and not included in the final calculations.

Literature on the subject of Deaf communities in Mali is scarce and most of the writings I found came from informants and friends. I found nothing regarding related issues in the S.I.T. or national libraries and only dictionaries in the E.D.A. library itself. Thus, much of my literary research is internet-based or unpublished work.

In order to communicate with informants more clearly and to better evaluate the abilities of my translators, I spent 13 hours in intense Sign Language for Francophone West Africa tutoring with Balkissa Maïga, President of the Committee of Deaf Malian Women. I was also able to study other components of Bamakoise Sign Language from three other sign dictionaries.

Translation (from sign language to French/English/Bambara) was sometimes facilitated through writing, speaking/lip-reading, finger-spelling in one or several other languages, or natural gesturing (akin to charades). In this paper, I have translated any documents and conversations originally in French, Bambara, and the local mélange of sign languages (what I call Bamako Sign Language) to English.

It is important to note that I have worded any quotes I received in sign into English and have tried to translate literally as best as possible. I have often compiled several personal stories or events into one example in an effort to allow my informants more confidentiality and condense information in a realistic way. I have compensated informants from home visits with small gifts which I do not think has influenced my research and I have changed their names in the case of minors.

I cannot claim to have understood everything that I have experienced, having only entered the community and begun signing for four short weeks, but I have done my best to clarify any misunderstandings and present them objectively. Illustrative anecdotes in the text, however, do include my personal, subjective perspective. I feel that although my perceptions cannot portray these situations in an ideally accurate light, they can help create a better understanding for daily events and circumstances which can only be conveyed in a qualitative manner.

[1] I have capitalized the “D” in Deaf throughout this paper in reference to the Deaf community as a whole (including hard-of-hearing people). A lower case “d” refers to a physical condition.

[2] French: to visit and chat

[3] Surveys and Survey Results can be found in Appendices A and B.

[1] Shettle, Andrea. "The Fate of Being Born Deaf in a Developing Nation." International Deaf Education and Advancement Fund. 16 Dec. 2003. 29 Nov. 2007 .

Although the flight was delayed a day and 2 days in Timbuktu were cut out of our trip due to terrorist warnings in the north, we were all really excited to see the rest of Mali, hear new histories in new accents, and make new friends. We flew into Mopti and immediately upon arrival were greeted by Harber and the two drivers- Alu and Mamadou. They had driven up with our bags the day before. It felt like a huge family reunion walking down the stairs of the plane, through the dusty runway, and seeing familiar faces on the other side of a café-terminal.

We all packed into the vans as vendors surrounded us. Modibo called me from outside, “Bintou, where is Bintou?” I hopped out. “There is a deaf person here and I want to buy a calling card, can you help me translate.” I know maybe 30 signs and the alphabet but I was so excited that he thought of me and that I got to practice the little I know. He was very nice and I wasn’t really needed for the transaction but I couldn’t stop smiling.

The drive to Djenné wasn’t that bad. We slept, read, shopped from the van windows, and talked about ISP plans. I roomed with Aisha at a tourist-filled compound-style hotel. It was very fancy- three rooms in each hut, each with their own shower, western toilet, and sink. The mosquito nets were thick and the fans were good. There was even an outlet. Score.

The lizards in Djenné were twice the size of the ones in Bamako, but less colorful. The main entrance was filled with shops targeted towards tourists- huge Tuareg knives, bronze and wood figurines (ancient and modern), jewelry, small Dogon doors, hand-made fabric, bogolan scarves, and mancala boxes with green acorn-ish seeds for stones. After lunch and a small repose/exploration, we took a tour through the mud-brick city to visit the third incarnation of the grand mosque. It was huge. Every year the village elders choose a day to refinish the mud coat and it’s a party. I was surprised that one of the country’s most prized monuments (the mosque) could seem so completely suffocated by black plastic bags, sewerage streams, and discarded items.

We also visited a tomb from before the time of Islam. The story goes (I hope I remember correctly) that when the city was being built, the walls kept falling despite all master craftsmanship. It was rebuilt three times and finally, the féticheurs divined that in order for the city’s walls to remain high, either an uncircumcised boy or a virgin girl had to be sacrificed so that their purity could protect the city from the evil spirits destroying it. So, the young girls and boys were surveyed for a volunteer and one young woman stepped up. She said goodbye to her family and a box of wood planks was built around her on the bank of the river. She was left there and died soon after. The tomb we visited was the original site of her grave. When Islam cam into the picture, the marabous wanted the tomb removed because it was a sign of animism but the people wouldn’t let the martyr’s tombs be touched and built high mud-brick walls around it to prevent the marabous from entering. Now, people can walk through a small door and place coins on a distended portion of the wall to make a wish so each of us did.

We walked to a metal-smith’s shop and then were given some free time to explore. Some of us made friends and most of us went shopping. The next day we visited an old archaeological site Jene-Koro. The McKintoshes had come from Austin in the 80’s, I think, to look into the history of this abandoned island where it’s believed that spirits rest. We took 2 pirogues through tall marsh grass and got a panoramic view of the city. The island was guarded by an old man wearing a triangular indigo tie-dyed hat with three pom-poms, a winter vest over a baggy t-shirt, and an engraved cane. The guide said this man would put a spell on us if we tried to steal anything and I dropped the piece of pottery I was holding. The shards covered the ground and it was impossible not to step on them. Some of the burial pots’ broken tops were visible and some even had skulls near the surface. These big pots were buried in the ground containing whole bodies and personal items.

Later, we sent to the museum and saw some whole ones that had been fully recovered. The museum had many interesting artifacts, most of which I could’ve found in the street from a vendor or on the ground on the island. There were reconstructions of pre-Islam and post-Islam architecture. The most interesting point about the front façade was the posts on either end of the roof. During purely animist times, the 2 pillars represented man and woman, reaching equal heights to signify equitable authority in the home. In the center were other indicators for the number of wives and children in the home. Islamic philosophy changed the pillars to identical male forms on either side.

Djenné was beautiful and the people (though obnoxiously used to tourists) were very nice, especially the children. I got a history lesson from a man whose family had been blacksmiths since before the time of his great-grandparents. He explained various ancient items- a pendant signifying that the owner had a horse (a sign of wealth); a huge brass thumb-ring worn so that when women pound things in the mortar, the pestle hitting the brass makes an announcement that the woman is married; a clay sphere with a hole in it for toddlers to use as a training potty; and bronze pendants symbolizing geographic location and family origin. We explored and got lost and were redirected.

On the third day we left for Dogon Country and were instructed not to wear white. The road was dusty and my hair had a new red tint by the time we got to lunch. We wore scarves as turbans modelled after Harber’s Songrai fashion and I studied the signing book I’d been given from at the school for the deaf. Sangha’s next… TBC…