Oh Togo

Journal entry from end of November

I woke up this morning chilled by the brisk Harmatan winds, so much so that it prompted me to dig into the suitcase I had stored away under my cot of the long sleeve shirts and sweaters that I brought and have yet to find a use for since the heat has been unbearable. The best part of pulling out the sweater to throw over my head in the early hours of the morning wasn’t that it was actually cool enough to wear it; it was the feeling that rushed through my body when I got a whiff of the clean fresh scent of my home back in Oregon. I can’t quite describe the rush of feeling I got, but it brought an immediate sense of comfort in a place where I have yet to find comfortable. I only allowed myself ten minutes in the sweater for the fear I would induce homesickness. Alas, I packed away the sweater rolled the suitcase back under my cot and stepped back into the reality of my life in Togo.

Now as I am sweating on the very paper I write, I realize, despite my ache for home and comfort I am really happy. I mention that because any sane person who lived ten minutes in my life today would mostly likely have packed up their suitcases and ran, or maybe I am just reflecting on how many times I myself considered doing so. Yet, somehow as I listen to the distant mumbles of a language I can’t even begin to understand, the obnoxious scream of a pentad, all while swatting flies from my face, I know there is no place I would rather be, despite all of the hardships , and let me tell you life here is full of hardships. I will begin with the events of yesterday, I was in Mogou a village about 35 kilometers outside of Takpapeni visiting Ellen a Girls Education and Empowerment volunteer and my closest neighbor. Tuesday happens to be Marche day in Mogou, so just from that I knew it would be an eventful day. We started our day with a visit to the local clinic where Ellen and one awesome lady from Mogou were conducting interviews about the health of young girls in the village. The interview questions were an attempt to get some sort of statistics or even perspective on health issues such as forced marriage (during adolescence) , adolescent pregnancy, and young girls who come into the clinic due to complications from attempts at home abortions. The nurse seemed slightly reluctant to acknowledge the last question. By the end of the interview the two ladies were gossiping partially in French and partially in Kabye (a local language), from what Ellen and I were able to make out they were saying something along the lines of “ Now what boy thinks he can come along and tell my daughter that she needs to quit school to be with him and work at home.” So refreshing to hear that from two women in a small village where in the last class of MIDDLE School only four girls remain, the rest lost to various occurrences such as pregnancy, marriage, inability to pay school fees, or because they are needed at home or in the fields. The later part being that sad part of the story, the refreshing part that there are a handful of women, including Ellen who are willing to advocate for the rights of girls.

After the interview we decided to take a short walk. As we walked down the dirt road through endless miles of fields and Baobab tress, passing beautiful Fulani people, attempting to saluat in a language we didn’t know- I could hardly believe that this is my life. As we approached the end of our walk, the Chiefs house, we decided to go in and Saluat (very important part of Togolese culture.) Her chief turned out to be this awesome respected member of the village. We sat for a while listening to him ramble about someone in the village who stole money from some important fund, and then we were on our way. By this time it was around 10:30 in the morning so naturally we stop at the bar to enjoy a drink, I tried to stick to my golden rule in this country if never drinking before 5- not working out to well in my favor. Tried to order a non-alcoholic drink only to be joined by the Chief who bought us a round of beers, so no big deal, right, one bee? O no, the beers here are massive, one being the equivalent of 2.5 American sized brews. So I forcefully gulped down the Lager and was relieved when he left only offering one beer each. Yet, shortly before he left- pranced in his beautiful daughter and Ellen’s best friend in the village who is ready to start the market with some Chook (a traditional millet beer made in massive quantities and sold by the calabash. So we make our way to the chook stand where I naively thought I could sit while Ellen and her friend enjoyed some, wrong. It is tradition at every stand you go to gout (taste) the chook before you pay the whole ten cents for your drink. As I struggled through drinking the gout I could feel my stomach expanding, only to have Ellen’s friends buys us a round. As I am sitting starring at a calabash full to the rim, I think in my head about how I could strategically place it where it could get spilled- ooops right? But then I figured the plan would backfire only to have the entire stand of people buy me a calabash. I think and think and no prevail, I gulp down the rest of my Chook. It’s noon, my belly protrudes and my balance is off- Ellen and I try to make our way through the market to buy things, but hot and boozed we realize it’s a bad idea and head back to her house.

Its 2 pm I rub my eyes waking up from our afternoon nap, thirsty as ever with a massive headache, time to make my way back to Takpapeni. I hop on the back of a moto and start my hour journey back to village, hitting pot holes, nearly bouncing off the back, and only breaking down once- that’s what I call a successful ride. I make it back to village to find I still don’t have a latrine or windows in my house. I love my village for their hospitality, giving nature, and excitement to have me, but their ability to work quickly and efficiently is another story. The county Director and my program director visited my site recently, I had mentioned that things were slow moving but hadn’t really complain because it had yet to bother me enough. I was trying to be “patient and flexible” the two words that are drilled into our minds during training. Apparently my conditions were worse than I thought. The CD was upset with how I was living, no latrine and a house not really ready to live in. They gathered all of the important people in my village and threatened to move me if they didn’t get things done quickly or at least provide me with the basic living requirements. I know it is what they needed to motivate them but I couldn’t help but feel guilty and horrible about the entire situation. I recognize that it is difficult for them to understand why I require more amenities then they do, after all they have been living this way for years- but alas I need somewhere other than the bush to do my business, I need a shower where my naked body won’t be revealed to the entire village, and windows to provide light and air in my house.

After being offered other villages to move to and long conversations with the CD, I decided to stick it out in Takapapeni for I am already attached and I feel like it is where I am supposed to be. I just hope that this isn’t my warning sign to how they will approach projects. Somehow the people in my village got wind that the CD was offering other villages to me and all hell broke loose. People gathered franticly screaming and demanding pardon, almost in tears. I had to convince an ancient lady that she didn’t need to pump water for me to finish molding together the walls of my latrine. A few days later, things have progressed; I almost have a finished latrine and windows in my house. Between that and stepping on a sharp rock in my room only to fall and spill my chamber pot full of urine all over myself, my floor mat, and my backpack all I can say Is C’est la vie!.