Ca Va Aller!

            So I must apologize for long gaps between my blogs, but with my second computer in its coffin, finding a time and place to write has become a bit more complicated. Wow, it’s been 6 months since my last post… where to even begin!? I have been here nearly 10 months now and I can hardly believe it. My life is like nothing I could have ever imagined- for instance, the other day I was walking around the fields near my house, metal bucket in one hand, the other equipped with a gardening glove ready to grab any and all cow dung I came across. The first hour or so of this work I didn't think much of it, just another day in the life, but then I took a minute to think about what was happening. I found myself laughing alone out in the middle of a field, with only the goats to share the moment with- who would ever thought I would be taking hours out of my day to search for the fecal matter of a cow, had to get that much needed ingredient for my compost pile. As you can tell I have settled in and am comfortable here, it no longer feels foreign, unbearably difficult or lonely- often it feels like I have been living like this my entire life. Since Christmas things have really fallen into place, my house is finally in living order, I have a brand new latrine and the old one is in the process of being converted into a chicken coop, I have wonderful relationships in my village and I have had success and failures with projects.

In February I started to work with the Red Cross mother's club in my village- we have had some triumphs and well… our fair share of difficulties. At our first formation I demonstrated how to make and use liquid soap as an income generating activity, and introduced the wonders of an amazing tree called Moringa. All was going smoothly, the women were excited, asking questions, and lending their hands in any way they could. We mixed, tested, and bottled the soap  only to move on to our next task, tree planting! Each women had collected 5 pure water saches  (little plastic clear bags of water, when the water is down they get thrown all over the place.) As the women were stuffing their saches with a mixture of dirt, sand, and manure- all felt blissful. I took a few steps back to watch what was being accomplished- I was so proud and sneering at horror stories of my fellow volunteers about their failed formations, meetings, and projects. My first attempt- it was all too easy. My sneering came back to bite me right in the ass, I was not exempt to those horrors. Suddenly all hell broke loose and I found myself in the middle of a fist fight, screaming stop in all the languages I know, finally retreating to my house; I wasn’t about to put up with such nonsense from a bunch of grown women. When Alice (the young mom I live with) came to get me, I was dumbfounded by the reasoning they gave for the boxing match. Apparently, once the mix of manure and dirt ran out the women were afraid they weren't going to get a sache to plant their tree (because we all know there aren't enough animals defecating in this village and dirt to go around.) Taking 5 minutes to gather more dirt and manure never crossed their minds- so it was a free for all, the women grabbing full saches and trying to steal them from one another,CHAOS. Alas, my first formation began beautifully and ended terribly- but not to worry the next few meetings went marvelously before failing again.

A few weeks after the “incident” and after the women proved they could be adults and successfully grow a tree on their own we began our Moringa pépinière (nursery). Before I continue, let me tell you a little more about this special tree. Moringa Oleifera is a native tree of India and is now widespread throughout Africa. It has multiple benefits and uses, but most importantly it is a nutritional goddess of a tree. The leaves are packed with vitamins and nutrients including protein, calcium, vitamin C, vitamin A, iron and more.

What were we going to do with it? Our plans; once the trees were large and strong enough we would plant them in the ground near the local health clinic- in hopes that people would inquire and subsequently be informed about it nutritional benefits. Once the trees gave leaves our plan was to harvest them, dry them, and pound them into a powder that could be added to their local food/sauces. The women would provide the hospital with free powder that would be given out to malnourished children and pregnant women, and sell sacs full to the general public on market days. I was thrilled with how motivated the women were-they gathered their own money to pay for the fencing and collectively decided to place the nursery next to our furthest pump to keep them away from children. We spent 6 hours in the sun cutting open saches, searching for dirt, sand, and manure, filling the saches and planting the trees. At the end of the day we had planted over 700 trees, all that was left was to give them water daily and wait for them to be big enough to plant in the ground. Four months later, June 1^st, Togo's national tree planting day; our trees were ready. I thought I had worked out all the logistics with the Major (head nurse) of the clinic, I spoke with him about 7 different times discussing where we would plant the trees and how we would protect them from the hungry goats and cows. We agreed to put the trees in a space on the right side of the clinic and close them in with local fencing material, but on planting day he changed his mind and wanted to put them around the perimeter of the hospital and save the other space for bigger wind breaking trees. I started firing questions; how would we protect them from the animals? From the bush fires? From the pesticides that they spray everywhere? All I received in return were a slurry of vague responses such as "ca va aller" (it will happen), “pas de problem” (no problem) and guarantee that nothing would happen to our trees. So together the women and children from my environmental club worked for hours planting the trees around the perimeter of the clinic, at the end of the day things felt like a success. I left for PDM (a training with other volunteers and our village work partners) returning less than a week later only to have my fears validated.  All 500 trees (200 never germinated) had been eaten by goats- as the people of Takpapieni say “Ca va aller!”

Outcome: Project #1- Fail But we still have hopes that the trees will grow back and by the time animals are let loose again they will be tall and out of the reach of the pesky goats!
As for the liquid soap, 3 women including Alice are making the soap and selling it the Marché (market)- and they are all thrilled with the extra income they are earning! Every week Alice and I make the soap together and it is one of my favorite days of the week, at the end of soap making we are both laughing so hard it hurts. She has truly become one of my best friends in village, I constantly hear and observe the difficulties many volunteers have making real relationships, and I feel very fortunate to have her in my life. Without Alice, the rest of my host family, and a few other friends I can honestly say I would have ended my service a long time ago!
That was my February and some of my June! I have so much more to write; March, April, May!  But I will keep it short for now…

I just had an amazing week with Katy, and now I have an exciting month to look forward to- the biggest excitement- I will be an Aunt in the next week or so!!!!!!!!!! Can't wait to meet baby Parker!  Miss you all and hope you are enjoying Oregon summer!

Cluster whhhaaat!?

Bon Annee! A year ago I could have never imagined my life this way, and I still feel like I am in a giant dream or nightmare. My first few months at post in Togo have pretty much been well… interesting, to say the least. One sickness after another, 4 days in the med unit, lack of adequate living conditions and more illness as a consequence, pick pocketing, thieving masons, bug and bat infestations, bike crashes, puppy seizures, doorstep marriage proposals, curtain fires, fishy flavored everything, bush rat and frog meat, I could go on and on. Yes, doesn’t sound all that romantic eh? I can say without a doubt, I am learning more about patience, resilience, coping, and forgiveness then I ever imagined, and I have high hopes for the next two years. Definitely wouldn’t have made it without the support of my fellow volunteers here in country, and my wonderful friends, family, and boyfriend back at home. No, I haven’t forgotten all of you, your letters, care packages, and warm thoughts have pushed me through the times that I thought I would break. Nothing like eating an entire care package or two of food, while painting with water colors sent for children, and reading letters from home to get you through the tough times. So thanks everyone. I am a little behind on posting so a little about life before Christmas…..

After being stolen from by my Mason and by someone in my own Marche, I was beginning to get a bit discouraged, Pollyanna be gone... Alas, I have hit my 4 month mark here in Togo! In one sense that feels like an accomplishment only 23 more months to go, although I sometimes kid myself thinking I have been here for 6 months and wondering how will I ever make it to the end. Not to fear, with my new sidekick Danfo (puppy), a kick ass host family, an amazing group volunteers, and a pretty great village… two years may not be enough. As far as the work aspect of being a volunteer, when you have to spend the first few months setting up your house with cement flooring and walls, pulling teeth to get a latrine, and ridding yourself of all ailments it’s a little difficult to do much else. But so it begins…

Wednesday December 21st, under the shade of a Neem Tree I held my first real meeting. After about two hours of waiting for everyone to arrive, I finally had to convince them we should and needed to start, even if the 8th son of the chief (who actually really isn’t his son at all) hadn’t shown up yet. Frightfully, I started the meeting by attempting the some fifty different ways to greet in Gam Gam only to resort back to broken French when no one understood or chose to respond, didn’t get much further with the French. The meeting was held to explain the women’s conference happening here in Togo in March, to nominate a woman, and to talk about my work/project plans for the next two years. I began by first explaining that I don’t actually know everything about… well… everything. I had to tell them that I don’t know how to build a dam, help them with their legal problems, or find a cure for malaria. From the grunts, groans, and sighs I was slightly worried that the rest of the meeting was going to go downhill from there, but I was pleasantly surprised. Because of things I have seen and experienced throughout my first few months I was beginning to think there was a lack of motivation, innovation, and creativity in this country, oh did my village show me. When I shot down the idea of building a dam, they remained insistent. The access to water her is shameful; there exists only four pumps of which three are in working order. Three pumps for a village of over 1,500 people, the women have to walk long distances and wait in long lines to get enough water. I tried to explain that a dam project was too large, too expensive, and too far out of my skill set (which for now ceases to exist altogether.) I brought the question of what would happen if a dam was built and it broke, who would maintain it, who would fix it? They responded by first telling me they already have 200 dollars saved up for a water project, and that they could create a committee to address problems and repairs, also they wondered if one could be trained to assess damages if they were to occur. Why not right? When I shot down their public latrine for the marche idea, because latrine projects are notorious for failure (they fill up, and become unsanitary) they suggested having people pay a small fee to use the latrine, using that fee to employee someone to maintain them. They also suggested composting latrines. Say what? Do I have the perfect village? These are ideas that I was supposed to propose, ideas that only other volunteers or educated people know, or so I thought. That’ll teach me to be paternalistic again. They tossed around so many ideas, that it all became a bit overwhelming… there is so much potential, so much motivation, but lack of resources and money, most things would require external or foreign aid of some sort. That brings up another whole subject- which I struggle to decide if I agree with or not. All of the sudden felt a weight of pressure to succeed in doing one or more of these projects, a pressure I wasn’t ready for, for I still haven’t figured out what my role or responsibility as a volunteer, community member, or simply a human is at this point. Another topic I will probably write more about it later for now I’ll spare you the craziness of complications of my mind.

After the meeting, my homologue and major invited me for what I thought was just a drink. Despite my constant insistence that I am a vegetarian, I am constantly told “little by little” I will habituate and become a meat eater. Thus, a not so little smorgasbord of meat was purchased, to you know- snack on during our drink, a three platter snack to be exact. . So what types of meat you ask? To my delight: beef, goat, and mystery meat. After exhausting my meat French vocabulary, trying to get to the bottom of what the mystery meat was and refusing to eat it, in fear that I would be consuming dog (yes they eat dog) my major finally says in overly pronounced English “It’s from the bush, like a raaaat.”

Oh joy.

The delicacy of Bush Rat… who would have thought that a rat could have such succulent meat? Of course I hesitated momentarily, I thought to myself for a second, whispered “you only live once right,” grabbed a piece of the moist, sauce covered meat and ate it. Three generous servings later I finally decided I had enough for the day, politely thanked them for the snack and drink and left the bar feeling slightly nauseous. Making my way home to nap away the nausea and reflect on my 23 years of being a non-adventurous meat eater, I am stopped by the very intoxicated Chef de Village who insists on buying me a calabash of Tchakpa, the perfect addition to a belly full of dead animals. I go through the motions; pour a small splash on the ground for the ancestors, sip it down, offer some to the old ladies, finish it off leaving another small bit to splash on the ground again, and pretend to misunderstand when they try to fill my calabash again, thanked the Chief and dodge away before I found myself stuck… drinking forever. On my walk back home the sun was more unforgiving than ever- sweating, sick, slightly tipsy, sleepy- the animals inside me decide to retreat as if they were still alive… I find myself puking behind the primary school, rat definitely tastes better going down. Luckily for me, it’s Wednesday, the day of the week my host family prepares my meals… not going hungry that’s for sure- give me some fish, frogs, or corn mush- anything but BUSH RAT!



5 am Thursday morning, I crawl out from beneath my mosquito net, wrap my pagne around my waist, pick up Danfo and open my four foot tall door to a bustling compound. I sigh with relief, for today I get to escape to the city. As I pack up my last items, strap them to my bike for my 170 k ride up North- I stop for a second to observe what is happening around me, trying to appreciate the chaos for what it is, and slap myself for sighing at my ache to escape- for this is my new life and I better get used to it. I then remember the presents I gathered and wrapped in make-shift Christmas paper for my host family, I dash back inside my hut in hopes of distributing them before everyone goes their separate ways. As I hand each person their gift they look at me not really sure what to do. I tried to explain the American tradition of gift giving and wrapping paper (thinking how silly it actually is to spend money on paper only to rip it up), still nothing. So I take 2 year old Kossi’s present and start un-wrapping it to show them, next thing I know they are tearing into their gifts faster than I could blink. What came next was a series of rejoicing… they all screamed, laughed, and danced! The little ones were smiling ear to ear, and I stood back and observed as they inspected each other’s gifts and exchanged excitement for one another. I’ll never forget that moment when Kossi’s mom grabbed him, kissed his face and hugged him with such excitement before showing him how to push his new matchbox car. They didn’t even need to thank me, their appreciation was loud and clear, and at that moment I no longer ached to leave village, nor ached to be spending the holidays in America. If only that same appreciation existed for the ridiculous number of gifts we receive every holiday. Alas, I had already made the commitment to ride up to Dapoang with two other volunteers. I was ready to go and was worried about being late to meet the others, but my host family kept insisting I wait until a villager came to see me off. Not thinking much of it, I began to get irritated as they blocked my departure. Finally the villager showed up, handing me two bills and a handful of change equaling about the equivalent of 10 dollars. My community had spent all morning gathering money for me, for all my money was stolen in the market the day before. I felt my eyes begin to well with tears; I knew this was a special gift and probably wasn’t easy to come up with especially during the holidays. Once again people who have so little are able to give so much. To put icing on top the cake I had a pretty bad crash on my way to meet my friends, not surprising right? As I bleed all over the place trying to pick myself, my bags, and my bike up a man raced over to help me. He strapped everything to my bike for me, dusted me off, and said sorry, sorry over and over again, proceeded to ride slowly behind me- just close enough to keep me in sight, but not too close to bother me. As we hit the mark where we were to go our separate ways he wished me good health, a good Christmas, and good voyage. Despite everything that may have gone wrong in the days, weeks, months leading up to this one, it is moments like those that make being here worth it, simple signs of gratitude, giving nature, and compassion.
I met Alisha and Sky on the main route and we made our way North. The pain from my crash persisted through most of the trip and by the time we made it to Mango I was dead tired, over sunned, and accomplished. The next leg of the trip would be easy, so I thought. Don’t think I could I have been more wrong. The next day we battled relentless savanna winds, blistering heat, a climb that went up but never came down, and semis that raced at on head on nearly knocking us off our bikes. My body was aching and I couldn’t replenish the salt that was dripping from my body, I fell behind the other two about halfway to Dapaong cursing so much you would think I was a sailor. The Togolese on their shitty bikes loaded with yams and God knows what raced past me, surely wondering why the crazy white girl was talking to herself, yelling in a language they couldn’t understand. Alas, we made it to our destination where for days on end we stuffed way too many volunteers into one place and over indulged on food, alcohol, and Christmas movies. Although I missed you all at home terribly, I must say I had a pretty amazing Christmas. As for what came next…. To be continued

Marche

After a day at Takpapieni Marche one can very special but at the same time feel so strange. Every Tuesday is market day in my village and after trying to explore it on my own a few weeks ago only to retreat to my home with tear filled eyes I couldn't imagine how I would ever muster up the confidence to go again. Being the sole foreigner in a busy market, with aggressive pagne venders, overly friendly and slightly sloppy villagers- thanks to one too many calabashes of Tchakpa, and collections of people stopping to stare- can be, to say the least, slightly intimidating. But alas, I found the courage to go again, for it is practically a sin to not show your face during market day. As usual nine am rolls around and I found myself drinking a calabash with the other morning drinkers including two year old twins who were happily switching from their mother's exposed breasts and their fathers full calabash. C'est normale here, where apparently when a baby reaches for a drink it signifies the thirst of the ancestors, thus denying their child a drink would by denying their ancestors, which of course you would never want to do. From the look in their eye,s I can tell that my baby drinking partners and I are observing the chaos and commotion of the Marche and Togoloese life in the same way, all three not having the capacity to fully absorb or understand what is going around us, or able to articulate other than in blubbers and broken language or feelings, thoughts, wants and needs. Noon rolls around and hunger aches at my stomach as if the morning three meals and calabash weren't enough to subside hunger pains.
Even with my insisting and preparation of my own meals my host family continues to prepare meals for me and never let up when saying "Ill faut manager" *(you must eat). As I sit under the shade of a paillote, eating Fou Fou with my hands while sauce drips down my arm and face, I realize that my “dreams” of somehow coming back from Africa slightly thinner and comme African are quickly diminishing. Despite my constant holding my arms out and filling my cheeks full of air (you can imagine how ridiculous I look) to try to explain that I will be massive by the end of the two years if they keep forcing me to eat so much. The enormous portions of food haven't let up- and they are so delicious, that well, I can't help but eat every morsel.... I mean I wouldn't want to offend them so naturally, I make sure to clean my plate chaque fois. After I wipe up every trace of peanut sauce with my last piece of mashed yams I can hear that the market is now bustling. I retreat from under the pailloite and people from all corners yell my name, "Conna, Conna!" everyone knows who I am and yet, I recognize few faces and know no names. People twenty to thirty years my senior greet me with the upmost respect, which include a bowing kneel used normally only for functionaires , chiefs, and respected elders. In French I am addressed with the vous (Formal) form of you rather than Tu. In Gam Gam I am giving the slu of greetings to confirm that my morning, my health, my husband, my family, and my courage are all doing well. People stop and stare, whisper, and laugh in my direction, and then there are those who are classified as a village fou (Crazies) or others who see my skin as money, thus plea for money and follow me as they place one hand to their mouth and tap the back of their hand on the palm of other to signify that are hungry and need money. Then let’s not forget the entourage of children who follow just enough at a distance to watch my next move but far enough away that they won’t be whipped by a shop keeper for bugging me. While most of these things make me feel welcomed and special, the bring me to the realization that no matter how hard I try to integrate or live amongst this village I will always be set apart. I will always be the American, the foreigner, la blanche (The white), and thus treated differently, often with more respect and kindness I deserve, but often not like a human being but instead either a walking dollar sign or a super human that can solve and fix all problems and bring prosperity.
The image of what most people believe to be the life of Peace Corps volunteers- that we go to a country and live in the same way as locals doesn't entirely hold true. No matter how much we as Americans, who grew up in a developed world want to one hundred percent become bien integre, I don't believe we can. We will always require certain things, certain amenities, we will always have our past, will cannot refuse some of the things we grew with and learned throughout our entire lives no matter where we are. We need somewhere other than the bush to defecate, we can't drink pump, well, or river water without first filtering and bleaching because it would wreak havoc on our bodies, we don't know how to prepare local foods and will never be as good as them at doing so if we learn, we will never master the local language in two years no matter how much effort we put into it, we don't hold the skills or strength to carry heavy basins of water on our head for miles, most of us we will never fully understand what it is like to be a third wife or a father of eight, and no matter how hard we as volunteers try there will always be people in this country that see us for something we are not and see that as an opportunity to profit or take advantage of us. This is something that I have learned you can't blame people for, there are so many other factors some which include; our past history with colonialism, decades of poorly allocated aid money, dependencies that have been created due to un-sustainable and top-down development ideas, and also because people are compassionate and often give handouts because they don't know what else to do. There is really no one to blame, it just simply is what it is, and one can only hope that throughout the years the gap can be diminished in some way and all people will see one another for being a fellow human- with their faults, attributes, ugliness and beauty- nothing more or nothing less. Walking around my marche I realize it is nearly impossible, or at least that is my view point to be entirely integrated to a culture, a life, a country, that I am not rooted from, that did not form or shape the majority of my life. I am a foreigner. I am not saying that this is a bad thing, or any less of a reason to be here. I am simply acknowledging it for what it is, addressing the stereotype I believe to be false, not exhausting myself trying to be like Togolese, or feeling guilty for needing certain things, and most importantly for not becoming vain and bitter towards my community, towards this country, for things are how they are, we are who we are, they are who they are, nothing more, or less, just different. All eyes on me, my every move monitored, the relentless begging for food or change, the respect and disrespect beyond what I do or don't deserve, the smells of frying dough and dried fish, the reverberations of salutations and discutering all around, the hugs of adorable children, the boob touching and suckling gestures of old women-the bustling marche that will be part of my life for the next 80 or so Tuesdays.