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.