Meet the Flindjas

A waiver to the reader: This is the thorniest piece I have written on Togoland. I have just read through the blog for a final time and am disappointed. There’s not enough space for you to grasp any one person. Some I portrayed in too dim a light, others too emphatically. However, if I spent a whole day revising the following, the result would be the same. I would not find the elusive equilibrium I seek.

You may also notice that I write very little of relationships between the family. This is due to my own ignorance. Even though Katrina and I have an unadulterated view of the Flindjas, we cannot feign to have any real knowledge of the family’s inner workings. Nevertheless, this is the family we know best. Enjoy.




Bawa

When I think of Bawa, Abraham Lincoln comes to mind. Perhaps Abe faced slightly more harrowing circumstances preserving the union, abolishing slavery, and so on. But that’s not to say there aren’t a few similarities.

Both come from humble beginnings and have risen in the ranks to become venerated figures. Both posses a moral soundness matched by few men. Both exhibit progressive thinking. Both take solace in knowing their actions can ameliorate other’s lives. Bawa often says he sleeps little; his mind races with all his responsibilities of supporting his extended “African” family, (certainly smaller than the Union via 1860, but much larger than the American nuclear family). Bawa’s anguish conjures up images of Abe pacing the silent White House floors feeling the weight of the nation on his shoulders. Both are exceptionally amicable gentlemen, but exude a sort of preternatural melancholy, unable to neglect the injustices, cruelties, or just bad luck this big world can bring. Hence, a good sense of humor is imperative for their wellbeing.

On one occasion, Katrina was hosting her boss for a day in Ogaro. Rose, the head of Girl’s Education and Empowerment Program, was talking to students about the upcoming International Women’s Day. As a Togolese woman who has risen from rags to riches, so to speak, she has quite a success story to relay. Charismatic and energetic, she commands large crowds with ease. Bawa sat listening and finally asked with an inquisitive look, “But Rose, what about International Men’s Day? Don’t we get a day too?”

Rose was not impressed. Meanwhile, Bawa convulsed with laughter, legs in the air, slapping his knee repeatedly, nearly choking, he was so pleased with himself for injecting a little humor onto the scene. He loves—nay, needs—to laugh. And he doesn’t count on a few for his kicks. Bawa draws on the masses for his insatiable need for laughter. In turn, the masses are always nearby to catch his contagious nature.

One peculiarity of Bawa is that he has fits when he can’t remember names. Important ones. When telling a story awhile back, his second wife came into the picture. His eyes looked up and to the left, his mouth hung open in thought until he said, “the other one.” While this episode may be sad on a number of levels, the immediate comic value was priceless.

Despite his sporadic absentmindedness, no one is more active in community affairs. Village Development Committee, President. Committee against Child Trafficking, President. School board, active member. Agricultural cooperative, presiding member. There are others.

Men like Bawa are rare. One hopes these guys stick around for awhile. Unfortunately, Bawa doesn’t share these feelings for himself. He says he wants to go at age 60, no later. For a man who is financially responsible for many, being an economic burden on someone else is a pain he cannot bare.




Akovi

Among Togolese, there is a certain sass that is revered by all. Akovi personifies this woman. In classical Togolese tradition, hyperbole is her game. This is a terribly confusing trait to decode. In our first months in Ogaro, a quarrel arose between a man and her in our compound. For no less than fifteen minutes, they shouted with such animosity, that I was sure blows would ensue. Then, with no pretense to what was to come, uproarious laughter broke out on all sides. Having little understanding of our local language, I have no clue what words were spoken. It’s a shame too. It’s clear everyone enjoys her sense of humor.

Slowly bubbling under the surface of her charm and sass however, lays a temper. No more than a month ago, a similar occurrence took place, but with an alternate ending. Serious blows did ensue. Out of the ten or so fights I have witnessed in Togo, nearly every one is a woman fighting another woman. This strange phenomenon reveals a certain relativity concerning each sex’s temperament. Grown men, for example, are prone to hold, and even lovingly caress, hands in any forum. (The idea of homosexuality is so far removed from mainstream thought that no eyebrows are raised in suspicion.) Such solidarity is rare among women.

Akovi is a woman with obvious potential for success. What she does do, she does well. But, as with most women her age, she is illiterate. While she does sell local beer and tofu in the market, she has little ability to expand her entrepreneurial spirit. She represents in many ways, the Togolese woman; a capable person destined to live in, and be held back by, her time and her place.




Sakoundja

The oldest of Bawa’s kids, Sakoundja takes his role as big brother and exemplar seriously. First off, he excels in school. He was third in his class last year, (all students know exactly how they ranked within their class). At night, he will often be seen with a flashlight wedged between his shoulder and chin, reviewing his notes.

His first year of English was an exciting time for him as he is ever eager to win our respect. Everything he knows in English he uses at every opportunity, regardless of its practicality. One day, after learning a dialogue verbatim in class, he approached me and, unbeknownst to me, began the dialogue. It went as follows:

“You! Over here!” *Angrily*
“Who me?” *Leaning back, pointing finger at himself, very surprised. He comes forward.*
“Passport please.” *Tersely*
“Here you are!” *With umph*
“Where are you going?” *Accusingly*
“I go to Lagos.” *Confidently*
Pause. Man looks over the passport.
“O.K. You can go.” *Professionally*

The hilarity of the moment was due to the fact that Sakoundja was so elated at learning a new English dialogue, it didn’t register that the conversation deviated in any way from our normal parlance. We both had a good laugh and in the days that followed, repeated the dialogue several times in passing as if we were simply saying hello.




Jean

This kid is all laughs, no business. I hesitate to say a serious thought can pass through his head. His days are spent in joyous revelry. We have a silly game we oft-times play. It’s a staring contest to see who can hold out the longest before breaking a smile. I never lose. Before smiling, his eyes flutter like those of a teenage girl trying to woo a young sprig.

He’s undeniably flamboyant in his idiosyncrasies. In one instance, we were playfully throwing rocks at each other from afar. Each movement to dodge the incoming rock could only be deemed a prance. Each maneuver was crisply, judiciously, yet blissfully carried out. Without view of the soaring rocks, one would think he was practicing an interpretive skate dance, without the skates.

Jean also likes to try his hand at fishing. During rainy season, a nearby crick is sprinkled with small fish. After a few hours incognito, he will return home. Charging in with his chest puffed and his wooden fishing poll carrying a handful of fish, his smile nor the pride in his eyes can be withheld. Never mind his catch stretch no more than a pinky width.




Dapandja

Even after a year and a half in Ogaro, Dapandja has trouble opening up to us. I partly blame ourselves. His two other brothers, Jean and Sakoundja, quickly became confidants in our compound. Dapandja’s presence was slow to materialize, and we didn’t do a great job of extending our hand in friendship.

Tentative and quiet, he is nonetheless an intelligent kid. Roughly the same age as Jean, Dapandja opens up in his presence. The two, who apart seem to be polar opposites, suddenly seem very much alike together. They often stroll down to the nearby crick with slingshots and a pouch full of rocks to track birds and take aim. While their success rate is minute, their accuracy should not be understated. Killing a pigeon with little more than a pebble is considerably more difficult than say, dropping a pheasant with a 12-gage.

I was taking a walk one evening and saw the two skipping along. There was magic in the air. The lawlessness and freedom of this crick overwhelmed me. I looked at the two, clothed only in their worn undies and thought of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer cutting out to the woods to escape the rigid social norms of their day. Methinks, every boy needs a crick like this and every boy needs a brother like Dapandja to share it with.




Fati

On August 27th, 2008, I was awakened in the middle of the night. It quickly became evident that everyone in the compound was up and milling about. This was understandably a startling fact. I stepped outside and prepared myself for the worst. One of the younger kids noticed my presence and simply said, “Trace, baby.”

Then I heard the baby’s cries.

In her mud hut, Fati had mothered her first girl. She did this without waking anyone and without anyone to assist her. It was the baby’s cries, not the agonies of labor, which awoke everyone. If I have but one memory of Fati that will not be distorted by the prism of time, it will be there in that mud hut, all alone in the quiet of the night, sweating and panting and doing everything else women do while in labor, experiencing the miracle of birth with just her and her newborn.

Since Emma (Katrina was given the honor of naming her), there has been a marked change in Fati. Call it a mother’s glow. Before the birth, while dejected would be too strong a word, there was a submissive, forlorn air to her. Now she seems at peace. This is no coincidence. In a society where a woman’s role is traditionally confined to preparing food, fetching water, gathering wood, keeping up the house, and child rearing, the latter is the most enjoyable. While a baby’s infancy is certainly a special time anywhere, I would argue its “specialness” is augmented here. Those times when a mother is nursing her child, before the rigid task of passing down all the tricks of the trade (to begin a few mere years later), this is the time when a Togolese woman is in her element.




Emma

While still an infant, Emma’s first signs of character are taking shape. Wide-eyed like her dad, all objects in her view seem to be looked at through the lens of curiosity. But I suppose that’s a rather humdrum observation. What child seems bored with life after nine months of existence?

In the long run, I believe Emma will grow to be an open and accepting person. My evidence? She has taken a liking to us in record time. No other baby has performed this task in under a year. It’s a record that could be on the books for awhile with no immediate contenders vying for the crown.

She also has quite a pair of legs on her. While not able to stand yet, if one steadies her body and begins humming a rhythm—dun-di-di-dun-di-di-dun—she will begin jumping wildly. By all accounts, she takes the greatest pleasure in this exercise and does not easily exhaust herself.


Jean-Marie
(Picture to be posted soon)

A number of names come to mind when I think of Fati’s other kid: a strange bird, an odd duck, a turkey.

Although separated in age by some 60 years, he bares a striking resemblance to his grandpa—Bawa’s Dad—who also lives in our compound. This is a semblance I wouldn’t wish on many people. Perhaps the teeth logically lead me to the comparison. Too young yet to fashion himself a toothpick, he has a film of food lining his gums. His teeth also seem especially small, even for baby teeth. Both facts point in grandpa’s direction. Over the years, his teeth have been reduced to small stubs. While food doesn’t line his gums, his pipe, always nearby, has caused his teeth to turn an off-off-white, giving them a similar esthetic. Luckily for Jean-Marie, stalactites of saliva do not form in his mouth when talking. But enough of dental hygiene issues.

When he’s home, he spends his time running around with other kids, chasing animals out of the compound, singing song fragments that he has picked up from the radio—typical kids stuff.

While admittedly he may be a little behind in the game, time has a way of evening things out. Even in his first year of school and he proudly greets us in French when he sees us. I can’t help but recall my parent’s telling me of their uneasiness when my elder brother was busy mastering state capitals and I, lisp and all, had yet to master the art of speaking in coherent, complete sentences.

The fact that Jean-Marie is an odd duck doesn’t bother me at this point. If I had to guess, if we came back in ten years, this hapless little duckling will have grown into something beautiful.

Journal Entry: April 27, 2009

Let it be put to record that on this day, Monday, national Independence Day of Togo, that The Great Lamboni, finding, buying, and butchering fine quality pork to Ogaro’s swine-hungry masses, a man who no more than a week ago visited us at our humble dwelling and presented us with a fine chicken producing eggs, a meat man who has for more than a year talked at length of how we are valued customers, a peasant who we have so exhausted with banter of buying, negotiating the price of, and slaughtering pigs that he may one day be driven to call it quits and broach the subject of goats, a gentlemen for whom Katrina and I have discussed buying a scale to increase his profits, a trepid warrior second in grandeur only to the man from which his nickname derives, the great Lombardi, presented himself to us at a local watering hole with his same excited air and, without a tinge of humiliation or hesitancy, promptly asked for both of our names, for he knew not either.

Love Beep

Four men sit around a derelict wooden table at the local bar. Two men look strikingly occidental; one adorns a clean, white t-shirt and wind pants, the other wears a pair of jeans with a grey UNICEF shirt. The third dresses in a traditional fabric, pagne, his chosen design a redundant mug shot of Togo's first President glowing from head to toe. The last man looks like an outsider, but not only from his Sahalian clothing. His disposition, his cool smile, the way his eyes hold water all highlight that he is not from here. He is a stranger. Seven bottles are on the table: three empty beers, three freshly opened beers, and a half-full Coke reserved for the last, faintly exotic man.

The outdoor tavern is nestled up next to the market. Although protected both from the noonday sun and the gaze of the market-goers by a blockade of woven straw held up by termite-infested wood, the men do not escape the clamor—nor the excitement—of market day. Two general stores blast local Afro-pop from blown out speakers. The giant truck carrying goods of all kinds has arrived, parking parallel on Ogaro's sole narrow, dusty road. Orders are given left and right as the market women, packed like sardines in the back of the truck, rush to set up their items and land their first sale. The cacophony from the mill churning grains into flour and the blacksmith bending steel lends an industrial air to the scene. The intermittent clicking of a foot-powered sewer comes from a tailor frantically stitching up school uniforms. The meat vendors are out, selling skewers, innards stew, and rare meat, leaving the heads of animals tied to a tree branch, blankly staring at the scene before them. Other vendors pile giant potato sacks filled with charcoal outside the mosque, waiting for any wandering eyes drifting their way. One would be hard pressed not to note the scarcity of trees off yonder, leaving only barren corn and millet fields. Dispersed throughout, thousands of discarded black plastic sacs, like fallen soldiers on a quiescent battlefield, litter the landscape.

Inside the bar, the men have just been served a heaping plate of dog au jus. An aged blue plastic cup, looking like it might have been lifted from a daycare, is passed around to wash their hands. Conversation around the table doesn't deviate from the norm; the meat is too salty, political affairs are undesirable, the price of food is rising, if the rains are coming.

Simultaneously, two things occur. A wind cyclone stretching 150 feet into the air plows through the south side of the market. The wind velocity rips off several straw roofings and hurls them violently unto the ground some thirty feet away. Goods have scattered, clean clothes are coated with a filament of dust, but no one is injured. Amid the raucous of wind and screams, a man's cell phone rings. Diverting half of his attention to the temporary chaos outside and the other half to his cell phone, he is not sure what his next move should be. Before his mind is made up, the ringing stops. His brow furrows in contempt. Then comes a gesture reserved only for the most hazardous of social situations: a long pause, his facial muscles frozen, his eyes wide with madness, in the tune of a falsetto, his voice breaks the silence with a short, precise, “oh!” The man has just been beeped.

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Now I've always held to the tenet that a man's money is his own business, no if, and, or buts. There are, of course, certain indicators in which society judges a man: his car model, his house, which company made his watch, etc,. Here in Togo, such indicators are often opaque.

Tangible signs of wealth would enable one to ascertain a man's net worth, so to speak. But this task proves difficult. Building anything more than a three room, cement rectangle would be viewed in Ogaro as an abomination, a flagrant, nefarious display of arrogance and excess. The result is a remarkable uniformity in appearance when looking at family compounds. Sure, some will have more mud huts than others, some with a cement building and others not, but no blatant signs to discern wealth. Motorcycles are one area where there are fewer shades of gray.

Lengthy and engaged talk of motorcycles seems a universal quality in men. Engines and pistons and such are more commonly conversed about, but prices come up as well. Most men calculate with amazing precision the price of any motorcycle in town. But even so, the men with motorcycles in town are few.

Perhaps bank accounts could provide us a much-needed hint. Truth be told, few men have any money in a financial institution. It was not until last July that Ogaro's first micro-finance institution set up shop. Before this, money was placed clandestinely, evoking images of buried riches and treasure maps. Imagine a family's savings for an entire generation stored underground. The ground has been dug, then packed tight as to leave no clue in case of an intruder. Or a woman scurries off to a nearby grove, performing a similar task in the still of the night. Maybe digging isn't her bag. She prefers to wrap it tightly in some old worn pair of slacks that her husband has outgrown. Or better yet, spread out the wealth a little bit. There's also a pair of long johns in the corner...

Let me be clear. All these scenarios are hypothetical, but this is, in short, what Togolese have with which to work. In the long run, this is far from a fail-proof plan. Mud huts can catch fire. With roofs made of corn stalks and a few branches to support them, the hut will immediately go up in smoke with no chance for entry. Or sometimes, a person simply forgets where some—or all—of his or her savings is hidden.

So where does all this nonsense leave us? It leaves each man uncertain of how much his neighbor has stored away. Imaginations run wild with thoughts of neighbor's riches. This causes much strife with cell phones and particularly, the beep. A beep is a device used to signal that the caller lacks phone credit to call. He wants the receiver to call back. This sparks incredulous responses.

“What is this guy doing? He's beeping me? Let me ask you a question, 'do I have the money to buy credit?' There isn't the money!”

Many times, the receiver of the beeped talks into the phone as if he wants to transmit his thorough disgust to the other end of the line.

But I will say one thing, phone credit is extremely high relative to income. There are no pre-paid plans to be had—no free nights, weekends, or Holidays. Any call is automatically emptying the pockets of the caller, although no charge is applied to the receiver. No exceptions. A one-minute call amounts to the cost of a deluxe lunch at the market: rice, peanut sauce, and a small morsel of hastily cut goat. To compensate for the exorbitant price of calls, Togolese have developed an incredibly efficient system: hello, how are you (and your wife, kids, health, fields, fatigue, etc.), goodbye. No joke, I've seen such a call clocked in at nine seconds. The consideration however is rarely taken for granted. What is not appreciated is the beep. Some see it as an insult, a blatant signal saying “you have more money than me, so why don't you call?” Beeping after a long separation is particularly bad etiquette. Who, after a long absence, calls for a favor in the form of a beep?

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

The audible sound of laughter prevented the beeped from advancing towards the market. He knew all was well. The man's calloused, dark hands slid down into his pocket. His expression slowly digressed from a furrowed, compact anger to raised eye-brows and pursed lips, as if waiting for a response from his child rolling in two hours after curfew.

He held the phone at eye-level, starring blankly at the number. His eyes showed no change in emotion. The only difference in fact was a subtle change of hue in his cheeks. They blossomed into midnight crimson, the color one might imagine being formed in one's mouth after five seconds of squooshing a chocolate-covered cherry. Unnoticeable to him, his head gently shook from side to side. His pursed lips gave way to a pure smile, holding unquantifiable amounts of both joy and sadness.

“Ohh, my dear friend!”

He soon told marvelous stories of adolescent merriment and mischief with his friend, who has since moved to the Ivory Coast in search of work, a better life. If only for that one moment, the beeped and the beeper were one.

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

I forgot to mention one exception. The love beep. A beep that necessitates no return call, but is merely an action to express, “I just beeped to say I love you.” When pressed for answers—how do you differentiate any ol' beep from the love beep?—only wholly unsatisfactory answers will follow. “You just know,” they will say.

The only conclusion that I can draw is that the love beep is as rare and pure as true love itself. An indestructible bond that is formed in the deep, mystic abyss of the human spirit.

Progress and Hard Work

Two men close in on the final meters of the fence foundation.

Doing a funded project is always a gamble for Peace Corps volunteers. The problem that often plagues such projects is when a village appropriates money for personal use instead of project materials. With construction nearly finished, Katrina and I are proud to say that the people of Ogaro have not squandered one African CFA. That’s not to say however, there have not been challenges equaling their accomplishments. With this is mind, let’s start with the tough news.

Our most profound problem, I imagine, is that we have too much water in our well. But that’s just one angle. The other angle is we don’t have enough water. It’s a complex, ironic problem with many ifs, nots, and what have you’s. We first hit water at a depth of six meters. The water turned out to come from superficial sources, which could disappear during a harsh dry season. A few more meters were needed to ensure a year around water source. When we continued digging however, water raced in at a great speed. No matter how fast water was drawn from the well, the force of nature prohibited any further digging. This situation gridlocked the project momentarily. Disagreements over how to dig ensued. Katrina and I were even chastened for not sacrificing a rooster when the digging began. A few people suggested this lack of bloodshed was without doubt the problem, (No one told us about any chicken until after the fact. We're always up for a sacrificial offering). Good news does seem to be coming our way. We have just received information that five trained well technicians from our regional capital are coming to finish the job at an agreeable price.


Wet and muddy, a man struggles to keep pace with the water gushing in on all sides.

Our second problem has been project costs. Despite painstaking efforts of second, third, and forth opinions on the material costs, we were well short in projecting the amount of cement and reinforcement cables for our fence. This necessitated a new request for funds, which is pending. Currently, we are short seven-hundred dollars. If you or anyone you know would be interested in donating towards this project, click on Donate Now at the left of the page. Luckily, this shortage of money has not caused any significant delay in construction. Slow and steady, we’ve been making progress.

As a rule for Peace Corps Partnerships, the community must contribute 25% of all project costs. With a large-scale project such as ours, this leaves a sizeable chunk for Ogaro. In order to fulfill their end of the deal, each of the five villages will contribute 80,000 CFA, totalling 400,000 CFA (around 800 US dollars). This amount of money coming out of their pockets is remarkable. The president of the village development committee will either hold a meeting or simply walk from household to household in order to gather funds. While each village’s system varies slightly, most put a fixed amount on each adult male and female head (500 CFA for men, 300 CFA for women, for example). In our case, contributions have been spread out over six months, with families offering their humble earnings of 100 CFA (20 cents) per month. But money is not all they have given.

The second and equally important role of Ogaro is to “pay” the difference with manual labor. Perhaps most impressive to me was the journey the sand and gravel to mix with the cement took to get to our site. Roughly eight miles from Ogaro is a small river. For two days, the villagers left en masse and walked to the river with large basins, shovels, and picks. Basin after basin of sand was dug from the river bank and then hauled on top of women's heads around fifty yards to where it would easily accessible for the truck to load. Next to the river, solid rocks beds were broken to pieces with their picks, creating the necessary gravel. They dug, piled, and transported a total of fourteen truck loads, measuring at least one ton per load. It seizes to amaze how tough everyone here is.

A worker takes a brief rest after the truck has returned from the river with another load of sand.

There has been much work done at the site itself. The work started with digging the well. Besides the first village digging the initial three meters, each proceeding village was in charge of digging one and a half meters, for a projected total of nine meters. As you might imagine, the deeper the well, the more painstaking the work. As I detailed earlier, the work is at times not rewarding, and always filthy.

For the fence, the five villages were in charge of digging 300 meters, measuring a foot deep and a foot wide. This was not an easy task. The compact, clay soil doesn't quite match Midwest standards. A pick is the only solution for digging. Blow after blow, grunt after grunt, each meter was dug. This was one area in which I was finally able to lend a hand, (my mother forbade me to be lowered down into the treacherous well). Skilled local masons, iron-workers, and carpenters are now finishing up laying all the bricks and reinforcement cables. The fence totals almost one-half of project costs. Without the fence, however, the project would be futile. Cows, goats, pigs, and donkeys scrounge for any vegetation during the dry season. In order to ensure the center stands strong in the future, we have taken all possible measures to avoid any possible feasting on the animals' part.


Water is poured out from the well. Bucket by bucket, work continues.

This month, the rainy season will begin. People will spend all their time in the fields, and the dry, dusty landscape will soon be transformed into verdant fields and pastures. Our tree nursery will start in conjunction with the rains. Trees will vary from mango trees to soil-replenishing trees to cashew trees. Gardening will be staggered. Due to the power of the rains here, only a few plants can survive during rainy season. It's not until the end of rainy season—near September—that garden season will be in full force.

As the days pass, this project comes to life more and more. To date, Ogaro has not seen any return from their work. They have spent myriad days working their tails off. During these next three months, Ogaro will see this project begin to bud with tangible pay-offs. A new update on the project will be posted at the end of next quarter, some time in early July. Thank you all again for your contributions and God bless.

Reforestation and Gardening Center *Updated*

Under the mango tree: community members gather in one of five target villages to prioritize community needs.

Introduction: When the word “Africa” is spoken in the United States, problems to overcome such as infectious diseases, economic stagnation, and poor governance are often clumped together as if the continent were one big country. Truth be told, problems need to be addressed not only on the macro-scale, but also on a community-based approach. As Peace Corps Volunteers, it has been surprising to hear how much problems and priorities vary, even from villages a few kilometers away from each other. Below is a description of our community, Ogaro, and the struggles with which they are afflicted.

Problem: Ogaro is a cluster of twelve small villages located in the northeast of Togo. Like many communities in this region, increasing desertification, defined as the degradation of soil, increased aridity, and diminishing rainfall, has exacerbated the level of hunger and poverty. When members were asked to prioritize their community needs, it is no surprise reforestation and gardening were voted most pressing. There are, however, three paramount problems to overcome.

Firstly, water poses a tremendous problem for the better part of the year. As the rainy seasons continues to curtail, rivers and wells providing year-round water are increasingly harder to find. Secondly, domesticated animals are free to roam. The lack of foliage during dry season, extending from November to May, makes planting near impossible as animals are apt to trample or eat the seedlings. Lastly, expendable income within the community is tight. A large scale project without monetary assistance is difficult to complete.



A lookout near Ogaro: once thick with foliage, trees and flora are now sparse.

Solution: This project will tackle these obstacles by building a tree nursery and gardening center. A fence with a cement foundation will be built to fend off animals. A well, providing year-round water, will be dug. Proceeds from selling tree seedlings and vegetables will be funneled into future projects as well as maintenance and upkeep of the center. And last but not least, throughout planning and implementation of this project, the citizens of Ogaro will increase their capacity to mobilize themselves towards a collective goal.

Why we should do it: Right now, you may be asking yourself, “Aren’t there bigger fish to fry?” According to the citizens of Ogaro themselves, no. You see, the merit of this project rests in the system of food production and preparation. All inhabitants use firewood to prepare daily meals. A rapid population expansion has increased the demand for both wood and food. This project’s comprehensive approach will first increase yields by replenishing lost nutrients to poorly kept land by adopting the use of nitrogen fixing plants. Secondly, intensive gardening during the dry season will enhance variation in local diets. Thirdly, local populations will acquire the skills to properly manage firewood so resources are not depleted.

The consequences of not acting are already evident in Ogaro. Increasing erosion and violet winds are telltale signs that collective action is needed to combat encroaching desertification. Malnutrition continues to retard the development of children and lowers productivity of the general population. This project, as well as future projects such as clean-water wells, schools, and latrines, will remain grossly insufficient without appropriate funds.



One bean, one vote: various grains serve as ballots in an anonymous vote. Reforestation and gardening won by a landslide.

What you can do:
This is where you come in. With your help through the Peace Corps Partnership Program, the citizens of Ogaro can successfully implement this project. Construction of a wall, well, and storage building tallies near $14,000. The community will contribute 25% percent of all costs through monetary contributions and physical labor. Our job is to raise the rest, $10,500.
With your help, this goal can be met. You can give a 100% tax deductable donation now through the Peace Corps official website. The link can be found on the left-hand side of this page entitled "Donate now to Ogaro!"

Thank you all and warm regards from Ogaro,

Trace and Katrina McKellips
Peace Corps, Togo

Bush Taxis: An Existential Crisis

En route to Dapaong, our bush taxi piles on charcoal and fruit to be sold at a premium price. Passengers, however, fail to reap any benefits

Traveling in Togo, hmm…I’ve been sitting on this egg for awhile. One of my main objectives for this blog is to not paint too grim a portrait of life in Togo. It’s a trap door into which many a’ volunteer fall. But good golly! is there any positive light to shed here?

If you’ve ever taken a gander at Togo, I imagine you will first be struck by its minute proportions within the colossal mass of Africa. West Virginia’s surface area exceeds that of Togo’s-or at least that’s what the pamphlet that the Peace Corps sent me said. But don’t be fooled. Travel from one end to another north to south and I bet you would approximate its area to the likes of Indiana, Montana, Alaska! Ok, Alaska is a stretch. A big stretch. Montana probably is too. Point being, traveling in Togo is somewhat of an optical illusion. Objects on map are larger than they appear.


This bush taxi lucks out. Although clunky, the baskets on the roof will not weigh down this vehicle as much as other items. Cement, charcoal, flour, and animals are all bad news for travelers.

Togo boasts one national route that spans the country. One. All goods travel on this route. This road pulls a lot of weight. All commerce relies—nay—is utterly at the mercy of this road. And this slab of concrete isn’t what you’d call interstatesque. No off-ramps, no great median, no broad shoulders. No easily accessible Arby’s either, but that’s another point. Nope, the equivalent of a rundown, two-lane county highway serves as the sole mode of transport. Potholes are plentiful, deep, formidable.

Then there are the things on the road. I imagine I could clump vehicles into four groups (this excludes the mule-drawn wagons, bicycles, and motorcycles): NGOs, the upper class, bush taxis, and the titans.

You see a new, all-terrain vehicle in Togo, chances are they come from an NGO; Red Cross, European Union, Peace Corps and on and on. After that, you have the few, the proud, the car-owners. Cars owned for private use will only be found in bigger cities, though they remain a rarity. It’s no surprise the owners of the cars often hold high positions within the aforementioned NGOs or the government.

Now comes my forte, the bush taxi, an ugly necessity of traveling among the masses.
In the States, a bunch of hoopla has been raised concerning the amount of energy we waist driving to and fro in gasoholics all by our lonesome. In the opposing corner, Togo takes this philosophy, flips it upside down, and takes it to its logical conclusion: utilizing every square inch of space all the way to absurdity.

A side angle of a run of the mill bush taxi

Personal space comes second, if at all. Chauffeurs are not penalized for doubling the amount of people the taxi is supposed to hold. Quite the contrary, the driver puts extra cash flow in his pocket. If he decides to tie some goats, or sacs of manioc, or a few tons of charcoal on the roof, the driver remains the sole beneficiary. Compromising comfort is one thing. But step into a bush taxi here, and to some level, you compromise personal safety.

When I myself take that step, I numb myself, mentally and physically, as much as possible. There I am, sitting dumbly in a state of half-consciousness until the destination is reached. My mind does wander though.

I think about a lot of things in bush taxis…my next blog entry, the fate of mankind, plums, etc. Then my cerebral ponderings drift to ol’ Sal’s narrative of Dean and him tearing across the great intercontinental U.S. Dean’s maneuvering was so exquisite, so Sal said, that he could be swerving in and out of traffic, narrowly averting disaster by the closest of margins without an afterthought. Then I gaze on and see a herd of cattle crossing the route up ahead. And so on.

Without fail though, I end up in a sort of existential crisis. Oft-times I am overcome with anger.
“I shouldn’t be here. This shouldn’t be happening. What am I doing? Where am I at? Good God, man!” Then the taxi passes on a turn. And so forth.

Without further adieu, I present to you the titans, the Hercules of the road. These lugs, the great semis, demand reverence to all passersby. But don’t be fooled. Titans are subject to the same laws that govern bush taxis: do not, at any cost, waist a square inch of space. I couldn’t conjecture a guess as to how many tons are piled on those guys, but they do sort of slouch. There are some rolling hills along the national route where, without fail, old and fresh titan carcasses will be, for lack of a better word, decaying on the side of the road. It’s a sorry sight.

A year in, I like to think I’ve found a little groove here. Things that were once strange are now strangely familiar. But if I don’t shake my head in disbelief every time I’m in a taxi! I forecasted the trend continuing, that is, until the rains came.

Two months back, excessive rains hit the south. Two bridges on the national route collapsed, fatally clogging the aorta of commerce. The aftermath was swift and brutal.

An emergency bypass was successfully executed. But as is to be expected, the path was second rate. Traffic struggled to squeeze through the bypass. By and by, everything got backed up. What was once a two hour ride turned into eight. The titans were hit the worst. Then again, they didn’t help themselves. Overweight bruisers immediately wreaked havoc on the feeble detour. Soon detours were constructed on the detour.

Ug, it’s a wicked cycle. Lack of goods causes overloading. Overloading causes the road to crumble. Crumbling roads cause an even greater lack of goods. This drives up their prices. This causes an even greater loading.

I’m going to miss a lot of things about Togo. The eggs are fresh, the work schedule flexible, the company stimulating. And dagnabbit! every blue moon or so you do catch a taxi with some redeemable quality: a rockin’ reggae cassette collection, a classic persona, or better yet, a responsible driver. It makes a guy look up and thank the cosmos. But more times than not, stepping into a bush taxi, I gaze up and hope the big man upstairs isn't holding any grudges.

The case of the Russian waitresses in Wall Drug as told by a Burkinabe

Bernard and I relaxing on his couch after a hectic day in the office.

Personal identity is a curious thing. To get to the very crux of the matter, I suppose I should ask myself, “What do I identify with on a personal level?”—It’s a tough question.

Both conscious and unconscious, my identity has been one winding highway, with myriad coincidences, circumstances, and coffee breaks along the way. Books, people, places… everything, for better or worse, affects me at least a little bit.

Some forces lure me in more than others. Take South Dakota for example. People oft-times mistake my affection for Dakota as hyperbole, as if I will suddenly break character and bust a gut laughing. But I carry on, unwavering against all opposition depicting rocky Colorado or fair California with an air of superiority.

Living out of state (and out of country), I’ve had to scrap and claw to have
friend’s surrender that South Dakota is no sham: It really does have all the Great Faces and Great Places it claims. Naturally, the further I venture, the less likely friends will possess a sound knowledge of South Dakota. Togo is a long ways from home.

With fellow volunteers however, expectations soar. Lamentably, they often are dashed with the confirmation of a misinformed, uneducated population concerning Dakota. Over the past century, some malign infection has spread throughout the intercontinental U.S., causing a chronic illness whose symptoms include, but are not limited to, asking if the Black Hills are in North or South Dakota. Go ahead and unleash the “Yo Mama…” jokes if you’re hurling such insults.

Of course, some leniency is granted to Togolese. Chances are if a person has finished high school, he vaguely remembers his American Geography (much like I vaguely remember sophomore World Geography) and affirms learning of Dakota, pronounced with a staccato on each syllable, “Da-Ko-Ta.” Can I really put the bar at the same level for Togolese as my fellow countrymen? If you answered yes to this question, tell me the five (not fifty) regions of Togo and you are free to pass. Personally, I believe it’s irrational to adhere to such thoughts.

Enter Bernard Hien. Katrina and I met Bernard in Dapaong while meeting a government official, originally from our area but now posted in Lome. He had brought several associates along for an Arbor Day Celebration. One such individual, a United Nations official from Burkina Faso, spoke English.

“Ahh…Where are you from?
“Oh…we’re from America.”
“Yes…I know, but what state are you from?”
“Da-ko-ta. South Da-ko-ta.”
A small pause ensued. His brow crinkled in disbelief.
“You’ve got to be kidding me man!”
“Huh?”
“I went to school in South Dakota!”
“Huh?”
“Yeah man, I went to school in Brookings!”

At this point, my lips protruded and my brow crinkled (also in disbelief). My eyes were suspecting. This, the same Brookings of Nick’s Hamburgers, Wal-Mart, and the Jack Rabbits? Seemed suspicious. After thirty seconds, it was clear this man bore the truth.

Needless to say, we formed a bond. Irresistible forces pulled us together. His orientation with Dakota was impeccable. I often wished I could offer him pheasant stew or fresh sweet corn (bought from a pick-up trailer) as a sign of gratitude. During our few months of friendship, ironically, it has been Bernard—not me—who has raised the bar.

The first such instance occurred when I began my normal decree on the greatness of the World’s Only Corn Palace.

“Oh yeah man, I saw Jeffrey Sachs there.” Mr. Sachs, the world renowned economist who has dedicated his career to closing the gap between the winners and losers of global capitalism.

What have I seen at the Corn Palace apart from 1992 AAU state wrestling tournament ages 6-12? Bernard 1, Trace 0.

The second instance occurred when discussing an Ethiopian restaurant in Sioux Falls. I couldn’t remember its location. He informed me it was on Benson Ave.
In little time, this familiarity has become commonplace, although, admittedly, my gaiety when hearing such accounts, has yet to cease. There is one story, which I will proceed to detail, that is above and beyond the rest. Everyone has their “small world” story. Well, this is mine. I neither want nor expect to find another.

The evening started at an outdoor restaurant. I must say, I was a bit surprised rolling up to the joint. Seemed a little run-down for a man working at the United Nations, but he assured us they had the best guinea foul in town (guinea foul is the only animal that was first domesticated in Africa before being exported elsewhere. I’d say it has the appearance of a turkey, the size of a chicken, and a squawk more damning to the ears than both). As I first sunk my teeth into the delectable thigh, I knew Bernard’s decision was indeed calculated. He knew this place would resonate with two Dakotans. Bernard is keen like that.

We enjoyed our guinea foul and cold beers on that lazy, summer barbeque evening. It was all so familiar, so comfortable. I half-expected to hear the twang of Hank Williams begin on a jukebox. The night drifted on pleasantly.

Somewhere along the line, we got to talking about differential treatment towards us here in Togo. Katrina then questioned if he ever encountered similar circumstances while in Dakota. He scoffed.

“Are you kidding man?”
So maybe Dakotans aren’t a perfect batch.
“Yeah man, when I was in the Badlands doing my thesis, I tried renting an apartment in Wall—”
“Hold the phone. You were in the Badlands doing your thesis?”
“Yeah man, I study the bobcats. I go around, you know, I…I shoot them with the tranquilizer darts. Record their weights. Track their paths…”
I shot Kat a grin. A sparkle of merriment shone in her eye.
“…Me? I caught eleven all by myself. A year later, my professor in Brookings does the same thing, but this time with a partner. You know how many they caught? Six. Ha!
Anyway, yeah, I tried renting an apartment in Wall, you know, home to Wall Drug. I call on the phone and they say, ‘Where you from?’ They hear the accent, you know? Hoo!
I tell them I am a university student. They don’t believe me. So you know what I had to do? I rented a hotel room at the Comfort Inn for two and a half months. Ug man!”

We expressed our sympathies. As luck would have it, Katrina also had a humorous account concerning Wall and strangers. She shared the ditty.

First, a side note on Wall Drug. Wall Drug is both a blessing and a curse. It is found in western South Dakota, just north of Badlands National Park along Interstate 90. During the Great Depression, Ted Hustead and his wife Dorothy decided to vigorously advertise free ice water to parched travelers passing through. Noting an increase in customers, they moved to five cent coffee. Then an ice creamery. Tourists soon took delight in the somewhat ludicrous campaign and began posting signs themselves.

If you ever travel to the South Pole, you might find this “Wall Drug: 9333 miles. Free Ice Water”. True story, the billboards are everywhere. Nowadays, Wall Drug has grown into a beast, one as wild as the buffalo that once tromped its prairies. In peak tourist season, it dispenses 40,000 cups of complementary ice water each day. Tourists flock from all over the world to see firsthand this supposed treasure.

The sobering truth, however, is that Wall has no qualities that set it apart from the rest of western South Dakota. Wall Drug, quite literally, is no more than a string of gift shops representing imaginary glory. But moving on.

Her parents, Tim and Kay, a few years back were making the trek across Dakota and stopped in for lunch. Two waitresses, however, were quite noticeably out of place. Tim, never one to shy away from small talk, made a few inquiries. Their account is as follows.

They were Russian. As best friends, the idea of traveling to the land of liberty for a summer took hold in their bosoms. When looking for jobs on the internet, they found the “World Famous Wall Drug”. Maybe they had seen a sign near St. Petersburg, “Almost there! Only 3980 miles to Wall Drug!” They were hired as waitresses at the local diner.

Needless to say, there was an obvious disconnect between the Wall they anticipated and the Wall that awaited them. At least, I would have to assume, given New York and Miami were their first choices. While Kat and I pondered if the Russian gals had had a tough time being outsiders, Bernard offered his analysis.

“Oh yeah, the Russian waitresses, yeah, yeah yeah, I knew them. Great girls! Yeah, they were disappointed at first. But you know what? They made a lot of money during the summer. They traveled for the last month. They actually came back the next summer and did the same thing. Hoo!”

As I said, everyone has their small world story. This is mine. Eating guinea foul in Lome with a Burkinabe while being filled in on the whereabouts of two Russian waitresses who worked at a diner in Wall, South Dakota.

For a guy who enjoys a good Dakota discourse now and again, pulling my weight has never posed a problem. But this is it, the fat lady has song. I’m in a bout in which I can’t possibly hope to triumph. Not against this oracle of all things Dakota.