Run Hippo, Run!

As a general rule, setting high expectations for an event can, at times, lead to a terribly unclimatic finish. Don’t get me wrong, I am the first to be perturbed when I find myself in the company of a chap who expects each engagement to be, no matter how spectacular or mind-blowing, a complete flop. I must admit though, my expectations failed to soar for our proposed “hippopotamus viewing expedition.”
The schedule was to go a lake where hippopotamus’ were known to pop up, and, if you were lucky, one might catch a glimpse of the enormous beasts emerging from the lake for a breath of fresh air. At a great distance, I might add. We were told to bring our binoculars. The whole scheme seemed suspicious and bound to lead to disappointment.
So I went, sinking in the cool evening. I looked at the waves ebb and flow. I admired the lilies in the water. I listened to the leaves above rustling in the breeze. In short, my mind was focused elsewhere.
A fellow next to me had followed instructions and brought his binoculars. Currently he paused and began the lengthy production of removing the object of interest from the encasement. He believed a hippo could be mulling off yonder. Whether it was a hippo, a log, or the Lockness Monster, it looked the same to me. That is, a small brown obtrusion in the middle of the lake. I squinted my eyes to detect any movements. The loon was still struggling to get those dashed caps of the lens. Then, slow and steady, like an old man sipping soup at a deli, a giant hippo emerged ten meters from our present location.
Now, when I say a “giant” hippo, I mean not to mislead you all. This was not some freak of extraordinary size. I suppose it was a hippo of average stature. I simply forgot the colossal proportions of an ordinary hippo. I don’t have a thesaurus handy to aid my description, so I will spare you all a sub-par account. Gigantic? Of course. Gargantuan? Right ho. Behemeth? Without question. But what good does that do you? Not much, I guess. Let your creative powers take over. Imagine the most repulsive, beastly mess you can fathom.
In any case, there we were. What’s the expression I seek? Ah yes, deer in the headlights. If provoked, those portly creatures can reach speeds of up to 30 M.P.H. Why, I could have been flattened thinner than the infamous Winquist Swedish pancakes (more thin and unquestionably more delicious than the average flapjack), if the hippo up and decided to go for an evening stroll. A string of harmless explicatives may have been uttered undereath my breath. I roused Mr. Bifocals, who had been setting his digital focus on the who-knows-what out in no-man’s land, previously oblivious to the Goliath in front of us. We were a bit stirred. Our hysteria soon spread to the masses.
Our trainer was also flustered. He threw out the idea of speaking French and spoke in rushed English.
“Hurry! We must...run! Hippo! The hippo...come! He become angry! He run! We become...run over! Everyone, please run!”
So we ran. Quite merrily I might add. Deep down, I suppose I knew a rather minute chance existed of that beast running after us, but it was still enough to get the blood flowing and the heart thumping. It was as if we were escaping some adolescent mischief. High knees, clenched fists, a few hoots, more hollars. Dare I say it, I could have been a young lad out on the school yard.

Home Is Where the Heart Is

Well, the swinging pendulum of time has continued down its path, and, here we are, at the footsteps of 2008. This means another storybook Christmas has passed. You, my faithful audience, of course know I’m not one to complain. If I had to though, I suppose I could slip back into nostalgia for a Dakota Christmas and present a petite critique of Christmas in Togo.
1) The snow. As I already mentioned, I usually bite the lip and take the pacifist approach when this or that proves bothersome to me. Pa always told me to choose my fights carefully. This, though, is one instance my conscience has a grip on me. I must take a stand. The snow is ghastly thin and dry here, rendering it nearly impossible to put my artistic talents to use and create a happy snowman and, time permitting, a happy snow-woman and snow children. I sat twiddling my thumbs after devouring my fourteenth ham sandwich and twice as many deviled eggs. What’s a poor lad to do when he can’t strap on the snow pants and craft a perfect snow family or whip a hearty snowball at a dear friend’s face? Needless to say, I was flabbergasted and heartbroken.
2) The cider here is just a wee bit too tart for my palate. Although I’m a cider man myself, I settled for eggnog. They sell it by the barrel here.
3) John Denver and the Muppets, having embarked on one of the most historic and ground-breaking Christmas collaborations since the drummer boy and his drum, do not get near the airtime they deserve on Togo radio. Not once did I hear Kermit, Piggy, and the rest join in a merry rendition of Twelve Days of Christmas. A bitter, bitter disappointment.
4) Early Christmas Eve Mass doesn’t exist here. Thus, forced to attend Midnight Mass at midnight, I zonked somewhere in the first five minutes of the Homily. By the time I was nudged as the ending hymnal sounded, I was well into my second Santa dream. It’s a shame too. I was told the Homily was a real humdinger.
So, there she is. The proof of the pudding. Admittedly, I did have a fifth reservation. But you know me. The glass is always half full over here, even if it’s not cider. I have a lot to be thankful for. And this, I say, from the very center of my heart. Hoots, was it great to hear from everyone these past few days! The Big Man upstairs must have been enjoying the gaiety of the Christmas season as well and let my Homily debacle slide this time. Minus the phone dying before I had a chance to say goodbye to my dear brother, everything went by without a hitch. Whether Bill knew two minutes before he called, we were sulking about missing friends and family, I don’t know. Whether our aunts knew, perhaps by some kindred telepathy, that I had mentioned in passing to Katrina that I may head north to cross the greatest of deserts in search of my favorite Sour Patch Kids, I don’t know. Whether our parents knew how great it was to spend thirty minutes of Christmas together, I don’t know. But, from the bottom of our hearts, thanks to everyone! Which brings me to my next point.
As I am away from home, I have always grappled with how much I should be connected with everyone. I do not, by any stretch of the imagination, want to appear as “moving on” from my dearest. At the same time though, it’s certainly important to be fully engaged in one’s environment, right? At base, this has been a most frustrating conundrum for me. This past Christmas resolved the matter, however. I firmly believe contact with home only invigorates my enthusiasm for life here in Togo. I suppose, in a round about sort of way, this is call for increased and more fruitful dialogue between us. And please, don’t feel you have to write a novel, for Pete's sake. Drop a few lines, a short story, a link to something humorous or interesting. Anything and everything is wonderful! There has not been an instance when hearing from home didn’t brighten our day.
So, friends, family, weary internet surfers alike, we expect to hear from you soon! Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

*Important note to the readers* Bullets one, two, and four may be partly or wholly fluff. So, take it for what it’s worth. However, bullet three I will stand next to until the bitter end. Also, a little side note: Has anyone heard that God-awful song that goes, “What about Africa, do they know it's Christmas time at all?” Worst Christmas song ever. We have come a long way since the eighties, I suppose. Gimminy Crickets, of course they know it’s Christmas here!

Those Bare Necesities

Katrina and I first turned in our applications to the Peace Corps when I was still in Chile, roughly mid-June 2006. We then had our interview in Denver before the Stickel Family Reunion in July. September brought the news that we had been "nominated" (not, as the Peace Corps stressed on numerous occasions, "selected") for a position in Sub-Saharan Africa. Then came the grueling six months of waiting as our medical files were cleared. Near college graduation, our health was deemed fit for service in West Africa. A few days after Independence Day, we received our orientation packet detailing our country of service (Togo) and other important details. Sometime in early August, I believe, Grandpa asked me for the 1,000th time if we were going to change our minds about leaving. September 19th we departed for Philadelphia and met our training group. We quickly settled in and felt comfortable with our new friends. We then departed for Lomè, Togo having not the slightest clue what to expect. Then came training, where we became close to our host families, our trainers, and fellow trainees. This finished two weeks ago. December 6th marked our official swearing-in as volunteers, taking a solemn oath to serve our best and uphold the great principles of our Constitution. We scampered about Lome for a few days, engaging in a host of debates about what exactly we need and do not need for the house. December 10th we departed for our village, Ogaro.

After eighteen months, we have reached our destination. There is no impending departure in the near or distant future. What a splendid feeling finally to be here! At the same time, it feels a bit queer to think of our service as just beginning. (If one correctly does the mathematics, it's almost half over!) But the beginning is precisely where we are at. If I may be frank, for a brief moment, Kat and I have done very little as far as our technical assistance is concerned. I was reading the blog of a current volunteer here who has been here seventeen months, and only has a few dwindling months before closing service. His latest blog entry was entitled, "I get it. I know what to do. I know how to do it." (See link below)
Well, as I hope you all know, we are on the other end of the spectrum. Perhaps our entry should be entitled "I get it. I know nothing, and probably won't for quite some time." This, of course, is all routine in the grand scheme of Peace Corps Service. Numerous volunteers emphasize starting out slow. Get to know people. Get settled in to your house. Don't rush into your work with reckless abandon. And, taking the advice of our elders, we did just that our first week at post. We settled in. We focused on our rudimentary needs. The bare necessities, if you will. Food. Security. Shelter. Touch-ups on the house and so on and so forth. I'm proud to state we fared quite well the first week. We ate exceptionally well, although suffice it to say we haven't spend that much time on food production in our life. No electricity isn't a problem when you don't have any electronics, (nor when there is no motive to stay up past 9 p.m.) We have a nice well within 100 meters of our house. We fetched a few buckets now and then, although I believe everyone was moved to pity at the site of me trying to carry water on my head, so we receieved a good deal of help. And that is that.
We've come a long way, but really, everything has just begun.

An open letter to Maurieva and the Beresford Middle School Students

Hi, everyone! Well, first off, Katrina and I want to thank you all for the marvelous letters you wrote us. They were all insightful and inquisitive. We hope you don’t consider our responses outdated, given that you all wrote us at the beginning of October. Just imagine the journey all your letters had across the colossal Atlantic Ocean!
We’re glad that you all enjoyed the fall season and all its excitement. We were, however, greatly grieved to hear Beresford lost their Homecoming football game by such a whopping score. Nevertheless, all the festivities sounded like a blast.
Now we’ll try and answer a few questions that everyone seemed burning to find out. First, the weather. The weather here is very hot most days. Other days, you might say it is downright sultry. In Togo, there are not the four seasons like we know so well in South Dakota. There are only two: the dry season and the rainy season. Presently, we are at the very end of the rainy season. During the rainy season, a thunderstorm comes everyday, sometimes just for a few moments. But, as the saying goes, “when it rains, it pours.” The rains were our favorite time of the day, listening to the ‘rat-a-tap-tap’ on the tin roofs and enjoying the brief moments we were able to cool off. As of now, the dry reason is quickly approaching.
The first few months of the dry season does have its perks as well. During the dry season, cool winds called Harmattan blow southward from the great Saharan Dessert. Luckily, Togo is in the wind’s path. So, while the winds do create a significant amount of dust EVERYWHERE, at least we won’t be sweating like dogs all day.
Needless to say, we won’t have the storybook “White Christmas” we’re so fond of…no eggnog nor mistletoe. We will have a replacement for a Christmas tree however. Many, in fact. There is a certain type of tree that has circular green fruit on them. In December, the fruits become ripe and turn a bright red. Although we’ve yet to see a ripe one, we’ve heard they bear a semblance to a Christmas tree decorated with great red ornaments. How sweet is that!
The food here took a little time to get used to, but we like it more and more. During our first month here, we scarcely could eat a meal without reminiscing about some sort of American meal. Now, when hunger strikes, we say, “Oh, how good this fufu or pate (pronounced like “pot”) will be,” both of which are traditional Togolese cuisine. Both have a similar texture to mashed potatoes, just not as gooey. When it’s time to eat, everyone gathers around the table with one big bowl of fufu or pate and a bowl of delicious sauce to accompany it. Then, one just tears off a piece of fufu, dips it in the sauce and voila, a traditional Togolese meal. There best part is there’s no silverware, just hands.
Then there’s the wildlife. Togo doesn’t boast all the exotic wildlife one might see in the Serengeti, where the elephants, lions, and zebras roam freely, but there is a lake with hippopotamuses. We went there a few weeks ago. One even jumped out of the water like a whale and did a tremendous belly flop back into the lake. In addition to the hippos, there are many lizards and snakes, which are pretty cool in their own right. Aside from that, we see many of the same animals you do on a South Dakota farm: chickens, turkeys, goats, cattle, etc.
Finally, many of you asked how our language was coming along. After two months, we can have limited conversations in French, although we still make mistakes quite frequently. Learning a different language is a long and tedious process. For all the Togolese here though, French is also their second language. Everyone learns their native language first, which they had been speaking long before the French came. In our village, everyone speaks Gourma. In most native languages spoken here, one word can mean many different things, depending on the intonation of the word. Learning Gourma, no doubt, will be a great challenge for us.
Tomorrow, we’re having a big party because we will be done with training. All the new volunteers have to get up in front of everyone, including many Togolese men and women, to introduce ourselves in their local language. If we pronounce, “Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen,” incorrectly in Gourma, (which is n namba, n bamba), we’ll tell everyone, “We will make you all rich!” Of course, we plan on doing nothing of the sort. Talk about pressure!
Well, that about wraps things up. If we forgot to answer something, be sure to ask us again in your next correspondence and we’ll be sure to answer thoroughly. Again, thanks so much for the letters. They were great.

Your Pen Pal,

Katmac

Let the celebrations begin

For those of you who are back at home, preparing the stuffing for the thanksgiving dinner today or pulling on your favorite fall sweater thinking, I wonder if Trace and Katrina are missing the festivities that commence this time every year? The answer: of course. Oh how with miss that excitement that comes with the beginning of school and the first freeze, but I would say our first fall in Africa has been equally as thrilling. Today is Thanksgiving; how we would love to sit around the table with our families. On the bright side of things we are getting turkey and all the fixings! Lets be thankful!
Happy Thanksgiving to All

Oh Yoovvvooo

Yovo. There’s a little left to be desired from the word, methinks. All the characteristics we Americans hold so closely to our bosoms, individualism namely, Yovo is unapologetically void of. Never before have I been branded with a predetermined title.
From what I have gathered, the word in and of itself is not derogatory. It simply means “white” or “foreigner.” Within Peace Corps Togo, which has around 120 volunteers, the range of volunteers is quite diverse. Latinos, Asian-Americans, Native-Americans, African-Americans, and the more common Western European hybrids are all present. Here though, we all share one name. Yovo.
There are days when the stress of training can weigh on my patience. In the States, how easy it is to seek repose and solitude after a long day. Not here. Step outside to escape the suffocating noon-day heat and a plentitude of ‘yovo’ calls come ricocheting off the compound walls from every which direction. This occurs all day, every day in the public spotlight of our training villages. Perhaps now, after a bit of contemplation, I may sympathize with celebrities who are reduced to barging into a barber shop and shaving their scalp to escape the madness of unceasing attention!
Before I reject my Yovo crown, however, I should first consider my other aliases, of which, there are two. Linda Silverman and Chuck Norris.
Linda Silverman was the past volunteer that stayed with my host family. Inside my compound, all the little chitlins have not seen too many other folks with lighter skin. While Linda, who has shoulder-length hair and features generally termed “womanly,” and myself, a stark portrait of bruiting masculinity, may not share too many physical attributes, our light complexion doesn’t fool the young’ens. Luckily, Linda was well received during her stay. Walking into my compound, a few youngsters’ whole bodies will gyrate with ecstasy as they proudly proclaim in a stacottoed yelps, “Linda! Linda!” Afterwords, their moms will correct them, stating my name a few times for repetition. After nearly two months, frequent lapses into Lindaism have been known to still occur.
My other alter-ego, is worse yet. I have a few theories about this one. I was called it in Chile. Then it happened again in Omaha working in a restaurant with a primary Mexican kitchen staff. Other cultures pick up on it instantaneously. Now it has happened on three different occasions within a week. The first occurred with my host dad, Daniel. He was entertaining a friend on the porch. I was outside while the two were busy being chatty Kathy’s, speaking their local language. I, trying to be cordial, appeared mildly engaged in a conversation where I understood nothing. Finally, there was a noticeable break in the conversation. Daniel turned to me and pointed his finger at me. He was obviously in deep thought. His countenance conveyed an expression like he was trying to recall the name of an old aquaintence. Then, a light of recognition. A slight smirk curled on his lips.
“Chuck Norris.”
Before erupting into vivacious laughter until assuming the fetal position, I have an explanation. It could be that our shade of red beird is so rare in the “developing” world, people use it as a mere conversation piece. This though, only skims the surface of the cultural implications of my Chuck Norris alter-ego.
A far better explanation is the lag in American pop culture. While Mr. Norris’ predominance in the States has been waning for some time, he is reaching is apex elsewhere. The type of low-budget kung-fu movies you see at the goodwill are now just starring here. And people love them. People love Chuck!
Unfortunately, I’m not adequately able to explain how “uncool” it is to be called Chuck Norris look-alike in French. I do know though, that only the best is intended. Although, as I have stated, the attention is excessive at times.
We have developed some coping mechanisims though, in the form of peer-based support groups. On the weekends, the voluntaries throw a party that proves to be a safe haven for American music and yovo food (Yovo functions as an adjective, as well as a proper noun). When the guitar comes out, we’ve adopted some classics into yovo-tunes.
“In the middle of the night, in the middle of the night I call your name, Ohhhhh Yoovvooo…”
“Sometimes a Yovo wants to go where everybody knows your name…”
“I love it when you call me big yovo….”
…the possibilities are endless. In any case, I believe the best coping mechanisms for mounting frustration is simply to make a joke about it, however ridiculous it may be.

Headin to the North Country

Greetings to all-
This weekend my training group are up in Kara which is in the the second most northern region of Togo. The landscape and weather has changed dramatically as we went North. Its flatter and drier. The farther north you go, the more "African" it looks. You can see for miles and the view is spotted with winding trees and a blush sky. Our field trip has been physically and emotionally draining. It took seven hours in a bush taxi to get up here, bouncing the entire time on the best road Togo has. We have visited several volunteers in their villages and it is so encouraging to see some incredible projects in progess. Yesterday evening we got the chance to speak with about 20 people living with HIV. Most of them were Islamic women and their children. It was so powerful.
I want to apologize right now to everyone for Trace and I. It is very difficult to go to the internet cafes and try to write whats going on around us if a few minutes. I know you may be anxious to hear more from us, but we are doing are best.
My ride is here! Sorry for the abrupt ending.

George and I

Everybody has that dude, the guy who you can lay it on after a hard day. He’s the guy you don’t need to sugarcoat your day to, he already understands the way it is. I was fortunate to meet this dude my first day in village. In fact, he’s part of my host family.
His name is George and he’s five years old. In many aspects, George and I have a lot in common.
For starters, we both know a language outside of French. George speaks Ewe, one of the local languages in our village. I speak English. When I’m searching for a word in French, I often unconsciously spout out the word in English (or Spanish for that matter). But George understands, he often resorts to Ewe.
Another commonality is our eagerness to learn French. Many days as I walk through the gate of my compound, George is there with his portable chalkboard practicing his penmanship. Oft-times, I am doing the same at my table. The other day we were playing a dice game and George rolled an eight.
“Hmm…eight,” I thought. “huit or nuef?” So I started counting. Un…deux…trios…catre…cinq…six…sept…huit. As I got to eight (huit), I looked up and realized George and I had both simultaneously counted to eight using our fingers.
The final quality about George and I that I adore is our forthrightness. Normally, it is just George and I at the table to eat. The first days I might come in and say “J’ai faim,” (I’m hungry). When finished, I might add, “Je suis rasasie. C’est bonne,” (I’m full. It is good.) George will smile and say, “Oui, c’est bonne,” (Yes, it’s good.)We both don’t feel the necessity to use flowery language to fill our time together.
I know George is limited in the number of things he can express to me. George knows the same about me.
Sometimes though, “c’est bonne” is all one needs.

Bon arrivee

OOOh Togo….Ooh Togo… I sing our theme song to our journey thus far with as much endearment as I imagine John singing Oh Yoko. I hope that this letter puts everyone whom we love at ease. I’m going try my best to only talk in first person, but I know I can speak for Trace when I say that all is to the nth degree of well. The scenery in the villages that we live in here is absolutely divine. The plateau region is lush with banana, orange and grapefruit trees. We are nestled against Mount Agou, which is the highest point in Togo. Its hot and its oh so ever humid, but we get a nice rain shower almost every day which cools things down about fifteen degrees.
The people in our training village have been very welcoming to the flood of Americans that have suddenly appeared in their homes and streets. When we first arrived at our training site, I had no idea what was in front of me. Before I arrived at the airport I thought that Lome, the capital city would have been more modern than it was, while in fact it was far from any other city I had ever seen. With this in mind, I had no idea what a village was going to be like if Lome was a city of 700,000 and supposedly quite “booming.” As I and about a dozen other Americans stepped out of the Peace Corps land-cruiser we were flooded with African sounds. It was all so overwhelming. About a hundred villagers met us upon our arrival all dressed in their finest fabrics while a drum line and chanting men and women marched us to the “town square.” Many volunteers began crying as they showered us with their welcoming gifts and as the chief made an emotional speech in their tribal language.
Since those first few days, things have been much less emotional thus much more clear. My host family is incredible and they do everything they can to cater to all my needs. I definitely live in the nicest house of the volunteers (I have electricity and indoor plumbing), but I have been told after training, Trace and I do not have such amenities although many volunteers do. My first few days I had a bit of a gastrointestinal problem, but since I’ve felt as good as ever. I have officially become a vegetarian in Togo (which is much easier than being a carnivore here!). Tofu and other soy products are readily available in this region as well as a ton of fresh fruits and vegetables.
Our days are stacked from 7:30-5:00 with classes. I feel like I’m making leaps and bounds with my French each day. Most of the other volunteers already know the language, so I’m working extra hard to catch up. Other than French, we have technique classes to prepare us for the Girls Education and Empowerment assignment. The teachers we have here are amazing. They are all Togolese and are all very passionate in the work that they do to prepare us for our two years alone. I’ve been exhausted at the end of everyday from producing gallons of sweat and trying to differentiate if my family is talking to me in Ewe (the tribal language) or French. Luckily, it is the norm for people to go to bed at dark.
To wrap things up, I want to give thanks to everyone’s support that helped Trace and I get here. I love and miss you all. Please be patient for word from us. Communication is definitely going to be a challenge for a while. If anyone is interested in sending anything, do not use a plain envelope because there is a good chance it will not arrive. If sending a letter, put it in a bubble envelope. The best way to ensure the arrival of a package safely is to put some sort of Christian symbol or message on the outside (e.g. draw a cross, address to Sister Katrina, write “Dieu te vois” meaning God sees you in French).
Okay, until the next post.P.S. If anyone is curious, the side effects to my malaria medication are nothing short of fascinating! I didn’t know my dreams could get more vivid than they were.

Homecoming

As it turns out, we didn’t get “punked.” There were no tricks concerning living with a host family in rural Africa.
It is here. It is now.
Sweet African beats are ricocheted back and forth in our complex here. Morning cleaning has begun; dishes and sweeping mostly. I just finished a jog with Immanuel, CaCoo, & George, that valiant little guy nearly kept up with us until the very end when his tired legs let him sprint no further.
The welcoming celebration yesterday was perhaps my first overwhelming experience where my emotions gushed with excitement. Undoubtedly, the marching band, running ten to twelve deep, initiated my reaction. It felt like a traditional homecoming parade, with a few exceptions…
When I looked up, I did not see the water tower, but lush jungle. I was not walking down 2nd St., but an unpaved road of amber dirt. Candy was not thrown, but an offering of water and cornmeal was poured into the street to ensure our safety and success. The trumpet players were not frightened at the prospect of belching their horns. In fact, they seemed turned on to the idea. And finally, our school song was not tooted as a grand finale, but a melody of African drums with our cautious host moms leading the dancing.
In short, it was a great homecoming to a place that is as far away from home as I’ve ever been.

No news is good news.

The hours are counting down to our overnight flight to Paris, concluding our short time here in Philadelphia. We just proudly engulfed a last Philly Cheese Steak. The new Peace Corps crew for Togo runs thirty-one deep, all bright and brimming young men and women. There’s a great representation of strengths and diversity within our group; engineers, future doctors, lawyers, etc. We could certainly see our fellow peeps here becoming good friends for many years to come. Admittedly, it has been a great relief to share our stories of anxiety and excitement with our training group. Thus far, we’ve been extremely pleased with the conducive environment for learning set up at our Pre-Stage Training.

In short, everything is peachy. For now, we’re off to the Homeland. Here is our address for the next months.

Trace and Katrina McKellips, PCV
Corps de la Paix
B.P. 3194
Lome, Togo

So long,

Katmac