Saturday, December 29, 2007

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.

Thursday, December 27, 2007

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!

Monday, December 17, 2007

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.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

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