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.

A Four Letter Word

Compared with the rest of society, I believe Peace Corps Volunteers are a rather friendly lot. That’s not to say we don’t have a few minor defects. One particular imperfection I could shed light upon is a peculiar inferiority complex. It’s a specific diagnosis. You see, Peace Corps Volunteers have this abominable complex in the realm of Geography.
Having a lackluster knowledge in world geography seems counterintuitive to the goals, objectives, indeed the very essence of being a Volunteer. Nevermind the superfluousness of knowing the capital of Tonga (Togo’s so-called sister country), you’re a better man for it here.
As for myself, I rank rather low on the geography continuum. As a toddler, I was more interested in blocks than studying capitals. I’ve been a half step behind ever since. In my sixth grade Geography Bee, I was eliminated on the question, “What is the longest river in the world running south to north?”
I guessed the Amazon. Nice one, Trace.
Well, my career of geographic disappointment continues. The most recent failure is a noggin-scratcher, but by no means impossible.
Without further adieu, I present to you the first installment of Peace Corps Togo Geography challenges:

There are ten countries in the world that contain four letters. Name them.

You can find the answers at the very, very bottom of this page under “Peace Corps Challenge.”
If you correctly come up with all ten, feel free to post a victory note.
And just for the record, I was not able to come up with number 9 and 10.

Desert Island Top Five

As is common in middle school intellectual circles, I’d like to throw out the floater, “What if you were stuck on a desert island and could only eat one thing for the rest of your life? –a daunting prospect, no doubt. However the theoretical conundrum is more a reality in Togo than a way to pass time in fifth period study hall.
Ask a Togolese person, and I imagine finding a uniform “pâte” response. Though no field research exists to beef my argument, I rest my case on this fact: people will choose what they know. Would you choose mulligatawny soup or frog legs if you never had tasted them? Probably not. The stakes are too high on a desert island. Traditional fare will win out. Pork chops, mashed potatoes…would you like a side with that? Coleslaw or candied carrots anyone?
It’s different ballgame here. If you are fortunate, you will eat three meals a day. All meals will be pâte. Or maybe I should rephrase that. Every meal of every day will be pâte. Meat, whether chicken, goat, guinea foul, or other is generally consumed en masse only for special occasions. Your average Joe (and certainly Jane) does not have the means to eat meat everyday. If he or she does, rarely is it enough to satisfy a family.
Pâte is the substance that keeps the ball rolling here. If there is a translation for the dish in English, it has yet to cross my path. Due to its foreign nature in American gastronomic cuisine, the definition has not yet forged its way into the English vernacular. Thus, here she is. The second is my creation. The first is complementary of Webster’s New World Dictionary (1970).

pâte (pät) [Fr.] n. 1. paste; esp., the clay paste used in making pottery or porcelain 2. mixture of corn, sorghum, or millet flour and boiling water; forms a congealed paste, notably popular in West Africa

That’s the bare bones. Once in a large pot, the mixture is heated and stirred vigorously. Slowly, the substance begins to solidify. Afterwards, it is transferred into a bowl and served communally.
Now, the manner of eating pâte is, from the standpoint of an amateur connoisseur, a very fine and subtle art. I prefer sliding my middle and ring finger into the supple jumble. This technique caters to the saucer in which you can cup a maximum amount of sauce. But there are other methods.
Some, and I speak mostly of my Togolese brethren, scoop up the pâte and roll it methodically into a circle with their fingers before indulging. This method really gives you the chance to appreciate a pate-well-done, like observing the legs of a fine glass of Pinot Noir. I, however, don’t have the grit for such a procedure. You see, Togolese men and women have been engaged in back-wrenching physical labor since the age of four. Their hands are calloused and strong, able to withstand incredible temperatures. Even if I wasn’t a self-proclaimed saucer, I would stick to my method. My fingers are far too delicate to withstand the heat.
Thus far, I have only made vague illusions to the sauce. But it’s the sauce that brings out the artist in everyone. Whether peanut, tomato, okra, or baobab sauce, everyone puts their spin on the classics. It’s these nuances that make or break a market woman selling her grub. On a personal note, I vouch for la sauce moutarde. The translation would be mustard sauce, but this is bound to lead to unwarranted visions of a creamy, rain-boot yellow condiment in a squeeze bottle. Not so. Unfortunately, I am inept to detail such a marvelous concoction. You’ll have to come here and try it for yourself, (I know the best mustard joints in town, don’t worry).
And that’s a taste of the pâte phenomenon. Perhaps most impressively, rural families are near self-sufficient in the domain of food production. Imagine eating exclusively what you harvest! It really is a miraculous feat. Yet self-sufficiency is the glorified version of food production here. There is, of course, the other side.
I don't like the prospect of adhering to the rules of the desert island game. I enjoy an abundance of choices. Choices are what I know. However, not everyone has the luxury of choice. For most, Togolese live in a de facto desert island game. For me, I eat my fare share of pâte, but not three times a day. That’s an idea I retain for study hall.

The Day I Became an Adult

There seemed to be a peculiar aroma of fate wafting through the lowlands of the Savannah today. At daybreak, I knew not the outcome of the day. Yet fate has a way of carrying about its business without much heed to public opinion. And as was my fate from the beginning, I would cash in the day an adult.
Perhaps some thought my day already had come. There are all sorts of circumstances in which we measure the term. The U.S. Government handed me my certificate on my 18th birthday. On that day, I was on the football field "chucking and ducking" the pigskin. Any opposing linebacker could attest the horror in my eyes rang true as cowardliness, not a trait reserved for any adult.
Out East, Wall Street brokers rely on monetary figures. Bank your first million near Battery Park and you can start thinking about calling yourself a self-respecting adult.
A little West, those tough old dudes in Wyoming gauge the term by how many bucks you've got mounted on the wall. Those tweedy bumpkins don't assume a thing if a 12-pointer stares dumbly over the fireplace.
But I didn’t enter adulthood on any of these grounds. Neither did I enter adulthood by losing a loved one in some horrible tragedy, going to war, or misplacing anything beginning with the letter v.
Nope. I entered adulthood today, quite unexpectedly. Let’s see if I can present some of the details.

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The day began at 3:45 a.m., an odd hour to begin the day, yet it was our first day officially teaching at the school in Ogaro. I ate my oats, reviewed some notes, and thought what it meant to be a teacher. I showered and dressed.
Something about my apparel filled me with a grand sense of satisfaction. My dress shirt of choice, custom-made pants (coming in at a slim four American dollars), and
Chacos filled my head with cozy “good volunteer” sentiments.
“Look at me!” I said to my reflection. “I’m a teacher. What a day!”

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As I stood in front of the class, the lazy eyes and uninterested faces were, admittedly, all too familiar. But alas! My better half and I delivered a riveting (if not riveting, presentable) lecture on the decomposition rates of different materials, demonstrating that throwing a mango peel and a glass bottle into a field are not the same thing. Who knows, maybe a few kids even learned a thing or two.

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Fresh off the euphoria of a successful first class, I was riding home with Sakundja, a local buddy of thirteen years. He began popping a few wheelies with his old derelict of a bike. Then, with an audacity befitting of his age, he poked that I couldn’t pull one off myself.
In younger days, many lazy summer evenings were spent on Jefferson Drive lifting my front tire in the air for a spin. Reasonably, I was a good deal taken aback by such a claim. Instinct took hold and my eyes began scanning upcoming divots where I could successfully launch myself. I saw myself sailing across the sultry Sahelian sun, like that fabulous silhouetted image of E.T.
“I can do it!” I bellowed with one hand in the air, prematurely claiming a "mission accomplished."
What ensued was quite different. How much space was in between my front tire and the ground is unclear, although it’s safe to say I missed my mark. Upon landing, my quick-release tire “quickly released”, the impact jarring my tire completely from its hold. The tire jetted back towards the body of the bike, instantly wedging itself between my left pedal and front frame. This, in turn, caused my front dropouts, where my front tire connects to the frame, to plant firmly into the dirt. Had my bike been in a gymnastics meet, a perfect ten would have been awarded.
When the dust cleared, I rejoiced, in a sort of bittersweet fashion, that I was alive, all appendages intact.

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Now I’m not sure about this business of adulthood. Who’s an adult and who’s not, it’s a tricky game. Perhaps it’s a silly term that don’t mean nottin’. If we can conclude the term does have a little validity though, then I am one.
What is an adult, but one (a teacher nonetheless) who tries to do what was once done in younger days with ease, but is no longer able to do? Having a thirteen year-old there to witness the spectacle just added injury to insult.

In the Barber's Chair

Like most lessons in life, I chanced upon learning about personal space, or lack thereof, here in Togo the hard way. Perhaps more than most, I have a tendency to become claustrophobic. Behemoth grocers always do it to me. Large concentrations of youngsters have the same effect. I usually steer clear of the discotheques. But never had I had trouble at the barber before…
The scene was set back in my training site, Agou-Nygbo, a few days before swearing in as a volunteer. My host mom Essé requested that I should have my ears lowered on such a momentous occasion. A reasonable request, I thought, given the grandeur of the event. In a peculiar sort of way, I acquiesced to appease my mother, the real one, that is. Biological or not, it’s official: mothers worldwide want their kids to get a trim before any public engagement.
The cut started off normal enough. Me, seated with a towel explaining how best to downplay my widows peak cascading down my forehead while Essé cheerfully snipped away and made small talk.
Then two apparitions came forth, seemingly stirring themselves from the woodworks. It was Cuckou and Ismael, two teenage lads in our compound. I was familiar with their presence. In this particular instance however, they seemed phantoms. From whence they came, I know not. I had no sooner realized their presence than they each produced a pair of clippers from their pockets and joined the party.
There was little communication between the three. In fact, they were issuing three different cuts. The swiftness of these snippets would have made even the pallid Mr. Scissorhands blush, (though on grounds of rapidity alone, not craftsmanship). One of the boys had a habit of catching my scalp as he snipped, most notably the tender tissue where ear meets head.
Now I understand that, contrary to public thought, hair stylists, cutters, dyers, and permers should not be held to a higher standard than the rest of us. Difficult as it may be to fathom, those in the hair industry are imperfect beings, subject to the same blunders and errors that plague the rest of mankind.
Has there ever been a cashier, who not once, at the end of the day didn’t realize the books don’t match up? Has a baseball player ever batted 1.000? Has a Peace Corps Volunteer, in their weakest of moments, secretly wished to throw in the towel and go home? Then neither should the stylist be barred from a few miss-cuts now and then.
With this being said, one has to draw the line somewhere. Personally, I abide by the three strikes on the head and you’re out rule. Bring in the experienced reliever. One who can retake control of the cut and quiet the crowd. Unfortunately, my bullpen was already exhausted, leaving me few possibilities.
My first plea rested on the boy repeatedly gauging my scalp. I was set back down and told that he would lend more care in his calculations, (he did not). My second claim supposed that my sure-handed wife knew the finer intricacies of my hair. Again, to no prevail.
At this point, my self-control tank was running on fumes, and I was sure at any second, I would leap forth, swinging my arms wildly to free myself. The towel began feeling like a straightjacket. That awful confinement gripped my whole being. I needed to breathe!
Finally, I asked for a mirror. At first glance came sentiments of horror and hilarity. My right side had three straight lines extending back, a design trademarked by Vanilla Ice. Patches of long hair graced the top of my head. My poor widow’s peak stuck out like a sore thumb. So what was I to do?
“I’ll take it! It’s perfect,” I declared, adoringly petting my head. “Couldn’t have done it better myself. Thanks so much!” And with that, I left the premises before any protests could be raised.
In the end, I kept my haircut. After a few looks, I wasn’t sure if my cut was befitting of some homeless squatter or if the cut was so hip, so groundbreaking that it was truly ahead of its time.
I kept the cut for other reasons as well. It was an oath to myself to reconcile the fact that at times, things are just out of my control. Personal space is invaded here at times, no matter what you do. This past story certainly was the most dramatic instance, but it is an issue that we deal with every day, both on a personal level and as a couple.
And just to let you know, a friend recommended an upscale barber to me in our regional capital. Forty cents a cut, just like the good ol’ days.

Election Fervor

I just returned from the internet café here in Dapaong, where I aimlessly surfed the tumultuous waves of world news. For one reason or another, I have neglected to keep up to date on anything going on our planet. Of course, the biggies are conveyed to me by friends and family, (Yes, I know who won the Super Bowl. Hats off to the Pats!) In village however, no electricity renders television and anything with a www in front of it impotent.
Radio is the one forum to disseminate information. Popular programs include local Moba music, intoxicating the locals into a loosy-goosy, hip-gyrating groove not so uncharacteristic of yours truly after a couple of spirits. Void of any preordained step, the dance is a pure artistic groove, a truly liberating form of expression. But that’s another blog in itself…
Another popular program consists of a talk show program, with a talented host who can speak any local language the caller speaks. However, the same song is looped in the background throughout the whole program. The song? Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.” During our first weeks in village, the program would eerily begin as we sat down to dinner each night. Thus, in a bizarre ménage of elements, while listening to our Togolese Fireside Chats, we were forced to recollect the wicked beauty of those two lovebirds aboard the Titanic. But again, the lag in American pop culture here is another blog in itself [see “Oh Yovo”].
One particular issue however has caused great fervor not just in me but in our village as well. That paramount issue is the campaign trail of the United States of America. Word of a “black” candidate is blustering through the dry lands of our Savannes region. I suspect the winds are blowing throughout this whole, vast continent. Obama’s building momentum, the locals say. I was informed that Obama had taken my collegiate state of residence, Nebraska, big at the market one day. The gentleman’s excitement and his chaotic, flailing arms were not so uncharacteristic of a slightly overweight, middle-aged woman running down the aisle to be the next contestant on the Price Is Right. Another pure artistic groove.
My endorsement for Obama came before my arrival in Togo. The environment here has only reinforced my support for the Illinois Senator. I have never doubted Obama’s integrity nor his capacity to lead. His cinnamon hue is simply the icing on the cake. Or maybe better said, the caramel syrup atop the sundae…
Who does America need to elect come this first Tuesday after the first Monday in November? Someone with the faculty to energize and reinvigorate America’s sense of democracy. Someone with the force to get our youth on their feet to become a legitimate segment of the population that Washington needs to consider. Someone with the tools to rebuild America’s citadel of prestige abroad.
It is difficult, naïve even, to say come November, vote red or blue, things will largely be the same. Our current President has changed our country’s direction. This was not a preordained path we were destined to take. It was the decision of our leaders. And people don’t much like us right now.
Coincidentally though, Africa’s perception of America exceeds all other parts of the world. For one, we don’t boast a colonizing legacy that Europe had. Two, we largely are absent in African affairs. Our interests lie elsewhere, [still another blog entry]. Third, we’re America, silly! So what if folks are known to dress in bell-bottom jeans and a forest green leisure jacket? (70’s disco culture) So what if people imitate Chuck Norris’ roundhouse kicks? (eighties bad-movie culture) So what if people hum “My Heart Will Go On” throughout the day? (90’s boat culture) Our cultural influence dominates like Kareem in the paint.
At base though, people deep down want to like us. It’s a dirty secret foreigners never tell us. And to bring this rant full circle, when Obama came into the picture, the world started rooting for him as well. Foreigners want to like the United States with Obama in ‘08. Perhaps his complexion, similar to two-thirds of the world, is merely symbolic. But for a man who sprinkles his campaign with populist spices, it makes for a tasty dessert.
My backing for Obama differs from the Togolese, no doubt. All the same, I’m riding the Obama-llama. I’m with the locals on this one. It’s miraculous, the more I think of it. A small village in the bush out in Northern Togo is hyped for Obama. Miraculous.
Perhaps the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November, I’ll throw an Election Party. I’ll bring the chip dip. The Togolese can bring the fufu.

An open letter to Austin and Sarah (and any future Peace Corps Volunteers of America)

A few days before leaving for Togo, I sat down with a bloke who served in Ghana sometime in the 90’s. I was hungry for knowledge. I wished he could impart his cumulative wisdom upon me before our departure, lest I commit the same blunders upon arrival.
“What do I need to know?” I pried. I meant business. I wasn’t looking for a sugarcoated exposé I could read on the Peace Corps website.
“Well, in the Peace Corps you understand, there are certain truths that hold true across the globe.”
“Ah ha…do tell.”
“Number one. When taking public transport, demand a window seat.”
I suppose I could further pontificate on this bloke’s analysis. A personal story was even added for dramatic effect. But we need not muck around in the minute details. Take the window seat.
“Ah ha…Yes! That’s great advice.”
“Number two. Do not waist your time throwing a tantrum after you have an accident in your pants. Consider it a right of passage, if you will.”
“You mean, I’m going to…I haven’t done that since …”
“—yes, sometime in the span of two years, you are bound to eat something causing your bowels to give way.”
“Ah ha…Yes! I suppose it very probable that I should put on quite an exhibition after messing myself. Not now. I’ll just learn to turn the other cheek.”
“Very good. Number three. If someone gives you food, and this is especially detrimental concerning meat, inquire about it’s origins before eating. What looks like tender cutlet of beef could in fact be…well, could be something entirely different than a beef cutlet.”
Ah ha…Yes! Inquire about food origins. This is great stuff man!”
Now, in this sacred scroll of Peace Corps tidbits, there may have been more truths to unveil, but we were at a football game you see, and the home team just recovered a fumbleroosky and took one to the house! Not only that, but after the calamity and roar died down, this bloke’s younger brother started peddling him for beer money. Thus, our exchange was irreversibly diverted away from West Africa.
But now I’m here. I’ve gotten a taste, a feel, a smell, a touch of this place. A nice whiff if you will. Although I am still verdant to the way life rolls here, I’ll peak inside my small knapsack of cumulative wisdom and attempt to finish the truths never fully expounded to me.
Number four: A crowded football stadium is not an ideal forum for discourse concerning Peace Corps Service. This should, at all costs, be avoided. Consider a coffee shop, tea house, or late-night diner.
Number five: Bring five things you think you’ll miss. Of course, it’s tough to tell what you will and won’t miss. For me, I’m really glad I brought a pair of blue jeans. I was considering leaving them at home. I never knew how glad I would be to put on a clean pair of Levis after a shower. It’s great!
Number six: Get a hobby. Two years of relative isolation equals you should develop a decent hobby. A buddy of mine here has a knot book. He learns a new knot every day. You have to ask yourself, why not knot?
Number seven: When the time comes, spend solid time in your community. With frustrations ranging from huge to enormous here, it’s really easy to come off sounding horribly pessimistic when talking about your post, even if life doesn’t suck that bad (See last sentence). It’s much easier than I ever would have thought to slip into a steady pattern of doom and gloom. Thus far, spending more time with Togolese has meant increased enthusiasm for our work here. Spending time with other volunteers has not always meant the same.
Number eight: The more flexible you are, the less likely you are to be upset. If you arrive in country and demand electricity or some other amenity and don’t get it, it can be potentially damaging to your psyche. Besides, reading by candlelight is more pleasurable, right? Right.
Very good. Like a worrisome mother giving last second advice to her son before college, there are a gazillion other things I could probably say. Bring addresses of friends back home. Buy a warranty for your electronics. Did you remember your fingernail clippers? How about extra razors?
And so on. Well, all the best the two of you. Right now, there’s a Malawian community eagerly waiting your arrival. Best of luck!
Ah yes, I almost forgot one last thing. It’s a must.
Number nine: Go to De Leon’s this very moment and buy the most daunting burrito they have. Order extra hot sauce. Double the meat.
If not for you, for me.

Impressions

September, 25 2007
There always seems to be some irresistible force pulling me away from logging a decent journal. I rose this morning as a few select songbirds began their morning praises, as the cock intermittently crows, and as Elise, David, and a Togolese man begin their morning jog. Conditions seemed to be ripe, until gatíto made its presence known. In short, most days my lack of ingenuity drives me away from writing; today, it’s a cuddly, orange cat.
We’ve been in Lomé for roughly two days with only one remaining until training begins and life starts to really get real. Host family, intense training sessions, no French, and living apart from Katrina.
Reflecting on the last five or six days, I believe they have been successful. Pre-training in Philly was a great relief to us all. No more questions on the nitty-gritty specifics of what we’ll be doing and where we’ll be at. It has become evident that these tired questions will be reinvented, if you will, by what projects we’ll work on and their successes, although I venture to guess the sheer rapidity will not be as explosive as in South Dakota.
The group has begun to form clusters, although there does not seem to be an exclusive one, a refreshing observation.
My first impressions of Lomé, (and de facto Togo and Africa) have been slow to form. Perhaps I expected more cars, in retrospect, a foolish thought. Chickens roam the streets. Reggae commences before daybreak when the morning sweep begins. Walls blockade every quadrant. Intricate designs allow the children to peak out with giant smiles and bright eyes. Women really do carry baskets of dried fish or an array of other goods on their heads. Looks from passersby on the street intrigue me; some offer hope, life. Others distress, sorrow. Still others stare so cold and emotionless they can only be starring into our souls and nothing less.

This weeks stool forecast: …Wait, I think I’ll keep my poop report within the confines of my moleskin journal. Next forecast available upon request.

January 27, 2008
Togo: A (second) first impression

Not long ago, I picked up my journal and leafed through its opening pages. I smirked at the Trace of September 25, 2007. So young and innocent, I mused. Currently, well over 100 days have been spent here in Africa. Upon reflecting, I gauged that I deserved a second, first impression of Togo. Our writings thus far no doubt have conveyed a light air. I suppose for most, recollections of prancing from hippos, for example, are the imagery that has penetrated your heads of Togolese life. Such as it is though, another side exists that has been very much shielded from you all.
Perhaps you already know it exists. The grinding poverty that spurs crime. Inequality in urban cities that leads to violence. The enormous strain that the exploitation of natural resources has put on rural populations. This is a “developing” country, mind you. However, it is important to put things in perspective.
Togo is a young, claiming independence less than fifty years ago. They have had two presidents in that time, one for approximately forty years. Upwards of fifteen ethnicities dwell here. Each claims their own language, customs and beliefs. While French remains the official national language, it does not act as a unifier.
One moment when I really paused and thought, “Gee, we are a long ways from home,” occurred when a Togolese man asked me,
“So what’s your local language?”
I was baffled. I suppose English, I told him.
He then replied, “Yes, I know you speak English, but what’s your local language?”
I explained I don’t have a local language. Not only that, Americans don’t have a local language. He in turn was baffled. Since then, I’ve been pondering identity: in Togo, America, and elsewhere.
Look at a world map and borders neatly compartmentalize the globe. Yet borders can be deceiving. Togo is red. Ghana is yellow. Burkina Faso is green and so on. This seems to carry little weight here. In Africa, the nation-state is relatively a new creation. The idea is slowly taking hold.
National identity doesn’t define character here insomuch as ethnic groups and language do. In our village, the language Gulma is spoken. A sister language, Moba, is spoken just miles to the west. In village, these two languages are spoken 99% of the time. One resorts to French, if one knows it, only when speaking to someone of a different ethnicity. I’ve detected, although perhaps the word is too strong, a disdain for the French language here. It seems one learns French here for the sole purpose of social mobility, not from any endearment to the language.
Apart from the United States, Chile is the only country in which I can talk intelligibly. The difference in attitudes is immense. Meeting a Chilean, inevitably, the first question coming from their mouth was “Te gusta Chile?” eager to hear all the wonderful things I had to say about Chile. They would ask me if I had been to the Southern Chile, to Chiloé, to the Atacama Dessert, and on and on. Also, “Te gusta Chile?” is Spanish for “Do you like Chile?” Chileans were proud of their own regional dialect, but it was still Spanish, the language of their colonizers. Pablo Neruda, Chile’s most famous poet, once remarked that when the Spanish came to Latin America, they stole all their gold, but they also brought gold. He was referring the Spanish language. To share a language is to share a history.
Ironic, perhaps, but it is precisely because of the overwhelming “victory” by the Spanish that Latin America shares so many commonalities. Consider the term mestizo, meaning part Spanish, part Indian. Few can claim being 100% native to Chile and even fewer claim complete Spanish lineage. Somewhere down the line it seems unavoidable that the Conquistadors and the indigenous population would interbreed.
Here in Togo however, the visible signs of colonization are more subtle. The legion of colonizers didn’t destroy the “old” way of life as decisively as in Latin America. Inhabitants are still very much engaged in their own language and are more hesitant to fully immerse themselves in the French language. Perhaps the situation is analogous to Americans hesitancy to take on the Spanish language.
Some have argued that if we continue moving on a plane towards bilingualism, being able to attend a school in either English or Spanish, it would lead to a slow decay in the American solidarity. Could the Hispanic population dissolve our purity, by simply refusing to assimilate? Despite dismissing the argument, I am able to see for the first time what the unifying power a common language can have on a country, (or the lack thereof). Nevertheless, we bring this to the extreme in our motherland.
We Americans, no doubt in part due to unceasing worldwide praise of our impeccable Constitution, have developed a rather warped version of what rights should mean. It’s our right not to learn another language, right? (Yes, we live in a free country). But does learning another language not aid in the realization of how big the world really is? Dutch, Chinese, Russian, German, Icelandic, Japanese, Gulma, etc. All with thousands and thousands of people with their stories, in their languages. Can we not know by learning another language, if only a little, the beauty of all their tales of struggle, of triumph, of defeat?
In Gulma, there is one particular expression that we hear all day, every day. It’s “lafiaa.” If one were to translate this in English, I suppose it would mean something like, “everything is well,” stated enthusiastically after the interrogative, “how are you?” But the affirmation that your health is good, that another day has come without sickness takes on a whole another dimension than our common response to how things are going.
“I’m good,” I say, regardless of my disposition.
Capturing what this expression means to native speakers in our village is futile. Meanings really do have a way of being lost in translation, though this fact only increases my appetite for language. Maybe Carlos Fuentes, a Mexican poet, summed it up best regarding contact with others.

“My upbringing taught me that cultures are not isolated, and perish when deprived of contact with what is different and challenging. Reading, writing, teaching, learning, are all activities aimed at introducing civilizations to each other. No culture…retains its identity in isolation; identity is attained in contact, in contrast, in breakthrough.”

Here we are, four months in. Twenty-three months to go. Are some days here tough? Yes, some are atrocious. Problems and challenges have sprung up that I never could have imagined months ago. At the end of the day, there are times I feel drained, physically and mentally. But those moments when you communicate with another person, in a one-horse village in rural Togo, in their language, and see the light in the eyes upon hearing “lafiaa” makes the challenges seem insignificant. A whole culture awaits us that we are largely ignorant of. I can only imagine the plentitude of faux pas’ we have committed here. But if there is one thing we do have, it’s time to learn.
First impressions? To hell with them. Second impressions can go too. It’s time to develop some lasting ones.