Togoland

Progress and Hard Work (Part II)

2009-08-25T14:31:00.009Z

Never have I seen people so willing to laugh during the work day.

The obstacles that I spoke of four months ago are ostensibly years away. Of course, new challenges have moved in to replace the old ones. Much work remains during our last months, but we do not tire from our toil. We look forward to bringing our gardening and tree nursery project to fruition in our closing months. Below is a rundown of the past four months.

In short, construction is completed. The cement foundation was laid. The cement posts were poured. The fencing was laboriously pulled taut covering all 300 meters. Two cables run parallel to the ground, stabilizing the fencing. Every fifty yards, a metal turnbuckle tightens the cables to achieve maximum tautness. Oh, how the citizens of Ogaro marvel at our fence!

The final step during construction was to attach the fencing to the cement foundation, permanately locking the animals out and the goods in.

Again, let me reiterate the importance—nay, the necessity—of this fence. Domesticated animals pose a threat to anything undergoing photosynthesis, with the exception of toxic plants. Another menace to gardening and tree nursery projects is the Fulani, one of the few nomadic tribes in West Africa. The Fulani are cattle herders who are known to roam the Sahel but also dip down in the Savannah. Skipping from place to place, their cattle inevitably graze in farmer’s fields, disgruntling locals. Nomads and agrarians will always be at odds with each other. It’s a story of worlds colliding.

But now, with our fence standing firm, our project no longer has the possibility to clash with the Fulani’s cattle, nor with any domesticated animal for that matter. With some cost and many a man-hour spent, the problem is solved.

Another cliffhanger from the first update was the well. We were at a standstill, as water was entering too fast to make any headway. Precious time was ticking before the exodus into the fields began. One day our committee president, Datchigli Djarjangou (it took me a full month to pronounce his name fluidly) had an idea: why not take wooden pegs and drive them into holes where water was entering? I’m not sure who said it first, but the answer that makes most sense is usually right. Four men worked tirelessly for three days at an alarming rate of one meter per day. We reached a depth of eight meters. And then came the rains. Although we didn’t hit our target of nine meters, I consider ourselves lucky. If not for Datchigli’s epiphany, we would have been up a creek. The water level has already swelled to six meters with a month of rains yet to come. The remaining meter will be dug next dry season.

As I’ve said earlier, free time for farmers dwindles once the rainy season begins. With this fact in mind, our management committee devised an all-day event to kick off the tree nursery. The scheme was ambitious, but with great enough numbers, we deemed it a viable plan. I admit though I was on edge; much hinged on this one day.

Our first task was to transport soil to the center. Presently, the soil at the center has too much clay to allow water to sufficiently absorb. Roughly a mile from the center however, lays a grove of cashew trees. The ground under the trees has lain fallow for some twenty years. Their leaves fall, decompose, and leave a natural compost. With 4,500 plastic baggies to fill, we estimated that each of our five villages should take two wagons full of soil to the site.

Loading dirt, the old fashioned way.

At 7 a.m., I sat under the cashew trees awaiting the first donkey-led wagon. 8 a.m., nothing. At 8:30, the first donkey rolled up. With some difficulty, the donkey backed in the wagon toward our dirt pile. After a few minutes of scooping, the donkey, jockeyed by children no older than ten, trotted slowly towards our project site. Thus the arduous task of hauling perhaps a ton or two of earth began. Once operations were running smoothly, I biked over to see our friend and tree nursery expert, Yao.

Five years ago, Yao and his wife spent nine months learning progressive agricultural techniques at a French run organization, CARTO. While a soft-spoken, mild-mannered man, his enthusiasm concerning agro-forestry, the combination of crops and trees, is unsurpassed. By planting trees that take nitrogen from the air and fix it into the soil, the ground naturally replenishes itself without the use of chemical fertilizers. Most impressive to me, the nitrogen is visible, forming small nodules on their roots, offering visible proof to an abstract concept. (Planting trees near home also provide a source of firewood, preventing women from journeying deep into the bush.) We assigned Yao tree nursery czar for the day, fit to call the shots on when, where, and how we would plant.

Arriving at the center around noon, I was disappointed to see no more than fifteen people filling baggies with dirt. A forerunner was sent to the market to rally the troops. By two o’clock, the number was 50. And people kept coming. Old, young, men, women, farmers, tailors, seamstresses, and teachers all filled baggies. With Yao’s assistance, each village properly lined their baggies together in their nursery bed.

Women and men alike participated in the lengthy process of filling plastic baggies with dirt.

At four o’clock, refreshments were served. With Ogaro numbering 100 people, the local millet beer, tchakpa, was given to all willing parties. It would be considered a grave faux pas to act otherwise. If anyone invites friends to work with them, tchakpa must be served.

Suddenly, a fierce gale swept across the Savannah. The dust punished anyone who opened their eyes wide. Ice cold rain drops spit down on us. Yet the rain kept at bay, and everyone continued plugging along, placing their baggies in neat, precise grids. Seeds, having been steadily collected during the previous months, were placed two to three per baggie. At the time of planting, the sun sneaked behind the plateaus on the horizon. The wind died down. With some haste, the baggies were all planted with seeds.

As the calm twilight crept towards night, we had one last demonstration to give: how to transplant a tree. Earlier in the day, we had secured a few mature seedlings from CARTO. Datchigli Djarjangou and Yao conducted the how-to in our local language. Although we had planted thousands of seeds, we hadn’t put a seedling in the ground. And that is simply poor Arbor Day etiquette. With our tree in the ground, we parted in good, although thoroughly fatigued, spirits. We had done it.

At dusk, Yao and Datchigli finish the day with a how-to demonstration on transplanting a seedling.

Two and a half months after the fact, the tree nursery looks robust. Presently, we are organizing a strategy to generate interest for purchasing the seedlings. Many of the trees’ beneficial qualities are not known by the public. Nitrogen-fixing trees, of which there are four (Cassia siamea, Albizia lebbeck, Samanea saman, and Leucaena leucocephala), should be planted alongside or in their fields. In a best case scenario, a farmer plants these trees in rows roughly ten meters apart, a technique known as alley-cropping. But this is a tough sell.

Advocating a new and improved farming technique is a delicate situation, no matter where one is working. In this respect, we’ve proceeded with caution. Farming tradition runs deep in Ogaro. Accumulated knowledge has been passed down from their ancestors. Ceremonial dances even emulate the hoeing movement. In short, a farmer is not likely to be persuaded over a calabash of tchakpa in the market. But headway can be made through a prolonged campaign of disseminating unbiased information.

Most importantly, alley-cropping and other uses of nitrogen-fixing plants should not be promoted as a silver bullet for food production. Reaping the benefits of trees in ones fields requires an intensification of manual labor. Protecting the trees from animals the first year the trees are in the ground necessitates some tenderlovingcare. Afterwards, pruning is needed to prevent the trees from absorbing too much sunlight. During the dry season, leaves (which also contain nitrogen) should be turned into the soil. Another problem is the lag in results. The handful of farmers employing agro-forestry in their fields say the third year marks the first significant improvements in crop yield; the nitrogen takes a little time to build up to levels making a difference. Each coming year sees more improvements however, the nitrogen continually multiplying. Even so, few farmers will be willing to commit to this regimen. I understand. But what is the alternative, the status quo?

The present course presents a much bleaker picture. Whereas nitrogen-fixing trees replenish the soil more with each-coming year, the opposite holds true for chemical fertilizers. If a farmer buys five bags of fertilizer for a hectare of corn this year, he will need to buy perhaps six bags next year to achieve the same yield. With each year, farmers buy more and more fertilizers to treat their increasingly depleted soils to feed a rapidly increasing population. Sooner or later, farmers need to confront this system, which doesn’t bare any semblance to sustainability.

Presently, the tree nursery looks swell, but needs constant care: weeding, insect and pest control, turning the baggies so their roots do not dig down too deep into the ground are but a few.

Some farmers—not an excess, but some—in Ogaro are receptive to supplementing their fields with soil-enriching trees. Farmers will first experiment with a trial run, allotting perhaps a fourth of one hectare to see if any changes ensue. Agro-forestry won’t magically dissolve all problems in Ogaro. Nevertheless, it combats myriad problems; desertification, erosion, and food shortage. I believe it is a campaign worth fighting for.

Another campaign of a different nature will be launched for Moringa (Moringa oleifera). With this tree, I’m confident in a unanimous juror. As opposed to the previous trees, Moringa doesn’t require the same commitment. All one does with Moringa is to keep the tree alive and consume its leaves. Moringa’s leaves are packed with such nutrients, the tree almost defies belief. For children, Moringa offers a much needed boost to an eating regimen clearly lacking important nutrients. Corn mush, known as pâte, served with a light peanut sauce is woefully inadequate day in and day out. The tree is also resistant to prolonged dry spells and will be the only tree tough enough to plant this year.

Fati and her infant, Emma, picking Moringa leaves in our backyard. For Volunteers, encouraging the consumption of these leaves improving child nutrition is, to say the least, not a tough sell.

The Neem tree (Azadirachta indica) is also resistant to drought but serves a different purpose. The tree serves as a repellant. For one, animals want nothing to do with it. Equally important, Neem’s leaves as well as its oil (which can be produced by harvesting and boiling its seeds) prove a potent natural insecticide. Ironically, Neem can also be used for human hygiene purposes and is found in various soaps, crèmes, and lotions. Finally, its wood burns slow (for food preparation) and is strong (for construction purposes, including the frame for hut ceilings). All in all, a versatile species well adapted to our milieu.

Finally, we have a tree with a small cash crop, the cashew tree (Anacardium occidentale). The cashew is found widely in our region, as it produces both cashews and a delicious fruit, which I liken to a tart tangerine. I like the cashew tree. An aesthetically pleasing tree with a stout build, its thick foliage is an ideal bastion from the sun. I’m no botanist, but there is something peculiar about the tree. Unlike your peach, your plum, your mango, where the seed is securely hidden inside the fruit, the cashew nut hangs down from the derrière of the fruit. However, the nut has developed formidable protection from any unwanted predators. The shell is abnormally thick, with a tessellating pattern inside akin to honeycomb. The sticky liquid can be used as a substitute for petrol. (The cashew orchard where we excavated the dirt was originally a government-financed operation planning to exploit the technology but was soon abandoned.) The oil leaves a bothersome black filament on one’s hands. This fact, coupled with the laborious chore of cracking the hot, freshly roasted, rock hard shell makes a guy work for his cashew. The fine folks of Ogaro don’t seem as perturbed as Kat and I in this respect.

And that concludes the line-up of trees. For each tree sold, 50% will be funneled back into our project account and 50% will go to their respective village, where savings will ideally catalyze other projects. Money staying with the project will buy baggies for next year’s nursery and handle any repairs. If all goes well, the tree nursery could grow with each coming year. Of course, this center is not just for a tree nursery; there’s also gardening to be done.

Dry season gardening will kick off next month. Oversight, or gentle prodding, as I like to define our role, will keep us busy in the waning months of our service. My official counterpart, Simplice, has managed just these types of village gardening projects for twenty-five years throughout our region. Undoubtedly, he will prove an invaluable asset.

The third installment will arrive in December. If the homestretch of our service proves hectic, I might just be writing the finale in the comfort of my home…the first one, in South Dakota.

God bless.

The Reserve List

2009-08-25T13:31:00.008Z

For two years, when spending time with Americans, Peace Corps Volunteers hang out almost exclusively with each other. Sure, there are visitors, passersby, and the occasional run-in with Embassy acquaintances, but these are few and far between. Somewhere during this two-year window—and no one is certain exactly when—something happens. Our isolation breeds a subculture. Our vernacular scrambles French words in English sentences and vise versa. If particular emphasis is desired, we might even sprinkle a few words of local language into the mix. Our jokes become increasingly cryptic; outsiders have not a clue of the punch lines. Non-volunteer Americans could perceive volunteers as clicky, obnoxious, or perhaps just knuckleheaded.

Try as we might to control this unavoidable side effect, it requires constant vigilance, like making sure a harsh word doesn’t slip near your grandparents. I often read the expression of on a newcomer’s face. Their glossed eyes contemplate, “Who are these people?” Occupied as we are with fitting into a foreign culture, we slowly forget accepted norms of our own.

As I celebrated my 25th birthday a few days ago however, a fellow Volunteer gave me a present offering absurdity for both worlds. Following a tradition in his family, he designed a pseudo-wine entitled Chateau Ogaro inspired from our locally made beer, tchakpa . (He spent the bulk of my actual birthday crammed in the mail room, singularly possessed in his work, like Captain Ahab stewing in his chambers en route towards the white whale.) Tickled as I am with this invaluable souvenir of Togo, posting the blurb written on Chateau Ogaro only seems fitting. A few phrases are esoteric, but on the whole, the masses can tap into the hilarity. To be sure, this is a rare event. Any time a Volunteer rises above our specific lingo and reaches a larger audience, he needs a pat on the back. Enjoy Chateau Ogaro: Quarter Century Edition, complements of Andrew Jacobs.

THIS RARE SPARKLING TCHAKPA IS A DELIGHT TO ANY TASTER WHO HAS AN IMPULSE FOR ADVENTURE OF THRILL. PRODUCED EXCLUSIVELY IN A SMALL CORNER OF THE WORLD, THE MILLET GRAINS OF CHATEAU OGARO ARE HAND PICKED ON THE ARID HILLSIDES OF NORTHERN TOGO, ONLY ACCESSIBLE BY BICYCLE OR DONKEY. C.O. IS PROUD TO CLAIM 100% ORGANIC AUTHENTICITY, EACH STALK OF MILLET IS INDIVIDUALLY FERTILIZED BY A LOVELY BLEND OF AWARD WINNING FULANI CATTLE (2005 GOLDERN HORN) AND LOCAL INHABITANTS, WHO ADD A HUMAN RICHNESS TO THE QUALITY OF THE WINE. HARVESTED ONLY ONCE A YEAR, PREPARED BY A SELECTED GROUP OF NON-ENGLISH SPEAKING WOMEN OVER SIXTY YEARS OLD, AND BOTTLED IN THATCH ROOF MUD HUTS, OUR PRODUCT DEFINES RARITY IN THIS EVERYDAY WORLD. EST. SOMETIME BETWEEN, BON, 1800-1900, C.O. HAS OUTLIVED THE GERMANS, THE FRENCH, AND EVEN THE LIONS AND ELEPHANTS WHO ONCE ROAMED ITS VINEYARDS. ITS CIDERESQUE, SMOKEY FLAVOR BRINGS OUT THE TASTE OF ANTIQUITY AND PROVIDES ITS BUVEUR WITH A SENSATION OF EUPHORIC LANGUOR ONLY FOUND IN TOGO. WE HERE AT C.O. HOPE THAT YOU ENJOY DRINKING OUR BEVERAGE AS MUCH AS WE DO MAKING IT. BONNE SANTÉ ET LONGUE VIE!

Fairest of the Seasons

2009-07-28T19:24:00.014Z

Second only to friends, family, and leather couches, I often pine for the seasons. My seasons.

A spring rain, a summer twilight, a fall wind, and yes, even a dark winter night. But I find not the Midwest seasons in Ogaro. The seasons in our savannah region can be divided roughly into three increments; Harmattan, hot season, and the rainy season. I lament saying that none of these seasons are bliss. Yet each, despite their hardships, brings with them aspects I look forward to and enjoy. Best to commence from the beginning, December 15th, 2007; our first day living in our house. The first day we could, with some reluctance, call Ogaro our home.

By all accounts, December is not a bad month to arrive in Ogaro. Harmattan is under way and the harvest is finished. People are benefiting from a much needed rest from their toil in the fields. Harmattan, while it takes on the name of a season, is actually the name of the winds that blow down from the formidable Sahara Desert. Ironically, these winds, while torrential and relentless, are also cool. When hitting the hay, a sweater and pair of socks are placed next to our bed. Around 3 a.m., giddy with nighttime chill, I wake up, put on my garments, and fall back to sleep. Togolese don’t seem to derive the same pleasure. In the morning, their eyelids caked with sleep, they huddle around the boiling pot making breakfast, shivering all the while. Plan B is to stay curled up in bed until nine. Personally though, an ideal morning I wake-up at 7:30. Crawl out of bed and make a steaming cup of mud. Read, write, or practice French until nine with the blinds shut. This exercise is not to block out anyone outside, but rather is a feeble attempt to fend off the dust.

Unknown quantities of dust are stirred up with the strong winds. There is no hope of stopping it. A hard-nose policy of containment is the only feasible machination. But even this defense is futile. Dust knows no boundaries, finding its way into every nook and crevice. At times, when my broom weaves around the table to hit a hard to reach cranny, I drift off to a season of cleaner times, but these thoughts are short-lived. The ability not to perspire, this is a gift that trumps all others. But there are other advantages as well.

Small scale gardening is done in a nearby village. Small yellow melons, assuming the taste and texture of a muskmelon, and watermelons are brought by the wagon full. Tomatoes, onions, cabbage, and carrots abound. Cassavas, smashed and pounded to make the delicacy fufu, are unearthed and sold like hotcakes in the market. The farmers, having stored and sold their grains are ever ready to instigate good cheer among their neighbors. Building and repairing houses occurs during this time, whether it be cinderblock or mud. The combination of dust and wind however, takes a toll on everyone’s energy. Despite the upbeat mood of the season, fatigue trumps all.

While this is an axiom for humans, animals are another story. All the harmattonic pet sounds are wretched to my ears. Frisky adolescent dogs carouse the fields at night, chase one another, bark, and generally raise hell. Guinea foul and roosters are ever mindful of the impending sunrise. But of all the pet sounds, the donkey is the most heinous. I can say with some certainty that their despondent calls echoing derive from frustrations that only a biological urgency to procreate can generate. The angst propelling their ‘haw’ couldn’t possibly signify anything else. All this animal cacophony, never ceasing completely, leads to a certain frustration among us, particularly when we might be entertaining the idea of (or amid) a romantic act ourselves.

In late January, the winds loose their buoyancy, the coolness fades, and the dust settles. The fate of hot season is palpable. If a can be frank, hot season, spanning from February to the end of April, is the harshest climate I have had to endure. Surely a South Dakota winter, relative to temperatures suitable for humans brings a fury not met by the savannah heat. But I can hardly say I have endured any of these winters against the elements. Snow football, the ensuing hot chocolate, hot shower, and warm bed do not suffice. Too many artificial settings. We endure hot, still days as they are and rejoice the rare days when it is mild, perhaps in the low 100’s. These three months however are not all doom and gloom. Mangos and outdoor sleeping are both thoroughly enjoyable and specific only to hot season.

The mango is surpassed by none. Their sumptuousness, their plentitude, their price, their variety, their impeccable timing, all these factors deserve to be fully explored at a later time. Suffice it to say that mangos are the nectar of the gods, coming down from the heavens only when we need it most, during the entire span of hot season.

If mangos provide solace during the day, the night needs no celestial ambrosia to match up. The night, not having a sun, is enough. During hot season, I never shower before dinner. I would be disgruntled, perspiring mess at the end of it. Showers directly before bed are the only option. The dry heat—or absence of humidity—allows temperatures to dip down into the 80’s at night, just low enough to prevent perspiration. Few things are treasured more than lying down by your loved one under the abundant stars of the African sky. And no water or humidity equates to no bugs. What a blessing.

I recall I once had a similar inclination to sleep outside at Lewis and Clark Lake. How I bristled with excitement as I carried my sleeping bag and pillow to the beach spot of my choosing! The next morning, there I was, ill-tempered after an endless night of tossing and turning and a layer of sand covering my entire body. A swarm of mayflies, after completing their twenty-four hours of existence, lay peacefully at rest on my dry, cracked lips. Outdoor sleeping, romanticized as it is, rarely leads to tranquil mornings. We come pretty close here.

I’ll wake up at night, check the position of Orion’s Belt drifting slowly towards the western horizon and know how many cherished hours I have before daybreak and the wrath the sun will soon bring. At about 5:18 a.m., I awaken to the first barn bees buzzing overhead. I’ll rise out of bed, make some oats, and swiftly take care of anything involving physical labor. Until 7 a.m., the cool air holds its own. From 7 till nine, the cool air and sun do battle, with the sun gradually taking control. At 9 a.m., it’s all over. Temperatures are in the 100’s and rising. The only sanctuary is the shade.

Passing the bulk of our days in the shade, we nonetheless still sweat all day. Or at least we lose water rapidly. The dry heat plays a nasty trick. Our sweat evaporates without a trace so that we often become dehydrated without knowing it. We have learned to perpetually, habitually drink water no matter if our body “tells” us to or not.

Inevitably though, even if it is for an increment of time as little as fifteen minutes, we have to step out in the direct sunlight. I, more so than Katrina, do not handle it well. A primordial panic takes hold as I feel myself literally being baked by the sun. This fact has caused a problem; I simply can’t do the work Togolese do because I cannot stick it out in the sun. I throw the blame on my skin, my superb ability to absorb vitamin D, evolution and all that gibberish, but deep down I may just be a wimp. Much to my chagrin, this fact manifested itself quite clearly during the construction of our gardening center. Luckily, the hottest days of the year are confined only to little more than two months.

Before the swollen clouds spit their first excess to the parched earth, something very peculiar occurs: A wind rolls through the savannah like a hurricane. You can hear the palms slapping against each other as the wind approaches. You can see the thick cloud of dust and debris drawing nearer every second. There is a mad dash to gather all belongings outside to put them in safe storage. The moment the fierce current hits, everyone settles inside. For half an hour, the wind produces deafening noises. Tin roofs are banging up and down, animals are whimpering, branches are rattling. It’s the dry season’s last stand. When Judgment Day is upon us, I imagine it will be set in motion with such a wind.

And then it rains.

The first rain sparks a flurry of activity. Men, women, and children alike begin tilling the soil to prepare for planting. This is accomplished in one of two ways. The first method is done all by hand, using only an enlarged hoe to turn the soil into rows. One could say this is the traditional way. The second, more modern technique is to harness the energy of two oxen to plow the land. One person is in front, guiding the oxen with the rings in their nostrils. Another is in back, guiding the plow. For two adults, this is a manageable task. But almost without exception, kids are involved. Six (or more) kids under the age of ten trying to keep two ornery oxen in line are quite a spectacle. Inevitably, the youngest will be no more than the age of two, trying to keep pace. A cornstalk will be in hand, ready to put all his might into a whack, should the need arise.

So goes the toil of the rainy season, a livelihood that won’t offer repose until the later months of the year. When the picturesque fields are tilled, planting begins. Women walk with a small branch, poke a hole in the ground, drop the seeds in the hole, cover it up with their feet, take a step, and repeat the process. Corn, millet, sorghum, black-eyed peas, cotton, peanuts, and soy are all planted in varying degrees.

As May, June, and July drift on by, weeding fills the time. The same two aforementioned techniques are employed with this task as well. Typically, two or three rounds of weeding are completed before harvesting, depending on the amount of manpower available. (Without the presence of farm machinery, farmers argue that the extra labor—multiple wives, myriad children—is essential for a bountiful crop.)

The rain itself differs little from those on the Great Plains. Warm drizzles, cold sheets, and everything in between nourish the earth. Flies flourish exponentially with each new rain. The flies, not yet lulled by suburban complacency endemic in the States, buzz about with guerilla-like intensity. Stinkbugs, preying mantises, grasshoppers, moths, and various other bugs share space with the flies. Then there are the mosquitoes, a most unfortunate product of the rains.

Mosquitoes bring malaria and all its wrath. In fact, Volunteers dub these months “malaria season.” A child’s first bout is the toughest to ward off. Infants lack a strong immune system to fight off the nefarious disease. Adolescents struggle to build up resistance. Adults are also inflicted, but after having malaria for a –teenth time, mortality is no longer a threat. Malaria—like a host of other problems—is just one more thing that the Togolese deal with. But the work must go on.

August brings the first wave of harvests. The rains recede. Scores of corn, millet, and peanuts are laid out to dry in each compound. After the corn is sufficiently dried, branches roughly equivalent to a baseball bat are used as devices to smack the kernels off the husk. Large groups are involved, often singing songs or sharing a laugh. The kernels are then put in giant sacs and stored for the rest of the year. I similar process is done to all other crops. (The cotton is especially fulfilling for the kids, having enormous piles of fluff to prance on.)

Harvesting continues in the following months. Again, all harvesting is done by hand, taking extensive amounts of time. Ideally, harvesting is finished by the time kids end their summer break in mid-September. October and November slowly transition into dry season. The heat soars once again, but not to the degree of March and April. Then one unsuspecting night, I’ll awake. Are those goosebumps on my body? Harmattan is near.

Perhaps savannah seasons aren’t as magical as the ones back home. I say magical because inextricably tied to the seasons are past memories. All nostalgia associated with weather is still in its formative stages here. A nighttime harmattonic chill doesn’t incite the rush I feel, say, on a brisk September evening back home. September evenings brings floods of memories from running around as a little kid at football games, to country drives, late night college drives, studying or otherwise. Harmattan reminds me of just one year ago, arriving in an empty house where I knew no one. When I return home, I’ll miss the seasons here to an extent; they’ll forever be tied to my life as a Peace Corps Volunteer. But I haven’t fallen for them. After all, these are not my seasons.

Life in the Still

2009-06-17T06:42:00.008Z

At my own admission, I tend to be a smidgen on the verbose side. If only once, perhaps it is beneficial that you strictly observe Togo with your eyes. Below is a collection of pictures taken in Ogaro, with the exception of the gentle Vietnamese woman who owns a hostel in Lome where most Volunteers spend their nights when in the capital. No overarching theme exists (though there probably should be). With no accompanying story, you yourself will have to contemplate who these people are, what they do, where they sleep at night, etc.

Meet the Flindjas

2009-06-16T12:41:00.019Z

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

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

Bawa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Akovi

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

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

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

Sakoundja

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

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

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

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

Jean

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

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

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

Dapandja

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

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

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

Fati

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

Then I heard the baby’s cries.

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

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

Emma

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

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

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

Jean-Marie
(Picture to be posted soon)

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

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

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

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

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

Journal Entry: April 27, 2009

2009-05-19T11:37:00.004Z

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

Love Beep

2009-05-05T18:53:00.004Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ohh, my dear friend!”

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

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

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

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

Progress and Hard Work

2009-04-08T09:22:00.013Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reforestation and Gardening Center Updated

2008-11-06T22:03:00.018Z

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

2008-09-17T16:06:00.006Z

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

2008-07-18T10:07:00.004Z

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

2008-07-05T12:41:00.004Z

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

2008-06-04T07:56:00.005Z

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

2008-04-24T09:49:00.004Z

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.

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

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!”

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

2008-04-19T15:13:00.002Z

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

2008-03-11T17:58:00.004Z

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)

2008-02-10T17:25:00.000Z

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

2008-02-03T02:16:00.001Z

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.

Run Hippo, Run!

2007-12-29T10:34:00.000Z

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

2007-12-27T15:42:00.000Z

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

2007-12-17T10:23:00.000Z

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

2007-12-05T19:51:00.000Z

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

2007-11-22T09:16:00.000Z

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

2007-11-10T17:03:00.000Z

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

2007-10-20T08:51:00.001Z

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

2007-10-10T15:45:00.000Z

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

2007-10-10T15:38:00.000Z

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

2007-10-10T15:28:00.000Z

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.

2007-09-21T18:24:00.000Z

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