Bonne fette de Noel - Togolese Christmas

The Chief

I attended The Chiefs Annual Togolese/Voodoo Christmas Celebration at the Chiefs Compound.  I didn’t know I was going to a party that day.  Upon arrival I could see that I was in for a new experience.  A Voodoo experience.  By the time the day and the celebration was over, I was confused and I think a little disturbed.   I felt a need to understand, rationalize and/or defend their holiday ritual (s).

During the holidays the Togolese and Tchekpo community do a lot of the same things we do at home.  People who passed me on the roads and dropped by my house every day wished me a Bonne fette de Noel (Merry Christmas) and Nouveau Annee (Happy New Year.)   I received gifts of pineapples, papaya’s, and bundles of plantains.  Neighbors, new friends and people I’ve been working with here in Tchekpo sincerely thanked me for being here.  They smiled, took my hand and blessed me.  I felt their warmth and sincerity.  I also felt their merriment of the season.

The desire to express good will during the holidays is something I happily shared with my Togolese friends.  One of the things I wanted to discover for myself on this journey is, what basic traits do all humans share?  Whether they live in the suburbs of mid-america, or a small village in Africa, what do we have in common?   What is innate?  What are we born with, and what is learned?   The answer to these questions are deep, layered and multi-faceted, and would be better answered by Margaret  Meade, but I try….just the same.

The Fette

The Chief praising the gods

The Chief had his annual holiday celebration (fette) the Saturday before Christmas.  Aloughba and I walked together to the Chiefs compound.  I had recently returned from Spain, so I thought we were just going to visit….to greet the Chief.  I’ve learned to enjoy the surprises Aloughba gives me.   I never, ever know what is in store when she takes me someplace.  On this day, as we approached the Chiefs Compound I could hear music (drums) and  laughter, and I could hear roosters crowing and lambs screaming.   When we entered I was completely taken by surprise that I had arrived at the Chiefs annual holiday celebration.  I had to laugh to myself, that here I was at the Chiefs biggest celebration of the year, and I had had no idea that’s where we were going.   At least a hundred people were milling about.  The atmosphere was festive.  The Togolese dress up for these occasions, in their best complaits and head gear.  I was in my khakis and t-shirt, but no one seemed to mind.  Men and women were laughing and talking.  Children were running around chasing each other.  At first glance it seemed very similar to an American Party.  While I was sitting watching everyone....I identified couples, families, groups and compared them to my American family and friends.  For example there was a husband and wife laughing and talking to their two little children.  I thought....that could be Andrea and Mirinda and their kids.  There were two married couples sitting talking with each other...that could be Kittie and Jody talking to Pam and Richard???  I'm not sure why I play this game.  I think because their language and dress is so different, the traditions are definitely different.  Everything is different....but what about us is alike?

I made the rounds to the elders, bowed, held my elbow and shook their hands.  There is always a snap of each others pointer finger at the end of the hand shake.  It took me a while to master, but now I have the Togolese handshake down.  I greeted most of them in their local language, Ewe (e-vah).   The sodebe (local liquor) was flowing, "making spirits high."    Soon after we arrived the Chief greeted me.  I do like the Chief for many reasons.  I think he’s intelligent, and he has a very good sense of humor.  He wanted to know where my camera was.  I told him I didn't bring it.  He asked why.   I told him I didn’t know I was coming to a party, and I offered to walk home to get it.  He wanted me to, so I did.  Round trip walk about 45 minutes.   But I was glad to have the diversion of this task.  I didn’t know why, but I wasn’t feeling particularly comfortable with the crowd or the celebration.  I returned to the festivities with my camera.  Without any preconceived notions of what might occur.
 
Not like our celebrations at home, I can tell you that.  Well actually parts of it were similar.  It was family and friends and their children having a party, being happy to see and visit with each other, but that may be the only similarity.  This was an authentic Voodooese Fette, with all their trimmings…..they were ready to celebrate and at the same time, pay homage to their god(s)!

First up…..the slaughtering and sacrifice of two lambs.   I was shocked when I saw them hang the  two lambs by their feet and then slit their necks.  I tried hard not to look as the blood spilled out on the floor.  It all felt very surreal.   The whole day felt like an assault on my senses. It was a festival of animal sacrifice and slaughter.  The rituals certainly better defined my Voodooese friends to me.  First the lambs, then…ohhhhh…..at least one hundred chickens.  Apparently almost everyone had brought their own chicken(s) to sacrifice.  Before they began the chicken slaughter, they ceremoniously all knelt and bowed down with their families and with their chickens and said a prayer....I think partly asking the gods to choose their chickens. Then the chicken slaughter began.  Everything that was done was a symbol for something….how the blood spattered on the floor, how much the chickens bounced around, which direction they bounced after their throats were slit.  Apparently which way the chicken bounced and how much it bounced determined which ones were acceptable to the Gods.  One by one their necks were slit.  One by one they bounced around and fluttered.  One by one they were thrown into one of three piles.  Each pile having a significance and delivering a message from the gods. The people and the children watched and cheered.  The Chief had the task of deciphering which chickens the gods had sanctioned to be eaten on that day.   The two lambs and the chosen chickens were skinned, de-feathered, cut up, cooked and eaten.  I wanted to understand everything.  I thought it might help me tolerate it all better, if I understood the religious or voodoo significance of it all.  It seemed to me that "tolerance" was going to be something I needed to cultivate.  Because I did not understand everything that was going on, it just seemed very primal, and cruel.  The rituals I witnessed made me feel differently about these people I have grown to respect and love.  It disturbed me.  I realized that I would need to process all of this.  Try to understand this part of their human  nature.   

A little history lesson on Voodoo

In Tchekpo,  in America and all over the world, there are many “Christians” and many various religious denominations of “Christians.”   As Christians, Africans celebrate the birth of Christ (Bonne fette de Noel).  They have accepted Christ as their Savior and as their one true, and only God.  The missionairies did a good job converting the “natives” of Africa.  Christianity gave the people of Africa good news and hope in a world that was otherwise extremely harsh to them in all ways…weather, hunger, poverty, war.  The good news was that as harsh as this life on earth is, if they are good “Christians” if they follow the teachings of Jesus Christ they will enjoy eternal happiness.  Hope of the heaven that was described to them, was more than enough to convince them to denounce their voodoo ways.  On the surface anyway.   It is a conflict of belief systems.  Believing that Jesus is the one true God, and yet as Animists (Voodooese) they believe in many Gods.   They cannot dismiss the lore that has been handed down for the past 6,000 years.  The word "voodoo" comes from the Fon language.  It means "sacred," "spirit" or "deity." [source: National Public Radio: Radio Expeditions].  .

Animism or voodoo is by definition a cult; a cult that constitutes a system of religious beliefs and rites which are used principally to reinforce the social system as well as the dependence of the family (isn’t this what all religion does?)—and at the same time, voodoo recognizes spirits, guardians, deities, or forces of nature. Voodoo originated in Africa.  Voodoo is ubiquitous in Tchekpo, with approximately 95% of It’s people actively practicing voodoo.  It is a way of life.  It filters into their lives at every juncture.  Voodoo beliefs and rituals are intertwined in their work, with their families and their justice system, their health, and their deaths.   Voodoo is a HUGE subject that influences everything the people in my village do, in spite of the fact that so many of them are also converted Christians.   They practice both Christianity and Voodoo, even though they are very conflicting beliefs.  I do not know how they reconcile the conflict.  Sometimes I think they've just decided to hedge their bets, and commit to both.  Living a good and decent life is a part of both religions.

Voodoo, In religious theory, is the conception of a spiritual reality behind the material one: for example, they believe the soul is a shadowy duplicate of the body capable of independent activity, both in life and death. Since Voodoo is primarily an oral tradition, the names of gods, as well as the specifics of different rituals, can change in different regions or from generation to generation. However, African Voodoo has several consistent qualities no matter where people practice it. Along with the belief in multiple gods and spiritual possession, these beliefs include:

•Veneration of ancestors
•Rituals or objects used to convey magical protection
•Animal sacrifices used to show respect for a god, to gain its favor or to give thanks
•The use of fetishes, or objects meant to contain the essence or power of particular spirits
•Ceremonial dances, which often involve elaborate costumes and masks
•Ceremonial music and instruments, especially including drums
•Divination using the interpretation of physical activities, like tossing seed hulls or pulling a stone of a certain color from a tree
•The association of colors, foods, plants and other items with specific loa(God) and the use of these items to pay tribute to the loa (God).

Many of these traits, particularly ancestor worship, polytheism, and the importance of music and dance, are important elements of Voodoo.  Many observances appear to be part celebration, part religious service incorporating rhythmic music, dancing and songs. Many rituals take advantage of the natural landscape, such as rivers, mountains or trees. Through decoration and consecration, ordinary objects, like pots, bottles or parts of slaughtered animals, become sacred objects for use in rituals.  I've come to recognize all of these things, as I walk through the village.  Sometimes I'll be walking with Aloughba and point to something I think is an artful arrangement of plants and/or pottery, and she tells me that it is voodoo.  A sacred prayer created for the gods, maybe to stop children from dying, or to bring rains for the crops. 

I’m sure I’m just understanding the tip of the ice berg as far as voodoo is concerned.  I didn’t want to delve into it for a long time.  Didn’t think I really needed to.  Thought I could just experience it on the surface, an arms length away.  But really if I’m to understand the people of Tchekpo I must understand their roots, and their religion and their beliefs. 

At the Chiefs Annual Christmas Celebration I saw the ritual of lambs and hundreds of chickens slaughtered and offered to the Gods.  It is tempting to dismiss these rituals as hocus pocus.  Then I think…what if we were dropped into the U.S. for the very first time and went to a Catholic Church for the very first time and we saw this man all dressed up in colorful, flowing robes, with young men assisting him in his rituals.  We see people with beads in their hands...chanting together, and bowing and kneeling in front of statues??   And then we are told that this man (high priest) can change wine into blood and bread into the body of Christ???  How odd would it be to hear something like that for the very first time?   Voodoo rituals are beyond my understanding, my comprehension, but maybe they aren’t so different from our rituals after all?  They are, of course different.  Very different, but it seems that they all do the same thing.  We ask for help and the rituals provide hope.

Celebrating the Holidays in Togo - American Style

I had been preparing myself for the holidays in Togo, or I might say bracing myself.  I wasn’t sure how hard it would be, and couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to be away from my friends and kids and grandkids.  I knew one thing for sure.  My trip to Spain helped ease the blow.  I know I would have had a much harder time if I hadn’t had that wonderful trip and been with family just before Christmas.  

Many other people made the holidays here easier for me.  Kittie and Pam both sent Christmas packages full of extra special things, including Christmas treats, a little Christmas tree, a Christmas stocking, and even wrapped Christmas gifts.  Pam and Richard sent me the old version of the movie…The Bishops Wife, a sweet Christmas story with Loretta Young,  David Niven and Cary Grant.  I watched it on Christmas Day after church.  It was fun to watch and brought back sweet memories of watching it with my mom and gramma.  I got great packages from my friend Dixie, and my brother and his wife Joanne.  Both had really fun, interesting and nutritious treats.  Dixie’s  package was of course fun and creative..just like her (I know she would want me to also give credit and thanks to her husband Joe, and son Jesse).  Her package was full of fun things, and delicious things.  She included little individual containers of dill pickles.  Who knew dill pickles could taste SO good.  My sister Nancy’s  package included a book and a book light.  The book light was a great idea.  I’ve been able to read every night after dark.  Karen; E.J.’s mom sent a package full of candy canes.  She thought it would be fun to show the kids in Tchekpo our tradition of candy canes.  She was right.  Word spread fast about the candy canes.  The kids loved them, and it was fun to see them understanding what I meant when I explained that we hang them on the tree.  




l'ecole No. 5 Bonne Fette de Noel

I got a lot of other things, all appreciated.  I was especially glad to get more candy.  I had taken back tons of candy from Spain, but had given every single piece of it away.  I thought that stash of candy would last a long time, but I went through it in days.   I’m so glad I had it, because my Togolese friends expected a little cadeu(gift) from me for Noel.   School adjourns over the holidays, just like in the U.S.  I went to my project primary school on the last day before the holiday…toting my sack of candy.  It was a fun day.  The kids were all lined up by class, and several kids in each class got awards for good work.  It was quite ceremonious.  After the award ceremony they sang We Wish You a Merry Christmas to moi.  I then proceeded to dole out a few pieces of candy to each and every 225 of them.  I felt like Santa Claus, however they have no concept of Santa Claus, and as hard as I tried to explain the phenomena of Santa Claus, I could see they really couldn’t comprehend it.

Tamara

Christmas Eve, Tamara, the PCV in Tesvie had a dinner party for the PCV’s who live in our Maritime Region.  There were similar PCV parties throughout Togo.  There were about eight PCV’s going to Tamara’s  and we all arrived in Tesvie around 4pm on Christmas Eve.  Tamara likes to have parties, and she loves to cook.  She outdid herself.  She had h’ors douvres, and drinks, and even ice.  She amazes me….no one can get ice in Togo, but there it was.  I even had a couple, gin and tonics on ice with lime. Mmmmmmm.  Dinner was delicious, and she had baked two delectible cakes for desert.   Everyone sat around visiting, listening to music, and all stayed the night.  Tamara has access to internet, so I spent a lot of that evening on-line, sending emails and reading facebook.  I had my computer set up just behind where the rest of the PCV’s were  sitting in a circle so I could join in the conversation while being online at the same time.  No one minded that I was only half there.  PCV’s are very non-judgmental here.  You do what you gotta do to survive the best way you can.  For me….it was important to have the internet connection.

I also received a Christmas phone call from each of my daughters;  Andrea and Emily.  Of course we missed each other, but I could tell they were having a very nice, warm Christmas Eve with their families.  They were happy, and it made me happy.  After I exhausted my internet connection I fell asleep on a matt on the ground in Tamara’s courtyard around midnight.  I woke up about 5:30am.  I had planned on leaving early Christmas morning so I could catch church services in Tchekpo.  Everyone was still sleeping soundly when I left at 6am.  I caught a moto and arrived home about 7am.  Church started at 8.  The strangeness of catching a moto at 6am on Christmas morning in Africa did not escape me.  I wasn’t unhappy, but I did feel a bit disconnected.  The church service was very nice and festive.  Beautiful music.  The kids put on a play about the three wise men and the night Jesus was born.  It was cute and touching.  After church, I wanted to be alone.  I wasn’t sad.  I just wanted to be alone.  I closed my front door and window shutters, went into my bedroom, laid down on my bed and watched the Bishops Wife.  After the movie I fell asleep for a few hours.  When I woke up, I took my hand-made Christmas Cards around to a few friends.  It was fun to make and give my  cards to my Togolese friends.  I gave Aloughba one of my cards and I put dix mil inside of it.  That’s about twenty American dollars, and like a thousand dollars to a person in Tchekpo.   I thought that she probably very rarely had ever had that much money at one time.  Aloughba has never asked me for one thing, and she has been such a good community partner and friend.  She has helped me so much.  I was looking forward to her opening the card.  Well…it nearly killed her.  Really, I thought she was going to faint.  She screamed and practically dropped to her knees.  I knew she’d be happy and excited, but wow….her reaction exceeded all expectations.  It was a delightful moment.

I had many lovely, touching American and Togolese moments through the holidays.  Including when my three kids called me at midnight my time on New Years Eve.  They were all together.  They were laughing and having fun.  They told me everything they were eating, and what everyone was doing.  My four year old grandson Cooper wished me the most sincere, and sweet wish for the new year.     Tres gentile.  (Very nice).  2011 off to a good start!







Spain = Happiness

I returned from Madrid on Friday, December 17th. It was a whirlwind trip, and I’d have to say it was ten days of bliss. Eric, my son, had planned on visiting me here in Tchekpo. We both were looking forward to the visit. The entire village of Tchekpo was very excited that he was coming. They had planned dinners, Tom-Tom dances, and a myriad of activities. He was supposed to fly in on Saturday, December 5th. I had been in Pagala, Togo the week prior for a Peace Corps week-long conference for my particular Peace Corps Program…Small Enterprize Development. On Saturday when the conference ended, I went directly from Pagala to Lome. About a four hour drive. I had planned on picking Eric up at the airport that evening. Just after I arrived in Lome Eric called and told me that there was an air-traffic controller strike in Spain. No flights were coming or going. He didn’t know how long it would last, and didn’t know if he’d be able to come. He sounded tired and discouraged. Eric had only that week to visit. I was desolate. Apparently Eric spent all that day at the airport in Madrid trying to catch a flight, but everything had been cancelled. Finally after waiting for ten hours, he headed home. He kept in contact with me via the telephone, and gave me updates. I spent the night at a hotel in Lome, and waited for news. Sunday morning Eric called and said, there was no way he could get here. They were resuming flights, but his had been cancelled and there are only two flights a week to Lome, so he wouldn’t be able to get out until Thursday, which would give him only three days here. UGH! I knew that he was as disappointed as I was. I decided to stay one more night in Lome……for the most part to just process the turn of events, and secondly, to stay in an air-conditioned room for another night. Eric sent an email that night saying he and E.J. had found a flight FOR ME to Madrid the very next day and they wanted me to consider coming there. At first, I didn’t even consider it. I just didn’t see how it could be done. My director needed to be notified, the people in my village needed to know, and I didn’t have my passport in Lome. He and E.J. called me that night, and convinced me it could be done. It seemed like an impossible feat, but I had talked with a couple other Peace Corps volunteers who thought I was nuts not to do it. There was also the guilt of me spending their money on an airline ticket. Eric argued that his ticket was fully refunded, so he considered it a net, net. I told him that was a “Nichols net, net.” We both laughed; innately understanding our inherited system of Nichols accounting priniciples. I said ok…I’m comin to Spain!! I think he was so genuinely happy that I was coming, that any difficulties I thought I might encounter seemed all of a sudden do-able. Oh yeah, it was a little complicated and exhausting getting everything done in one day to fly to Spain for ten days. I had to take a bush taxi to Tchekpo (2 hours each way) to pick up my passport and to tell some of the key people there,not only was Eric not coming, but I was going to be gone for ten days. I could see the very real disappointment in their eyes, but they were also happy for me. Then back to Lome to meet with my Director Alex. Alex threw all bureaucracy out the window, stamped my form for approval, and said bon voyage!! I got everything done and arrived at the airport at 8pm. The flight left at 11pm. “Nothing is easy in Togo,” even leaving Togo. Of course there were problems checking in. Eric had put the airline ticket on his credit card. This was not a normal transaction for the Lome airport, and they did not trust that I was who I said I was and suggested I might be illegally using someone elses credit card. It didn’t matter to them that I had two passports with pictures saying who I was, In addition I had a Peace Corps Identification card with my picture on it. They still did not trust me. After a dozen phone calls to/from Eric talking to me, and then talking to the airline employee they still were balking. I think, possibly sometime after an hour of arguing I might have “copped” an attitude, because they only got more reluctant. Finally they made me call the Country Director of the Peace Corps in Togo so that she could verify who I was, and so that she could guarantee payment if the credit card turned out to be stolen. Oy veh!!! How I happened to have the Country Directors phone number and that she happened to answer, I’ll never know, but I guess God was on my side. She verified who I was, and said that they would pay if I indeed turned out to be a fraud. A lot to ask of the Country Director.

So, at 10:45 I was allowed to board the 11pm flight to Madrid. Pretty sure with one more blocked blood vessel. There was to be one transfer of planes in Brussels. The plane to Brussells (about a six hour flight) was only half full, so I was able to stretch out in the middle seats. I slept the entire way. Then I passed through all the Brussels customs without a hitch, and a few hours later found my well rested self in the beautiful, bustling city of Madrid! I’d never given much thought to Spain or Madrid. Now I think it should be on every travelers list as a “must see.” Madrid is fabulous!

I think the entire time I was there, I was kind of in culture shock, though I didn’t realize it at the time. In fact I kept thinking how easily I was adjusting to being back in civilization. But I’m sure I experienced “culture shock” times two…..both in Madrid and upon my return to Tchekpo. Now that I’m settled back in Tchekpo, I can see that I was in a kind of very fuzzy state of mind. Fuzzy or not, I had the most wonderful time! Everything about it was wonderful. First and most importantly I got to spend time with my one year old grand-daughter Dorothy. She had only a few minutes of reservation about me being a stranger. I was very determined to bond with her before I left for Togo, and I think E.J.(my son’s partner) instinctively wanted to make sure that happened also. He brought Dorothy to Kansas City a number of times, so that I could spend quality time with her. She and I did bond during those trips. I also have been able to video-skype with them a few times since I’ve been in Togo. How the world has changed! Little Dorothy trying to touch the computer screen and looking at me via video. So Dorothy’s few minutes of reservation was about processing the real me with the person who had previously been cooing and awing and throwing her kisses via video. I think it all came together for her though, because she hugged me, and played with me, and laughed with me, as if I truly was someone she knew and recognized and trusted. I was greeted with her big smile, and a curious look on her face each morning. I imagined that she was thinking…oh yayyyy…she’s still here! Ok, ok…that just might have been my imagination.

While in Madrid I enjoyed some of the following benefits of civilization……every morning, I walked a couple blocks to Starbucks, and there I met my old friend, the white chocolate mocha. Every morning!! Some days E.J.and Dorothy walked with me, and some days I just went by myself. The white chocolate mocha was just as good as I remembered. I savored the chilly walk as well as the hot drink. Eric and E.J. took me to a half dozen wonderful restaurants. I put back on, seven of the twenty pounds I’ve lost. Nothing better than Spanish tapas, especially in Spain. I also enjoyed Diet Coke on ice. And just ICE!!! Candy and cookies, and delicious pastries. One night, upon request, I made one of Eric and E.J.’s favorite dinners. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy. It tasted wonderful to all of us. A little piece of Americana…home. I told Eric not to dare tell Emily. It might just be too much for her. Missing me is one thing, but I know she longs for my meat loaf. I enjoyed the cool air, and sleeping in a soft bed. It was a pleasure having a warm comforter to snuggle under. The hot shower and flush toilet and electricity were a bonus. I got used to all the amenities in about two days. Funny how quickly we can adapt.

One night we bundled Dorothy up and walked a few blocks to a double decker bus that was touring the city’s Christmas lights. We sat on the top level. It was cold, but a good cold. Madrids Christmas lights are second to none. We all enjoyed the excursion immensely. For the first time it felt like Christmas. They also took me to IKEA. I Haven’t been in a mall or a department store, or really even a store (with the exception of the yo-vo stores in Lome) in over six months. IKEA challenged me. All the cars, and people, and all the things! I enjoyed riding in Eric’s Audi….so different from my moto’s and bush taxi’s. I didn’t detect one rut or bump in the road. Eric and E.J. treated me to an overnight trip to Alhambra. Alhambra

is an ancient, historic Spanish town with beautiful castles and palaces built during the time of Christ. I’m sorry to say I knew next to nothing about the history of Alhambra, but it has peaked my curiosity. One day I intend to read and learn more about it. It was breathtakingly beautiful. On the way to Alhambra we stopped in the quaint little Spanish town of

Toledo (sister city of Toledo, Ohio), and driving through the country from Toledo to Alhambra we saw some of Eric’s work. Rolling fields of beautiful, graceful windmills that looked as if they grew out of the ground instead of having been built there. He seems to love his work, and I can understand why. Being a leader in a company that produces natural energy worldwide.

Since Eric had been planning on coming to Tchekpo, he and E.J. had asked me to put together a list of things for him to bring. Things that I had been needing, or things that would make my life a little more comfortable. I sent them a series of emails as I thought of items they might bring. Eric and E.J. had an entire suitcase of stuff packed for me to take back. It was a treasure trove!!! Candles (I now have light after 6pm), and candy and batteries, and sheets and pillow cases, and nice smelling soap and shampoo to name a few. E.J. and I spent the entire day before I left packing and repacking the suitcases until all the weight was an acceptable limit. E.J. also got me a new solar charger, and he labeled every piece of equipment I have with my name and contact information and what it was for. What a gift! I enjoyed spending time with E.J. as I always do. He’s so easy to be around, nice, generous, and thoughtful with his time.

The trip home didn’t have one hiccup, though it could have been mind boggling disasterous in about four different places. Madrid to Brussels, Brussels to Lome, and then a taxi from Lome to Tchekpo. Three times through customs….very short layover in Brussels, and finding a cab and dependable driver to take me all the way back to Tchekpo in the dark. It was smooth sailing. It was so quiet, not a rooster crowing, a goat bahhing, a bat chirping or a drum beating. It was just quiet, and very, very dark. I had left the house clean and tidy, as I had readied it for Eric’s arrival before I left for Pagala. I had been away from Tchekpo for three weeks now. I wondered how it would be re-adjusting. I sat on my porch for a while and just looked at the stars and listened to the quiet, then went to bed. The next day was strangely quiet as well. I began to worry if the villagers were mad at me. No one stopped by the entire day. Not one person. While this surprised me, at the same time I welcomed the time to unpack and settle in all by myself. My worries were put to rest the following day, as many neighbors and friends started to stop by, all so happy to see me. I’ve noticed that my friends in Tchekpo seem to give me space at needed times. I don’t know if it’s planned or purposeful, but they do allow me a certain amount of time to adjust when I return from a trip. I think it’s purposeful….a gift of thoughtfulness. It took the whole following week to settle in, get my water and my water filter going. Buy groceries, sweep the house, wash my clothes, get used to the heat and bucket showers. Settle in, I did, and I’m happy to be back.

To Eric, E.J. and Dorothy. I could not have had a more wonderful time, or better timing to help me get through the holidays. Your thoughtfulness and generosity is much more than I deserve. I carry the image of Dorothy’s laugh and happy face with me wherever I go. When I see children her age here in Tchekpo, I think of how lucky she is to have you both, and about what a wonderful life she’s going to have.

From the bottom of my heart….thank you…..I love you.

Mom
p.s. A special thank you to Ruth (Dorothy’s nanny). She is a delightfully, funny, sweet, pretty young woman. I rode the bus one day with her and Dorothy to Jamboree (playtime for toddlers). Again, I’m thrown into trying to communicate through the language barrier. This time Spanish, but Ruth was fun, and I’m so glad that Eric and E.J. found her, and that Dorothy has her. And last but not at all least, her Spanish tortilla….might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my LIFE!!! I have the recipe and will be making it for the chief.

Dance in the Sun

Is it really ours???.....Forever?!?

I’ve been working with L’ecole No. 5 in Tchekpo.  It’s a poor primary school on the outskirts of the village.  The first week I was in Tcheckpo.  Dovai and Kaisai came to me in the market and asked me to go for a walk with them to see their school.  They are both teachers at the school.  I had met Dovai before.  He is very involved in the community of Tchekpo, and I might say a very shrewd man.  By shrewd I mean that he not only knows that I might be able to help this school, but he also slowly and systematically gets me involved.  He went to the Men as Partners Conference with me, and he is also helping me with the Womens’ Marche Groupement.  Dovai is a good man, whose only ulterior motive is to help his community.  He’s  thin, a small framed man with delicate features.  He used to be a Muslim.  I don’t know why he is no longer Muslim. He looks a little bit like E.T.  He has two wives.  One wife works in the marche, one works at home.   I hadn’t met Kaisai until that first day we walked to the school.  I have met with him many times since.  Kaisai seems very sweet, and shy.  He never looks me in the eye.  He is always looking down at the ground.   Sometimes I bend over and look up, so that he has to look at me, and he does, but it’s very fleeting.  What’s interesting about Kaisai is that I saw him in his classroom teaching.  In the classroom Kaisai is a different person.  He is strong and commanding and animated with his students.   In our meetings however, he always lets Dovai do the talking.  They seem inseparable; Dovai and Kaisai.  I always see them together.  Brothers, for sure. They are very connected.  Sunday they brought photos to show me, and they left a photo of themselves with me.  “A cadeu (a gift),” they said.



The kids watching a video of themselves



Dovai and Kaisai took me to their school.  There is one building, and three paillots (huts with thatched roofs).  The school holds over 200 children, has four teachers and the principal, Mr. Hunon.  I didn’t meet Mr. Hunon until later.  Dovai proceeded to explain to me, as Kaisai looked at the ground, that they need a new school building.  That was at the top of the list of a long list of needs/wants.  They need help.  The teachers all volunteer their services.  None of them are paid.  He showed me the logs the children sit on for benches, and told me they have no books for the teachers or the students.  Could I help them?  I told  Dovai and Kaisai the Chief had asked me to help with the Lycee (high school.)  They scoffed. “ It starts here,” they said.  “This is where the greatest impact can be made.”   I agree.  This first meeting was a short meeting.  A rather strategic meeting on their part (or on Dovai’s part, and one of many to come that would compel me to do whatever I can to help.)



a path on the way to L'ecole No. 5

Dovai had asked me to come during the school day the next time, so I could see the children, and meet the principal Mr. Hunon.  I went on a Wednesday morning, and walked the three miles, proud of myself that I made it there on back winding roads, through unstructured neighborhoods, without getting lost.  As I approached the school, throngs of children in khaki colored uniforms were running, playing and laughing.  It was their mid-morning break.   Mr. Hunon, the principal was sitting on a small wooden chair, at an even smaller wooden desk, under a tree that offered shade in the middle of the school yard.   There were two wooden benches to the side of him.  He had some paperwork on his desk and was talking with one of the parents.  He acknowledged me and without smiling he motioned for me to sit down on one of the benches.  Then he went back to speaking to the parent who was sitting next to his son .  The son had a, I don’t know maybe guilty look on his face, as Mr.  Hunon and his father talked…undoubtedly they were having a serious conversation about the son.  When the discussion was over, Mr. Hunon stood up, and without smiling, shook the hand of the father, and the son, and sent them on their way.  After Mr. Hunon finished his conversation with the parent, he spoke to a couple children, and then, finally turned to me.  Dovai introduced me to him.  The first thing out of Mr. Hunon's mouth was,  “how can you help us?  What can you do for us?  People are suffering badly.  The teachers are suffering, the children are suffering.”   I was a little taken aback that he asked me these things so brusquely, and so quickly.  Mr. Hunon is a tall, handsome man.  He looks like he always has something on his mind, and even though he is stern with the children, you can see how much he cares, how he wants things to be different.  He doesn’t smile a lot, and he doesn’t laugh much.  I would guess it’s because of the harsh reality that surrounds him.   He ends every meeting with, “Please help us, I beg you, I BEG YOU, please.  The children are suffering.  The teachers don’t get paid.  I’m the only person who gets paid.  There are no books.  Look at this!  He makes a wide circular sweep of his arm towards the school and the children.  “I beg you, I beg you,” he says.   The thing that strikes me, is that he’s not at all the type of man who would easily choose those words.

I told him that this is not what I’m in Tchekpo for.  I went on to say, “the primary reason I’m here is to help small businesses, but that I would think very hard about their problems, and see if there is anything I can do.”  I asked him to put together a list of things that he needs and wants with costs.  David my tutor, and a teacher at the high school wanted to help and get involved when I spoke to him about it.  He suggested we form a committee to make our mission official, so we did.  David, myself, the four teachers, Mr. Hunon and a parent are the officers on the committee to help L’ecole No. 5.  I’m hoping to find a group or association or church to help us raise funds.  They need close to $10,000 to buy all the books they need for the children and teachers, and to pay the four teachers salaries for one year.  This would also pay for the wood to build more desks and benches.  They dream of building an additional school room. 

The week I met with Mr. Hunon, I happened to receive an email from my thirteen year old niece, Hannah in Ann Arbor, Michigan.  She said that she and her class would like to do a service project with one of the schools…did I think that was possible?  Hannah also suggested that it would be fun if we could possibly do a video skype later in the year, so that the kids in each school could see and ask questions of each other.  I thought it was a great idea, but didn’t see how it would be possible since Tchekpo doesn’t have electricity or internet, but Solomon lives right down the road in Taglibow, and he is an I.T. specialist for the Peace Corps.  He thinks we can do it with his internet phone.  We’re checking it out.  It would be a great cultural exchange, a wonderful learning experience for the kids here in Africa and in Ann Arbor Michigan.  We have this tentatively planned for February.  I applaud Hannah for her initiative, and her good humanitarian ideas.

I go to visit the kids classrooms at Lecole No. 5,  a couple times a week, and will continue to do so.  It’s a delight every time.  The children love it when I visit.  I video-taped each class, and the following week I returned and showed them the video’s on my big screen computer.  They were just awed with seeing themselves on video.  Now, when they see me coming down the road, they run to the openings of their classrooms and start chanting my name.  How fun is that! 

Karen, the mother of my sons partner,  has been sending me packages with unique and interesting things for kids.  Karen has a huge heart and is a former teacher.  The things she chooses to send always create a lot of interest and excitement with the kids.  I tell them when I have a new shipment "from Karen."  And they start showing up at my door.  Little stuffed animals, puzzles, inflatable globes.  Karen seems to be enjoying it.   I try to dole it out to just the right school or child.  It’s amazing…..amazing, how excited they get over these things.  Adults and children alike.  I gave the inflatable globes to three different primary schools, and I gave one to David for the high school, David keeps the globe at his home and takes it with him to school every day.  Karen also sent a life-size puzzle of the human body.  I’m giving it to the Biology Department at the high school, after I use it for my Adult English Class, and after David uses it in his high school English Class.  It’s a fun way to learn the words for different parts of the body in English.  When I showed the Biology Teacher, he couldn’t believe it.  He’s so excited.

These schools only have blackboards and a few books, but the teachers are first rate and prepared.  The class structure is quite organized and advanced.  The kids in the high school do have paper and pens, but the kids in L’ecole #5 each have a little slate and chalk.  These kids are smart, they love school, they love learning.  In spite of the limited resources in these schools, I believe, from what I’ve seen that they could compete on the same level maybe higher, with kids of the same age in schools in America, in math, science, history; certainly languages.  The high school teaches German and English.  David, a Togolese, and my tutor has a Masters in English.  The kids speak and understand English very well.  He is a gifted teacher, and in the classes I monitored, they did not want the class to end when it was time, and kept asking questions, or asked to sing a couple songs to prolong the class.  They kept asking for more.  When I told David I thought he was a gifted teacher, he beamed.  It made him happy.  He loves teaching.

I am looking for ideas to help raise funds for L’ecole #5.  If you have any ideas, please let me know.  Don’t send any money, maybe we can somehow form a group in the U.S. to help.  I don’t know.  I have several projects like this that I’ll be blogging about.  $10,000 is a LOT of money.  It’s mind boggling what that money will buy.  Help educate over 200 kids for one thing, and pay the teachers who are now working for nothing.  If you met Mr. Hunon and these teachers and these kids……you would want to help with the little they are asking for, knowing what a difference it will make in their lives.  I just keep thinking of Mr. Hunons words.  I’m begging you.  I beg you.  People are suffering.  Look how crowded our classrooms are, look what the children have to sit on.  We need help. 

The most recent gifts Karen sent were two fabulous soccer balls and an air pump.  One is bright red, and the other is bright blue.  Last week when I went to Lecole No. 5, I put the red soccer ball in a sack and took it with me.  Mr. Hunon saw me coming and walked out into the school yard to greet me.  I could see the kids watching us through the openings.  I handed the sack to Mr. Hunon, and he pulled the red ball out.  His eyes lit up, and he had a big, genuine smile.  All of a sudden you could hear the kids clapping and chanting and roaring, and I mean roaring…. with laughter and happiness….. They could see the soccer ball.  Mr. Hunon, said, “you’ve made the children very happy.”  He said, “is this really ours…….forever?”  He meant it.  I shook my head yes, it’s your schools…forever.  I told him that the gift was from a woman named Karen who lived in Kansas, and that she had been a teacher in the United States.  He asked me to please thank her.  I have these moments here.  The gift of the red soccer ball was one of them.  Just a moment of delightful surprise, happiness and contentment.   

I wish Karen and Hannah could have been there that day.  More to come on Lecole No. 5………

Hunou-Koffi

Probably an average of three village people drop by my house every day.  Some are friends, and some are new people just wanting to introduce themselves.  They often have a look of hopeful expectation, I think just hoping that I’ll give them a little gift or a bite of American food.  Some come for help and advice.  Hunon-Koffi was the latter.

Hunou-Koffi is about seventeen.  He attends the highschool.  He has come over to my house a couple times just briefly to introduce himself, and I saw him at the market and then again at the high school.  Honestly, he has the face of an angel.  He has been telling me, preparing me that he wanted to talk to me about some “things,.”  He asked me a couple times when it might be convenient for him to come to my house.   H.K. (as he will be known going forward) speaks fairly good English, and is President of the English club at the high school. H.K.’s legs are crippled.  He gets around on rusty old crutches.  Never saw anyone look so dignified.

I don’t know what caused his legs to stop working.  I don't know if he had polio, or what exactly is wrong.  He pretty much drags his legs behind him.  His legs and feet are small, just from lack of use I think.  The last time he came over (walked, drug himself...probably 2 miles) it was mid day, the hottest part of the day.  He was soaked with sweat.  I got him a drink of water, and he downed it in 10 seconds.  But he's always smiling, the sweetest smile, and I've not heard him complain once.  He just tells me what his life is like in a very matter of fact voice, as if he is talking about someone else.  He stays very technical about it.  I think he does not want pity or to be felt sorry for.  Recently he once again drug himself to my house, which I'm sure is just par for his day, but to me, his ability to get from one place to another looks dauntingly difficult.  

Honu-Koffi's crutches

He told me he'd like help with three things.  First, his school fees were due the next day and the school administrators told students who didn't bring their money, not to come.  H.K.’s family is poor.  His father is a farmer.  H.K. is the oldest of seven children.  Second he showed me his crutches, and how rusty they were.  He said he didn't want a three wheeled bike.  It’s like a big tricycle. (I see several of those in almost all villages for crippled people.)  They pedal them with their hands.  He doesn't want a bike, because he wants to keep as many muscles as he can.  He just wants better crutches.  There's a lot more to all of this...I asked a lot of questions about his diagnosis, family etc.  Believe it or not this is the short version.  His third request was, he just wants so badly to continue his education, and of course come to America.  If there was anyone in this whole wide world who deserved and needed help, it's this boy.  Never once is there any tone of pity in his voice, not even slightly, even as he showed me his legs and how they work.  But there is a desperation.  I see how he looks deep into my eyes, wondering if I will be able to help him. I think he’s wondering if he should have a glimmer of hope, and what that must feel like to him.  

I explained to H.K. we'd take one thing at a time.  First his school fees.  I told him I would talk to the school.  He should go to school, but not stand up when the other kids who haven’t paid leave.  He seemed relieved.  I did talk to David, my tutor.  I called him after H.K.  left.  It was a 30 second conversation.  I said “David, Hunou Koffi came by, and he doesn't have the money to bring tomorrow, is there anything we can do about this.”  David said “yes.”  I told David H.K. would go to school tomorrow, and David said, “yes, good.  We'll figure something out.”  So....yayyyyyyyyyyyy #1 - done.  The high school wants me to teach several hours a day, three days a week.  I won't do it, unless they let this boy finish without any more fees.  I don't know how to help him with the rest of it, though I've started investigating.  I think there are some NGO's in Tesvie that could help with the crutches, and as a matter of fact, I just got an email from a friend whose daughter works for a Medical Supply company.  She told me they would donate some crutches  #2 - done.....but I wonder if he could be helped so much more.  I feel compelled to find a group that will sponsor this remarkable boy. 

H.K. stopped by the morning I left for a week long Peace Corps Conference in Pagala.  It was about eight in the morning.  He wanted to show me that one of his rusty crutches had indeed broken, and he needed to get it soddered.  He has found a man in the village who will sodder it for him, but he didn’t have any money.  I didn’t have any money either…just enough to get to my conference in Pagala.  I told H.K. to take the crutch to the man and to tell him I would pay for it when I returned in a week.  It’s only a matter of time though, before the other one breaks from the rust, and then the one we just fixed.  I think H.K. has been soddering the ends back on for quite a while, and I think the crutches become a bit shorter each time.

So...I couldn't stop thinking about him, and how someone smiles through all this, and what his life must be like, and how stupid Lindsay Lohan is.  haha.  I don't know.  Anyway, on my way to Tesvie the day after I met with H.K. I couldn’t stop my tears.  I can’t decipher my emotions.  I think mostly just awe that every time he takes a painful step he smiles, real smiles and doesn’t complain.  How does that work?

I think Hunou-Koffi will help me understand the wonderment of the human spirit.

I'm Not Fussy

I said before that there is always a story, every time you ride in a bush taxi, and there is…always.  I could write a story for almost every time I’ve been in one.   Like the time I was leaving Tesvie to come home to Tchekpo.  I’d been at the Bush Taxi station waiting for quite a while.  There’s always a man there ready to hail one down for me.  Most of them know me by now.  They call me Tchekpo, because they know by now that’s where I’m heading.  On this day, I saw a bush taxi a few yards away, and the man called me over, excited that he had found one so fast.  I was happy too.  However he did have a hesitant look on his face, like perhaps he knew what was inside.  He opened the sliding side door, and to my surprise, two goats were standing there, staring me in the eye.  There was a Togolese woman sitting in the front seat, and she said…”oh no yovo(white person)….no, no, no….you can’t ride with the goats," and she cackled.   First, I looked at him incredulously, and then I said, “no…I’m not gonna ride with the goats, I will wait for the next bush taxi.”  I was even a little insulted that this man thought that I would ride with goats.  I thought, do I look like someone who would be ok with riding in the same compartment as the goats?  (It had been a long, very hot day, so I let that thought pass.) I’m sure he would have received a nice little commission from the bush taxi driver for getting a passenger to ride with the goats.  But it would have to be the next sucker.

Or there was the time, the bush taxi runner was entertaining the rest of the passengers with his banter.  He was facing them.  The taxi was full.  I was riding in the front seat…in the middle with my legs straddling the gear shift.  He was speaking in broken French.  I knew he was talking about me, because I picked up a word here and there, and I heard the word American several times.  I turned around and looked at him.  He looked at me, and said, “Est-ce-que vous comprendre moi,” (Do you understand me?)  I said,”yes I do”…though I didn’t.  He said, “you do?, you understand what I’m saying”?  I said, “yes,” and laughed.  He laughed too but looked a little embarrassed, and then he said “I was just telling them that you aren’t fussy.  I see you riding in the bush taxis many times, and most Americans are fussy, but you aren’t.  You are ok.”  Ha…… I’m not at all sure that’s what he was saying, otherwise why would he have been embarrassed that I understood him, but I decided to take him at his word, and was pleased that #1 they were getting to know me, and that #2 that I had earned a reputation for not being a fussy American.  It pleased me.  I agree, I’m not fussy.  It doesn’t do any good to be fussy or to complain, and the people riding with you do seem to acknowledge and appreciate the fact that you don’t expect any extra considerations just because you are white.  I do pull the white card out occasionally when a bush taxi stops and I see there is a place in the front seat.  There might also be plenty of room in the back seats, but I will motion to the front seat with a pleading look.  The front seat is a coveted position.  You only have to share it with two other people (though I have seen them pack four in the front seat on occasion.)  The front seat can kind of be a double-edged sword though……It guarantees a ride with more comfort, but you know in the back of your mind you will be the first to die if the taxi crashes.  To me….it’s worth the risk.

BIRDS EYE VIEW of a partially filled bush taxi. 
When the woman in the middle saw this picture she said
Tres Jolie!!!  Very Pretty!

Just recently I rode from Tesvie to Tchekpo in a taxi full of people, about fifteen.  The back was stuffed full of big bags of fertilizer.  I smelled it as soon as they opened the door, and thought about waiting for the next one….but not wanting to be “fussy,” I crawled in.  I was in the back seat.  The fertilizer was right behind me.  The bags poking me in the head.  The smell was SO bad.  Never smelled anything like it, really.  I had purchased two loaves of bread before I left Tesvie, and I kept putting my nose in the bag with the bread to survive.  Some of the passengers laughed when they saw my method of coping.  There were flies (big ones) flying around all of us, all the way home.  When I got home the smell had permeated my clothing, and even my bra and hat.  I immediately took my clothes off and bathed.  I threw my clothes in a pile in my bedroom to be washed, and that night while laying in bed, I could smell it, as if I were still in the van.  The smell was in my nose for days.  Gawd!

So….keep in mind, I go to great lengths to not be “fussy” in the bush taxis.  Usually I greet the other passengers when I enter.  Occasionally I’ll strike up a conversation with someone, but on most days I put my earphones in my ears, and listen to music on my ipod until I reach my destination.   I simply go into a kind of comatose state of mind, try not to think of my cramped surroundings, the bumpy road, or the smell of the bush taxi.  I think everyone has their limits though, and I reached mine the last time I left Lome.



Swearing in party!! 

There were four of us leaving the Peace Corps Headquarters on this particular Sunday.  It was 2pm.  We were all going to Tesvie, though that was not our final destination.  In Tesvie we would get out of the bush taxi from Lome, and maybe wait a while for another one, or if we lucked out, there would be one just ready to depart that would take us to our individual villages.  When you leave Lome, you have to take a regular taxi to the bush taxi stand.  Because it’s cheaper when several people ride in the taxi, we had all decided to depart at the same time, and share the cost of the taxi.  We had been in Lome for the swearing in of a new group of volunteers.  Having partied the night before we were all tired and cranky.  It was an especially hot and humid day.  So hot, you could see the vapors and the steam rising from the sandy roads we walked on.  You could feel the heat of the sun burning the flesh on the back of your neck.  Hot.  We were all carrying our backpacks and heavy gear.  We hailed three different taxis before we got the price we knew we should get.  There is always, always a lot of disquitering (bartering) when you ride in the small taxis in town.  I personally don’t like to disquiter, so when I’m by myself I usually take at least the second counter offer, but these taxi drivers saw three tired young women and one tired old woman (that would be me) carrying a lot of baggage.  They thought we were probably desperate enough that they could persuade us to pay twice as much as we should.  The young women didn’t give an inch.  I was saving my energy, and let them do the work.  Finally on the fourth taxi we agreed on a price. 

Wading through the marche in a bush taxi

We got in the taxi, and were on our way to the bush taxi stand, and then to Tesvie.   Or so we thought.  I remember texting my friend from the taxi, telling him we had just taken off, and that I was hot and tired, and hoped for the front seat.   Well you get what you pay for…right?  So yes we got a good price for the taxi, but he didn’t take us to the bush taxi stand.  Instead he drove down some back alleys, and stopped in one of them where there were three men standing outside of a bush taxi, putting various items (cargo) in the van.  Various items being a car engine and large sacks of something.  Obviously the taxi driver was going to get a monetary kick-back for bringing customers to this bush taxi.  The men looked and acted nice enough.  They were smiling, and appeared very happy at their good fortune to have their bush taxi already partly filled before they even departed.   All the bush taxi’s are pretty horrible inside.  Hard seats, dirty, windows that don’t open.  This one was worse than most.  You just take what you get here, so we piled into the bush taxi.  I wondered what adventure awaited us.  I didn’t get the front seat.  I was in the back seat, in the back corner.  The window by me didn’t open.  Once we started I immediately noticed the lack of shock absorbers.  I just prayed for a quick trip.  My computer was in my backpack.  I held my heavy backpack on my hot lap, so that the computer would not be subjected to the bumpy ride.  There’s always a bright side.  Ok, so I’m in the back seat.  The advantage of the back seat is, it gets filled up first.  At least you don’t have to get in and out of the taxi while they readjust who is riding where every time they stop.  Getting in and out of the bush taxi with your backpack, and usually a bevy of other items, crouched down, and crawling over people is not easy.  I know within the first fifteen minutes what my ride is going to be like.  I know if I’m going to be sitting with chickens, or drunks, or preachers, some nice Togolese woman who offers me a bite of her bread, or a sick child.  I know, and I can prepare myself.  On this day, my consolation, even though I was in the back seat. was that I knew at least I would be riding in the same seat as three of the four women I had left with.  There would be no chickens, or drunks or in and out of the taxi to deal with.  I also had the added comfort of knowing I probably wouldn’t be the first to die, and might even survive a crash.  Who needs the front seat with those benefits!   Off we went. 

We had all taken this same trip often enough to be able to discern if we are at the very least, headed in the right direction….and we were not.  We talked and complained amongst ourselves, wondering where we were going, and how long the detour would take.  The Togolese men were chattering, and pleasantly laughing with each other, probably discussing the errands and the trip they were about to embark on.   We did ask them right away, where they were going.  “This isn’t the road to Tesvie,” we said.  They told us they needed to drop off the engine that was in the back of the van.  Well first they tried to tell us that the other roads were bad and they were taking a shortcut, but that didn’t fly, because this road was worse than any other we might have been on, so they fessed up and said they had a few errands to do.  First stop was the Togolese version of a machine shop.  The men got out of the van, then pulled the heavy engine out of the back.  They then acted like they were going to wait for it to be repaired.  We were there at least fifteen minutes, sweltering until the four of us started complaining rather loudly.    The men begrudgingly got back into the van and left the engine behind.  I think at this point they determined, we were going to be a handful.  We thought we were finally on our way.  Soon, we realized they were still going in the wrong direction.  They were headed towards the marche(city market) One big, chaotic mess, that I only go to if I have to.  The four of us again started complaining loudly.  “Where are you going?  This is not the way to Tesvie.”  They said they had to pick something up in the market, which was pretty much where we initially started the trip in the little taxi.  We were all complaining, and the men good-naturedly tried to ignore us, which wasn’t easy.   We were now in a very, very congested part of the marche.  Honking horns, people dodging cars, motos and bicycles, Street vendors selling their wares.  Women carrying things on their heads, people everywhere.   There is really no delineating line between the space for pedestrians to walk and cars to drive in the Marche.  They all meld together.   Total chaos.  It was an area of the marche I didn’t recognize.  The car traffic was going at a snails pace, if it was even going at all.  All of a sudden I reached my limit. There was no one thing that occurred.  It was simply a combination of everything.  Like a dam bursting,  I snapped.  I broke.  You might say I got real fussy.  I said, “Let me out of this van!”  I obviously was not thinking rationally.  All I knew is that I had to get out of that van.  The men tried to talk me out of it, but the women I was with instinctively knew that I would not be dissuaded.   They probably had each hit this wall themselves at one time or another in Togo.  Tamara, one of the women, told the drivers to stop, and let me out.  They did, but very reluctantly.  I heard later that after I got out, the PCV’s I was with wondered if they’d ever see me again, and they talked about how really nice it was knowing me.  You might think they should have tried harder to stop me, but really everyone is on their own in Togo.  They knew I had to do, what I had to do. 

So….I’m out of the van, but I feel no relief.  I’m still angry, and very hot, and thirsty, and when the van pulled away, I remembered I didn't have much money.  I had no idea where I was.  Stupid, I know, but as I said I was not thinking rationally.  At that point, I couldn’t even find my phone, and thought for sure I had lost it, when I was getting out of the van.  I started walking, or I should say maneuvering through the throngs of people, cars and bicycles, and watched the van slowly drive off.  The women also told me that a few minutes after I got out, the men were talking to each other in a very animated way, and stopped the van.  They seemed very concerned about me getting out, and didn’t know what to do, but they could really only go in one direction at that point.  There was no turning back, for me or for them.  It took me a few minutes to compose myself, (I was kind of throwing things around, left and right, mumbling under my breath, ignoring any onlookers.  You who know me well might recognize this scenario)  I decided to find another small taxi to take me to where I was supposed to be the first time.  I only had so much money, so I knew I would have to disquiter, which as I said I’m not good at.  I talked to three taxi drivers (best I could, with my French) and tried to get them to take me to the taxi stand.  After bartering for several minutes with each of them, they pretty much said…”no way….I’m not taking you” and turned their back on me…just went back to what they were doing.  I do believe that I might have had the attitude (or one might say fussiness) I described above.  My “attitude” did not inspire good will.  I determined if I was going to get help, I was going to have compose myself.  I did, and so-doing finally found a taxi driver who took pity on me.  He wasn’t going to drive me anywhere, but he listened to my sad story, and said I could just walk a few more blocks and catch a bush taxi.  He even got out of his taxi, and started to lead the way.  We walked a few blocks, and turned the corner.  He said, “See that white bush taxi way up there stuck in traffic?”  That taxi is going to Tesvie.  He walked with me all the way to the white bush taxi he was referencing.  By now, it had been an hour since I exited the first bush taxi.  As we approached the white bush taxi I noticed something curious.  I noticed the back of the head of a white woman in the rear window.  I squinted.  I thought to myself, NO, IT COUDN’T  BE!  But it was.  It was the exact same bush taxi I had gotten out of an hour earlier.  Still stuck in traffic, still carrying my friends.  I went to the front door of the taxi, and because life in Togo is so insane, everyone including me, and including the Togolese men  just started laughing hysterically.  Everyone in an instant could comprehend the insanity of the situation.  Tamara, one of the PCV’s….I think she laughed all the way home.  They did let me sit in the front seat this time.  After sitting in stalled traffic for about another half hour, we were finally on our way to Tesvie.  The bush taxi driver kept looking over at me and smiling and shaking his head.  The man in the middle said, “Togo is bad.”  I said, “No, no, Togo isn’t bad…today was bad, but Togo’s not bad.”  He seemed surprised, and smiled.

To all of you,  who after reading this, might be worried about my welfare, or my sanity.  I just want you to know that I will never, ever demand to get out of a bush taxi again, by myself, in some unknown swarming city or even on a country road.   In fact, wherever I am, and I start to reach my limit, or feel “fussy.”  I will remember this day, and I will go through my meditations, of praying to God, Allah, Buddha, Ron R. Hubbard, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and all my dead relatives, and ask them for patience.  Then I’ll make the sign of the cross.  I’ll put my in my earphones, close my eyes and not be fussy.