A lantern light with the almost beautiful smell of kerosene. Not because it smells good, but more like nostalgia. I sent my thirteen year old friend out this evening to search for the fuel for my lamp which will power my evening until the flame burns out. A simple way of living. I’ve heard about things going on in this too huge world and have had to say goodbye to people with the unknowing, knowingness that a day will come when we will meet again. They’re not sinners and certainly not saints. The poorest people in the world. What a phrase that so often gets ascribed to farmers in West Africa or all of the developing world for that matter. What is poor? What does is mean to live a life and be able to know and describe someone else’s life as well? Writing hasn’t been very easy these past few months. Some stuff that has happened forced me to put up a mind-block to where the world was not something worth recognizing or documenting. Maybe I’ll get around to describing this terrible and untrue reality that occupied my mind for a long time.
The land of billboard sex and bacon. Back to the USA where leaves are changing colors and handheld objects filled with rare earth metals rule the world. I was sitting at a bar in Washington, DC and I don’t think I have ever seen someone with so many gadgets coming out of her purse. She had and iPhone, Iphone, IPhone, IPHONE, a blackberry, Itabletphonepadpodpopcicle, flip-phone, and some speakers with a cord that could connect them all together. She was connected, but had trouble having a conversation with those of us sitting at the same table. I called her Mary Poppins as she was pulling everything out of her purse and she looked at me like I was crazy and told me to F-off.
Togo is in the past these days and TXTing while driving is the new fun reality. The beer I spilled on my new flip-phone the other day makes those long texts messages really interesting because of the number of sticky clicks it takes and how I can do it without looking at my phone or having my hands on the steering wheel. I love America. There is really not much not to like, except 24-hour news and fear-mongering, but really we HAVE the best movies and food by far and your neighborhood pharmacy(s) sell painkillers, cough medicine, cigarettes, Halloween candy, Vienna sausages, and a whole meth lab’s worth of trinkets. If it’s close enough to walk to it’s certainly close enough to drive to. However, peeing on the side of the road is a big no no. Everyone is trying to make it somewhere and I can’t wait to meet everyone there. I’ll be in the corner giving the free foot massages.
I took the long way home from Togo and made a few different planned and unplanned stops along the way. I was at Hotel Gallion in Lome, Togo on the night of the 10th. For the past two years I’ve been staying at this hotel because of the cheap rooms and friendly service. The holes in the windows and rickety fans coming out of the ceilings are negligible. My flight leaving Togo wasn’t until 3:00am and I didn’t have any money so actually renting a room for the night was out of the question, so I figured I would wait until the band finished playing downstairs, settle my bill at the bar and say goodnight, then sneak up to the terrace and lay low for a bit until the waves crashing on the beach a block over became the only noise. Having money is cool, but most of the memorable and exciting times in my life have come at times when the funds have been extremely low or not there at all, which forces you to look at things with a whole different perspective, in my life at least. I didn’t have a place to stay and couldn’t afford one so the terrace at the hotel in Lome was my best option until the time came when I had to sneak down to the bottom floor without alerting the night guard and walk over to the dark beach road in the middle of the night with the dull hum of the crashing waves as the only noise and the putrid smell of dead fish and piss burning in my nostrils in order to flag down someone on a motorcycle to see if I could pay him to take me to the airport in the muggy, hot, dead African night.
The beach road is not somewhere you want to be at night, but I didn’t have any other choice and I was ready to get the hell out of Togo, so making the walk down to this sketchy road was just another thing I had to do before I could make my way home. I left my bags behind a bush at the hotel and wandered down this lonely road until I saw some headlights coming from the Ghana border and heard the rackety sound of a busted moto coming my way. I needed a ride to the airport and he was my only option so I ignored the fact that his moto was held together with some greegree and he was a large, fat man, which seemed to be giving the motorcycle trouble already. I tried not to think about my weight with the weight of my rucksack. Done, he agreed to take me for a very generous price on my part.
The road was dead and dark and the wind coming from the ocean reaffirmed its presence as the blackness of the night covered the ocean’s blue. My eyes were watering as he sped up and I could feel the wobbling vibrations of the moto under me as my hair was whipping around with the increasing headwind. Total trust in this dude I never met, but found because I had to on the sketchiest road in Togo in the middle of the night. Now I’m paying him to take me to the airport, to put me on a plane. Up the road we see three or four dark me standing in the middle, blocking the road and for a minute I can feel my new friend increase his grip on the throttle as if he is about to run through this, now obvious, military checkpoint. What can they be doing in the middle of the road, in the middle of the night?
Slowing down, one anxiety turns to another as my driver loosened his grip on the throttle and put his foot down on the break. The conversation we had with these armed guardians of the Togolese populace was about what it should have been with them seeing a white dude on this road and this time of night. They let us past and I left my stupid grin with them.
Palm trees race past us or us past the palm trees, if it wasn’t for the wind and gravity working against me and this machine you wouldn’t have been able to tell. A long, hard left turn takes us into the market where a breeze from another midnight rider blows trash and plastic bags scurrying across the street.
Music and lights and people, but they don’t look much like people, but staggering, screaming ghouls hanging outside this discotec that was still thumping music. Still holding on, still thinking that this could be the last ride and trying to forget about my life, telling myself I don’t exist because I was so scared and so afraid that the thought of my own life was too much. Thus, I continued on trusting this man in the early morning hours in Lome, Togo.
When arriving in new places it always takes time to get your bearings or at least any sense of direction. It is often the climate that gets you first evident in the fact that usually, when traveling long distances, taking off or putting on an article of clothing is the first thing you do when getting off the airplane. I was gripped by an urge of spontaneity and ambitious adventure arriving in Casablanca on a dry, hot Saturday afternoon. Plans were something that were made not to last. I shouldn’t have gotten on that train, but I did and ended up four hours and a train ride away from where I should have been and needed to be.
He was from Morroco and she was from Seattle.
“The world is about people helping people,” Hamid said. “I haven’t seen my mother or sister in three years and they don’t know that I’m coming home.” He looked at Sarah who was sitting cross-legged on the floor leaning against her backpack. She was gazing out of the window, starring at the passing dry, dusty plain and taking pictures with her camera as the train wizzed by. She would look up at Hamid from time to time and you could tell they were in love by their ideas and being. It was as if they both knew that other people existed in the world, but they really didn’t care. They were just two wandering hippies and she had followed him back to Morroco to live with a family she had never met. I was with them, sitting on the train bouncing around conversations in French, Arabic, and English.
“A.y., you can stay with us for a few days if you want in Merrakech, I could show you around,” Hamid said as he looked at Sarah who nodded in agreement.
“I mean, yeah, why not. I don’t really have any money and certainly do not have any plans, I am supposed to be four hours in the other direction, but I might as well keep going if you can help me figure out my problem tomorrow,” I replied and Hamid nodded, content and in agreement. “Yeah we will figure it out tomorrow.”
For the rest of the hot train ride we talked about reciprocity and about the good things that come to people who give without knowing. We arrived at my new friends mother’s apartment who didn’t know her son was finally returning from three years in the United States. She had not even talked to him in the three years he was gone and I was able to witness the beautiful reunion of mother and son. They took me in as their bum and for two days I slept in a room with Saiid, a very devote Muslim who never left the house and always warned us not to even though there was never any danger. Hamid’s sister cooked and made tea. Her couscous was incredible. Hamid’s mother waddled around in her burka, occasionally leaning from the window on the third floor overlooking the street below and would yell at neighbors or would just stare. We never got around to solving the problem I had, but it just ended up solving itself after a very stressful day sucking back tea, smoking cigs, pacing around, and worrying until my head was about to explode.
So was able to finally escape this sinkhole of Moroccan hospitality. I made a promise I knew I wasn’t going to be able to keep to people who were genuinely willing to help me. I felt bad about it, but don’t feel bad about it.
Such is life sometimes I suppose.
Saiid wanted to take me to the desert he said.
Drinking milk and sitting crossed-legged on a rug.
We made plans.
Plans I couldn’t keep knowing he would pack his bags and knowing that he would expect me to call and I knowing that I wouldn’t call, couldn’t call
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Saturday, November 5, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
adayinthelife
There has been a lot of looking up lately. Looking and waiting, for rain. Nakpane, Djawene, and I traveled on foot into Bassar today to try and take care of some business that we never got around to doing. We did find a few calabashes of tough, Kabye, tchouck (the local beer). The Kabye ethnic group is renowned for its local beverage and differs from the other local brews in its force and tart. We sat under trees behind the post office as the storm clouds were rolling in. The back door to the post office swung open and the postmaster walked out, was handed a calabash, and downed it before walking back into his office to continue “working.” I told him he was lucky to be so close to his drinking hole and he agreed with a nod and a laugh. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just plopped down in his chair and fell asleep with a crowd of people waiting to be seen by him. Its kind of how things go around here.
We came into Bassar looking for something, or were supposed to have been doing something, but as the clouds rolled in all attention became focused on whether or not it would rain. They were dark and luminous and my guess was that today would be the day that the hot spell would be broken and we would have a good rain to cool things down. Nakpane and Djawene thought differently and argued with the Mama selling tchouck telling her that the rains weren’t coming and that it was only going to be more wind and dust. “It’s the funerals I tell you...no one wants to have their big bash rained on, so they do a little greegree and bam!, No rain.” “What funerals are you talking about Djawene?” uttered Nakpane, “the funeral season is over with, plus why would the same people who want the rain try to stop the rain at the same time?” “Excellent point” I said as I cradled my calabash in my right hand and thought slowly about taking another sip, a sip strong enough to send a shutter down your spine. “You’ve got it all wrong” said Mama with her beautifully boisterous vocal. “It’s those darn workers on the route that are stopping the rains from coming. The work on paving the road has gone on far too long and now they see that the rains are coming and know that if the rains fall it will really muck up there work, literally and figuratively.” “Ah haa, Yes, Yes, Yes you are right and make a good point, its those damned day workers screwing up everything!” Just as Nakpane finished this last phrase a huge gust of wind rushed through filling our mouths with dust and stinging our eyes with sand. “What did I tell you? No rain, just wind.”
Not long after the first gust a second whipped through sending us for cover and looking as though it could turn the trees we were sitting under inside out if it were any stronger. Plastic bags, buckets and tables were thrashing around in the yard and even sitting indoors we had to shield our eyes from the sand whooshing around us. I caught a glimpse of the brown, apocalyptic world outside and was a bit disappointed in my false weather prediction. Some calabashes later the winds did die down and we made it back to Bikotiba feeling beaten the whole walk from the duel combination of Kaybe tckouck and violent winds. The heat is suffocating and I still have sand in my mouth.
I had no idea my day was going to end like this when I woke up this morning around 3:30am to a silence so rare and pure that I decided not to go back to sleep, but rather stay up and enjoy it. I rarely ever know how my days are going to end when I start them, but I always hope for something to break the monotony. Today it came in the form of a wind and sand storm. Around 5:55am, as I was laying on my floor, literally feeling the heat seeping up, a man walked over to tell me that there was a meeting going on and that my presence was requested. “Great Scott!!, can’t a man get a little peace and quiet in the morning!!!? Its got to be written, practiced somewhere never to call on someone before 6:00am!!,” I thought to myself as I told him, calmly, that I’d be heading over in a bit. I sat and looked at my clock for about fifteen minutes under the principle that no one should tell me to come to a reunion the day of, before 6:00am. Huffing and puffing, angry I sat in my hut before finally giving in and opening the door to greet the day and whatever it throws at me at. If I recall correctly it was 6:11am (GMT).
Mangy dogs fighting on the paths in between houses just like they always do in the morning, little girls throwing out cauldrons full of old dish-washing water, women and men alike chewing on sticks and greeting each other with sleepy eyes and a sense like, yeah...I see you now “hows it going?” yeah...I saw you yesterday “how was that?” yeah...I’ll see you tomorrow and the next day and the next day and the next day “so...talk to you later.” I put in my two cents at the reunion and for brevity’s sake I will not go into the details.
I made it back to my house around 7:30. I had already planned out my big travail for the day the day before and was excited to get around to some home improvement projects I had planned out. Diogie was running around hungry so I found him some leftover food and tossed it on the floor outside of my house which he happily gobbled up and soon after passed out on the concrete tomb of the old matriarch of my family who used to live in my house before I came across the pond. It’s pretty strange. A storm (no rain) had come through a few days earlier and completely tore off the thatch on my hut so I made my work cleaning up the mess and built a big trash fire which is always fun to do in the mornings. I rearranged my “green-bean canopy,” tended to my garden nursery and climbed the tree behind my house to cut limbs with my machete and give to the four rabbits in the cage in my garden. I swept out the inside of my dusty house knowing that it will soon get just as dusty again. 8:45 was creeping up and my stomach was starting to growl. I knew from the moment I woke up what I was going to eat for the day but I was trying to prolong the hunger until my work was done so I could eat and go sleep to wait out the heat.
I took a cold bucket shower and hoped on my bike to head towards Bassar to my favorite breakfast spot. I skidded to a stop outside of a yellowish, rusty tin-roofed, mud-hut about 3 km outside of Bikotiba. Sweaty and out of breath, hungry and cussing at the gloried footpath that winds its way up a bastard of a hill I just conquered on my bike. I face this hill almost everyday, and have ridden it in every type of weather. It is funny how it has become a part of my life. I flipped my kickstand down and steadied my bike in between eight to fifteen motorcycles. It almost looks like a “Hell’s Angels” hangout at 9:00am on a Tuesday. I walk up the uneven stairs and as I duck my head to enter I hear the rhythmic sound of women pounding fufu, “thoump, thoump, thoump, thoump.” Needless to say I am probably the most unusual customer at this establishment, but also probably the most loyal, so even if there is a line of hungry, rude, Togolese men throwing around plates and demanding service, I usually get served within 5 min of sitting from a sweaty woman yelling at me in Bassar and asking me how much food I want. Cackling from the line of hungry men at the fact that I speak Basssar forces me to have certain “come backs” for their jokes. I pick a spot on a bench under the huge mango tree that is a landmark for the restaurant. I greet the other men, rarely women, sitting at the table and wash my hands in the plastic basin while one of the men at the table pours water from a plastic goblet. I didn’t know this man, but he washed my hands and also asked me to eat with him, from his plate. We weren’t acquainted in anyway, but it doesn’t matter because soon after I politely declined and told him “bon appetite” my food arrived and I invited him to eat with me, from my plate. “Daa ti gii bi saa.” A cultural formality but at the same time it wouldn’t be strange if I dug in with the invitation. I get fufu for 150cfa (35cents), wagash (fried cheese) for 150cfa, and sometimes a piece of goat meat or chicken livers and gizzards if I’m really hungry for 200cfa (45cents). I pinch off globs with my right hand and dip the fufu into a spicy, oily sauce. While I’m eating an very old, very large woman waddles over, very shirtless to say hello. She is the owner of the fufu establishment, the matriarch of the family, and sells candy on the side.
Its 10:00 and I’m full. A heavy meal in the morning usually will last until the afternoon and sometimes evening, depending on the heat. Its amazing how little you think about food when you are not bombarded with fast-food restaurants, advertisements, and other things telling you to eat, eat, and eat more. I head back down the hill, my morning almost over, and make my way to my house in Bikotiba. Its almost 11:00 when I arrive (I got hung up on the road, tchouck and greeting people). I grab my hammock and take a few swigs of hot water before heading out again, this time on foot with Diogie. He knows where we are heading and runs on ahead to the shade where the path makes a turn to the right and waits for me there. The heat is stupefying, the sun unforgiving.
My tree is a little off the beaten path. It’s a mango tree in the middle of someone’s farm with massive branches that sag, sway, and sing with the wind. The shade it provides is as close to air conditioning as you can get and I string up my hammock to wait out the heat. I see kids off in the distance chunking rocks up at a neighboring mango tree hoping to strike gold with one of the ripe mangos dangling just out of reach. I look at my tree and see that all of the mangos, save two or three have already been claimed and I am thankful that there is a chance I won’t be disturbed during my afternoon siesta. I doze in and out, meditate, and try to guess what time it is and how long I've been swaying under my tree. My guess is four or five hours, so I decide to head back into village. On the path I intercept Djawene and Nakpane. They tell me they are going into Bassar and with the storm clouds rolling in over the mountain, ask me if I’d like to join them.
We came into Bassar looking for something, or were supposed to have been doing something, but as the clouds rolled in all attention became focused on whether or not it would rain. They were dark and luminous and my guess was that today would be the day that the hot spell would be broken and we would have a good rain to cool things down. Nakpane and Djawene thought differently and argued with the Mama selling tchouck telling her that the rains weren’t coming and that it was only going to be more wind and dust. “It’s the funerals I tell you...no one wants to have their big bash rained on, so they do a little greegree and bam!, No rain.” “What funerals are you talking about Djawene?” uttered Nakpane, “the funeral season is over with, plus why would the same people who want the rain try to stop the rain at the same time?” “Excellent point” I said as I cradled my calabash in my right hand and thought slowly about taking another sip, a sip strong enough to send a shutter down your spine. “You’ve got it all wrong” said Mama with her beautifully boisterous vocal. “It’s those darn workers on the route that are stopping the rains from coming. The work on paving the road has gone on far too long and now they see that the rains are coming and know that if the rains fall it will really muck up there work, literally and figuratively.” “Ah haa, Yes, Yes, Yes you are right and make a good point, its those damned day workers screwing up everything!” Just as Nakpane finished this last phrase a huge gust of wind rushed through filling our mouths with dust and stinging our eyes with sand. “What did I tell you? No rain, just wind.”
Not long after the first gust a second whipped through sending us for cover and looking as though it could turn the trees we were sitting under inside out if it were any stronger. Plastic bags, buckets and tables were thrashing around in the yard and even sitting indoors we had to shield our eyes from the sand whooshing around us. I caught a glimpse of the brown, apocalyptic world outside and was a bit disappointed in my false weather prediction. Some calabashes later the winds did die down and we made it back to Bikotiba feeling beaten the whole walk from the duel combination of Kaybe tckouck and violent winds. The heat is suffocating and I still have sand in my mouth.
I had no idea my day was going to end like this when I woke up this morning around 3:30am to a silence so rare and pure that I decided not to go back to sleep, but rather stay up and enjoy it. I rarely ever know how my days are going to end when I start them, but I always hope for something to break the monotony. Today it came in the form of a wind and sand storm. Around 5:55am, as I was laying on my floor, literally feeling the heat seeping up, a man walked over to tell me that there was a meeting going on and that my presence was requested. “Great Scott!!, can’t a man get a little peace and quiet in the morning!!!? Its got to be written, practiced somewhere never to call on someone before 6:00am!!,” I thought to myself as I told him, calmly, that I’d be heading over in a bit. I sat and looked at my clock for about fifteen minutes under the principle that no one should tell me to come to a reunion the day of, before 6:00am. Huffing and puffing, angry I sat in my hut before finally giving in and opening the door to greet the day and whatever it throws at me at. If I recall correctly it was 6:11am (GMT).
Mangy dogs fighting on the paths in between houses just like they always do in the morning, little girls throwing out cauldrons full of old dish-washing water, women and men alike chewing on sticks and greeting each other with sleepy eyes and a sense like, yeah...I see you now “hows it going?” yeah...I saw you yesterday “how was that?” yeah...I’ll see you tomorrow and the next day and the next day and the next day “so...talk to you later.” I put in my two cents at the reunion and for brevity’s sake I will not go into the details.
I made it back to my house around 7:30. I had already planned out my big travail for the day the day before and was excited to get around to some home improvement projects I had planned out. Diogie was running around hungry so I found him some leftover food and tossed it on the floor outside of my house which he happily gobbled up and soon after passed out on the concrete tomb of the old matriarch of my family who used to live in my house before I came across the pond. It’s pretty strange. A storm (no rain) had come through a few days earlier and completely tore off the thatch on my hut so I made my work cleaning up the mess and built a big trash fire which is always fun to do in the mornings. I rearranged my “green-bean canopy,” tended to my garden nursery and climbed the tree behind my house to cut limbs with my machete and give to the four rabbits in the cage in my garden. I swept out the inside of my dusty house knowing that it will soon get just as dusty again. 8:45 was creeping up and my stomach was starting to growl. I knew from the moment I woke up what I was going to eat for the day but I was trying to prolong the hunger until my work was done so I could eat and go sleep to wait out the heat.
I took a cold bucket shower and hoped on my bike to head towards Bassar to my favorite breakfast spot. I skidded to a stop outside of a yellowish, rusty tin-roofed, mud-hut about 3 km outside of Bikotiba. Sweaty and out of breath, hungry and cussing at the gloried footpath that winds its way up a bastard of a hill I just conquered on my bike. I face this hill almost everyday, and have ridden it in every type of weather. It is funny how it has become a part of my life. I flipped my kickstand down and steadied my bike in between eight to fifteen motorcycles. It almost looks like a “Hell’s Angels” hangout at 9:00am on a Tuesday. I walk up the uneven stairs and as I duck my head to enter I hear the rhythmic sound of women pounding fufu, “thoump, thoump, thoump, thoump.” Needless to say I am probably the most unusual customer at this establishment, but also probably the most loyal, so even if there is a line of hungry, rude, Togolese men throwing around plates and demanding service, I usually get served within 5 min of sitting from a sweaty woman yelling at me in Bassar and asking me how much food I want. Cackling from the line of hungry men at the fact that I speak Basssar forces me to have certain “come backs” for their jokes. I pick a spot on a bench under the huge mango tree that is a landmark for the restaurant. I greet the other men, rarely women, sitting at the table and wash my hands in the plastic basin while one of the men at the table pours water from a plastic goblet. I didn’t know this man, but he washed my hands and also asked me to eat with him, from his plate. We weren’t acquainted in anyway, but it doesn’t matter because soon after I politely declined and told him “bon appetite” my food arrived and I invited him to eat with me, from my plate. “Daa ti gii bi saa.” A cultural formality but at the same time it wouldn’t be strange if I dug in with the invitation. I get fufu for 150cfa (35cents), wagash (fried cheese) for 150cfa, and sometimes a piece of goat meat or chicken livers and gizzards if I’m really hungry for 200cfa (45cents). I pinch off globs with my right hand and dip the fufu into a spicy, oily sauce. While I’m eating an very old, very large woman waddles over, very shirtless to say hello. She is the owner of the fufu establishment, the matriarch of the family, and sells candy on the side.
Its 10:00 and I’m full. A heavy meal in the morning usually will last until the afternoon and sometimes evening, depending on the heat. Its amazing how little you think about food when you are not bombarded with fast-food restaurants, advertisements, and other things telling you to eat, eat, and eat more. I head back down the hill, my morning almost over, and make my way to my house in Bikotiba. Its almost 11:00 when I arrive (I got hung up on the road, tchouck and greeting people). I grab my hammock and take a few swigs of hot water before heading out again, this time on foot with Diogie. He knows where we are heading and runs on ahead to the shade where the path makes a turn to the right and waits for me there. The heat is stupefying, the sun unforgiving.
My tree is a little off the beaten path. It’s a mango tree in the middle of someone’s farm with massive branches that sag, sway, and sing with the wind. The shade it provides is as close to air conditioning as you can get and I string up my hammock to wait out the heat. I see kids off in the distance chunking rocks up at a neighboring mango tree hoping to strike gold with one of the ripe mangos dangling just out of reach. I look at my tree and see that all of the mangos, save two or three have already been claimed and I am thankful that there is a chance I won’t be disturbed during my afternoon siesta. I doze in and out, meditate, and try to guess what time it is and how long I've been swaying under my tree. My guess is four or five hours, so I decide to head back into village. On the path I intercept Djawene and Nakpane. They tell me they are going into Bassar and with the storm clouds rolling in over the mountain, ask me if I’d like to join them.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Fire Dance
I’m blear-eyed and sleep deprived, shaken by the thunderous drums and voices. Are they still going on? Or is just in my head? The sun is rising and I have just left the fire with four hundred people gathered round it. The ceremony was still going on when I left. Apparently it was just getting hot (No pun intended). Some dancing. Some swaying. Some sleeping. Some, too drunk to snore. The party of dancers circled around the fire. The noise deafening. An almost frat like ensemble of young men and old men dressed alike in traditional garb dancing in and around the fire with a hundred plus other people moving to the beat of the drums. Much like a Mount de Sales homecoming bonfire, on steroids.
I woke from a slumberous sleep to a deafening silence broken by a small rain and the pidder pattering of tiny raindrops on my tin roof. I was surprised by the rain as it is supposed to be the hot and dry season and decided not to go back to sleep because of the rain, and the drums. It was 1:00am. I paced around my tiny home and as the rain on the roof increased, it literally felt as though my nook in Africa was the only place on the planet, as other worldly sounds were drowned out by the now deafening sound of water meeting tin. As the rain stopped I paced around for two hours, tried to read, but too anxious because of the drums and songs that began to take the place of the thunderous droplets. I knew I should go seek out this noise. I imagined the scene in my mind and pictured sneaking up the hill in search of the smoke that was bellowing up towards a dark night sky. At 3:00am I threw on my dirty pants and t-shirt, walked outside and as I was locking up the house I noticed I had awakened Diogie as well who was now by my side looking at me wondering where the hell I was going at this hour in the night. “Easy boy” I said, “Roads…where I’m going I won’t need roads.” I headed out in search of the noise.
As I left my house and looking to my left, I immediately noticed the smoke billowing up. It was just as I had imagined aside from the huge, godly Baobob tree that acted as a backdrop to the rising smoke. Noise travels in weird ways, but for some reason I started following the noise first, then I realized I was heading in the exact opposite direction of the smoke and changed my ways. Smoke is smoke and you can always tell where it is coming from. Charging up the hill passing tired souls stumbling home to go to bed. In a place of salutations, there were no greetings this evening as the world was dark and there was no need to address those passing by. I walked into the crowd of people and assumed a vantage point near the back but close enough and hidden enough to avoid too many of the happy salutations of women with babies strapped to their backs and the drunk hellos of sweaty men who had been jitterbugging around a bonfire for the past four hours. The people near me were not surprised to see me at the event and playfully encouraged me to enter into to the dance, which by now seemed to be a free-for-all of human energy stomping around a bonfire in a counterclockwise, rhythmic dance to the drums that felt as though they were bouncing off the own beat of my heart.
The sun rising over the mountains created a grey dawn in Bikotiba and I decided to head away from this all-night ceremony that was still rocking. The day started just about as fast as it ended, but before it was over I witnessed one of the most beautiful and explicative things I’ve seen in this country. Sitting in the shade watching the world move by. A woman carrying a stack of wood on her head walked by on the opposite side of the road. Three men would have a hard time carrying this stack of wood, but she toted it all on her head. From a distance I watched this woman carrying this huge burden, walking the same road that she has walked a thousand times before and will walk a thousand times again. A bar down the road had put up huge speakers outside and had found the volume level most easily described as obnoxious and made sure to surpass it. The music echoed throughout the village. As this woman, dirty, tired, hot, and still carrying a ton of wood on her head walks past the bar I watch her give a little shimmy of the hips making sure not to move her head to much. You could see the music wanting to let loose from her shoulders down to her toes. She gave a jive that completely removed, for an instant, all the burdens she bears. She appreciates life. She appreciates music and what it makes you want to do. It makes you dance, scream, and forget things just as much as it makes you remember. A jive that slapped the burdensome load she carries in the face.
I woke from a slumberous sleep to a deafening silence broken by a small rain and the pidder pattering of tiny raindrops on my tin roof. I was surprised by the rain as it is supposed to be the hot and dry season and decided not to go back to sleep because of the rain, and the drums. It was 1:00am. I paced around my tiny home and as the rain on the roof increased, it literally felt as though my nook in Africa was the only place on the planet, as other worldly sounds were drowned out by the now deafening sound of water meeting tin. As the rain stopped I paced around for two hours, tried to read, but too anxious because of the drums and songs that began to take the place of the thunderous droplets. I knew I should go seek out this noise. I imagined the scene in my mind and pictured sneaking up the hill in search of the smoke that was bellowing up towards a dark night sky. At 3:00am I threw on my dirty pants and t-shirt, walked outside and as I was locking up the house I noticed I had awakened Diogie as well who was now by my side looking at me wondering where the hell I was going at this hour in the night. “Easy boy” I said, “Roads…where I’m going I won’t need roads.” I headed out in search of the noise.
As I left my house and looking to my left, I immediately noticed the smoke billowing up. It was just as I had imagined aside from the huge, godly Baobob tree that acted as a backdrop to the rising smoke. Noise travels in weird ways, but for some reason I started following the noise first, then I realized I was heading in the exact opposite direction of the smoke and changed my ways. Smoke is smoke and you can always tell where it is coming from. Charging up the hill passing tired souls stumbling home to go to bed. In a place of salutations, there were no greetings this evening as the world was dark and there was no need to address those passing by. I walked into the crowd of people and assumed a vantage point near the back but close enough and hidden enough to avoid too many of the happy salutations of women with babies strapped to their backs and the drunk hellos of sweaty men who had been jitterbugging around a bonfire for the past four hours. The people near me were not surprised to see me at the event and playfully encouraged me to enter into to the dance, which by now seemed to be a free-for-all of human energy stomping around a bonfire in a counterclockwise, rhythmic dance to the drums that felt as though they were bouncing off the own beat of my heart.
The sun rising over the mountains created a grey dawn in Bikotiba and I decided to head away from this all-night ceremony that was still rocking. The day started just about as fast as it ended, but before it was over I witnessed one of the most beautiful and explicative things I’ve seen in this country. Sitting in the shade watching the world move by. A woman carrying a stack of wood on her head walked by on the opposite side of the road. Three men would have a hard time carrying this stack of wood, but she toted it all on her head. From a distance I watched this woman carrying this huge burden, walking the same road that she has walked a thousand times before and will walk a thousand times again. A bar down the road had put up huge speakers outside and had found the volume level most easily described as obnoxious and made sure to surpass it. The music echoed throughout the village. As this woman, dirty, tired, hot, and still carrying a ton of wood on her head walks past the bar I watch her give a little shimmy of the hips making sure not to move her head to much. You could see the music wanting to let loose from her shoulders down to her toes. She gave a jive that completely removed, for an instant, all the burdens she bears. She appreciates life. She appreciates music and what it makes you want to do. It makes you dance, scream, and forget things just as much as it makes you remember. A jive that slapped the burdensome load she carries in the face.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
faati choo gbanti
It’s market day in Bassar. On a crowded street I stroll. Among menacing faces, motos racing, dust, and heat. A gust of wind rushes by carrying with it plastic bags that are strewn about the road and the cries of children off in the distance, amused at the sight of a stranger. Chaos is too easy of a word to describe it. A bustling road when the angry, life giving sun is at its highest, I think about home and how far away I am from it. The dirt on my feet reminds me as I pass an ancient woman who suddenly peers in past my foreignness, smiles, lowers her veiled head, and greets me eye to eye as one of the streets very own: home. A crazy home, a strange home, a foreign home.
Go and Come, Aller et revenir, A cho daa…a very frequent saying in Togo. If you go to a friend’s house, go and come. If you go to the market, go and come. The farm, go and come. The hospital, go and come. The bathroom…go and come. America, go and come. You can probably guess what I was told as my friends and family in Bikotiba gave me gifts of honey, yams, and fabric for me to take on my voyage home.
This time, getting on a plane and coming back to Togo was very different than the first time. It was very different from the second time too. It felt like going back to work after a long weekend doing back flips off a dock into the Wadamalaw River. I never would have thought going to Africa could feel this way.
There’s a world map that hangs in my little hut, in my little village, in the little country of Togo and on it I have marked my homes with a red dot. These places differ from the places I’ve been. Home is somewhere you know how to get back to. You know what it takes because, for the most part, that is always where you are heading. I know what it takes to get to Macon, GA from Bikotiba, Togo-- A dusty motorcycle ride out of the bush with a driver who’s wearing a tight pink t-shirt that’s says “Ryan Adams Sucks” in big, bold letters and rip-off Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses. Normally I wouldn’t trust this guy with a pair of socks, but he knows how to traverse the roads in Togo and is looking for a buck so I let him give me a ride. The whole ride I’m wondering were on earth he got that shirt. I can only think of one notable Ryan Adams, but I’m not sure the alt-rock movement has hit Togo. This still puzzles me. Waiting, waiting, waiting for a car to fill up to travel the 10+ hours it can take to get to Lome and once there, the hustle and bustle of a big city is enough to steal any soul that’s used to the “quiet,” village pace of life. A border crossing—“Egos” dressed in military outfits and flip-flops who pick out the white dude with a backpack just so they can see what he may be carrying inside. “Cool coloring book,” they say… “can I have one?” “Where is my West Africa travel guide?” They rummage, and with a fake smile, I tell them they are doing good work and to watch out for the dirty underwear. I always keep mine on top. Into another bush-taxi and another sanity-testing ride to Accra, Ghana. A plane ride across the pond and back to the land of the free, home of the brave. Heading to Macon, GA. Home. The smell, the hugs, the food, the bed, the noises. Everyone knows the aforementioned and they are unique to each person for this is where the blood begs to be.
Waiting for my flight back to Togo in the Atlanta airport, I thought about what I was leaving and tried to think about where I was going. A world apart where the long flannel and socks I was wearing would not be needed. Go and come they told me. I looked at the choices that were before me at that moment--McDonalds, Chen’s Wok, KFC, Washington Post, New York Times, Dasani, Fiji, fountain water. I wasn’t hungry, that BBQ sandwich from White Tiger was too delicious a final meal to spoil with vile McDonalds or other airport delicacies. To go? Togo. I questioned it a bit, but then I realized I was going back to the home that I had made for myself for the past year and a half. At that moment, I knew exactly what was going on in Bikotiba because things don’t really change too often. I knew Diogie was probably running around, chasing goats and I saw my house and all the kids that were sitting under the lone light bulb laughing and farting, studying the days lesson. I knew the map that was hanging in my house and I saw the red dot marking where I was heading. A little place in a tiny country, a different language, a different culture, a different climate but the same people to laugh and live with. I got on the plane and before I knew it I was being hugged by the hot, muggy, malarial West African scent and being woken up by the muezzin’s beautiful, non-melodic, chilling, and comforting morning call to prayer. Far from the ambient noises of America, I made it back home, to Togo.
Looking at a map of Africa it is easy to lose yourself in unfamiliarity. To pronounce many of the country names and capitals requires great resolve. The vastness of the continent coupled with the depictions we get from news reports, movies, and stories makes it especially hard to connect with. This is exactly how my friends in village felt when I came back from America. A place so unfamiliar and due to the lack of maps, a place many people have no idea of where it is. The voyage anywhere starts by going down the path away from the mango trees. I have fielded many questions about America since returning, just as I fielded and appreciated many questions about the life in Togo. Questions about my family and friends, work, life in USA, food, and what it takes to get there. Sometimes it feels like being a very long bridge. By the way, Bikotiba told me to tell you “wassup?”
I brought a bag full of full of glow in the dark stuff back with me and handed it out to the kids in my compound last night. It was a new moon so the darkness in the village was suffocating, however with the snap of glow sticks the dark paths that wind in and out and around family’s houses became flickering tunnels filled with kids running and screaming with excitement because what else would you do with glow sticks on a dark night? After a while, I headed back inside my house to close out the day. Everyday begins with opening my door, just as everyday ends by shutting it. We’ll see what tomorrow will bring.
Go and Come, Aller et revenir, A cho daa…a very frequent saying in Togo. If you go to a friend’s house, go and come. If you go to the market, go and come. The farm, go and come. The hospital, go and come. The bathroom…go and come. America, go and come. You can probably guess what I was told as my friends and family in Bikotiba gave me gifts of honey, yams, and fabric for me to take on my voyage home.
This time, getting on a plane and coming back to Togo was very different than the first time. It was very different from the second time too. It felt like going back to work after a long weekend doing back flips off a dock into the Wadamalaw River. I never would have thought going to Africa could feel this way.
There’s a world map that hangs in my little hut, in my little village, in the little country of Togo and on it I have marked my homes with a red dot. These places differ from the places I’ve been. Home is somewhere you know how to get back to. You know what it takes because, for the most part, that is always where you are heading. I know what it takes to get to Macon, GA from Bikotiba, Togo-- A dusty motorcycle ride out of the bush with a driver who’s wearing a tight pink t-shirt that’s says “Ryan Adams Sucks” in big, bold letters and rip-off Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses. Normally I wouldn’t trust this guy with a pair of socks, but he knows how to traverse the roads in Togo and is looking for a buck so I let him give me a ride. The whole ride I’m wondering were on earth he got that shirt. I can only think of one notable Ryan Adams, but I’m not sure the alt-rock movement has hit Togo. This still puzzles me. Waiting, waiting, waiting for a car to fill up to travel the 10+ hours it can take to get to Lome and once there, the hustle and bustle of a big city is enough to steal any soul that’s used to the “quiet,” village pace of life. A border crossing—“Egos” dressed in military outfits and flip-flops who pick out the white dude with a backpack just so they can see what he may be carrying inside. “Cool coloring book,” they say… “can I have one?” “Where is my West Africa travel guide?” They rummage, and with a fake smile, I tell them they are doing good work and to watch out for the dirty underwear. I always keep mine on top. Into another bush-taxi and another sanity-testing ride to Accra, Ghana. A plane ride across the pond and back to the land of the free, home of the brave. Heading to Macon, GA. Home. The smell, the hugs, the food, the bed, the noises. Everyone knows the aforementioned and they are unique to each person for this is where the blood begs to be.
Waiting for my flight back to Togo in the Atlanta airport, I thought about what I was leaving and tried to think about where I was going. A world apart where the long flannel and socks I was wearing would not be needed. Go and come they told me. I looked at the choices that were before me at that moment--McDonalds, Chen’s Wok, KFC, Washington Post, New York Times, Dasani, Fiji, fountain water. I wasn’t hungry, that BBQ sandwich from White Tiger was too delicious a final meal to spoil with vile McDonalds or other airport delicacies. To go? Togo. I questioned it a bit, but then I realized I was going back to the home that I had made for myself for the past year and a half. At that moment, I knew exactly what was going on in Bikotiba because things don’t really change too often. I knew Diogie was probably running around, chasing goats and I saw my house and all the kids that were sitting under the lone light bulb laughing and farting, studying the days lesson. I knew the map that was hanging in my house and I saw the red dot marking where I was heading. A little place in a tiny country, a different language, a different culture, a different climate but the same people to laugh and live with. I got on the plane and before I knew it I was being hugged by the hot, muggy, malarial West African scent and being woken up by the muezzin’s beautiful, non-melodic, chilling, and comforting morning call to prayer. Far from the ambient noises of America, I made it back home, to Togo.
Looking at a map of Africa it is easy to lose yourself in unfamiliarity. To pronounce many of the country names and capitals requires great resolve. The vastness of the continent coupled with the depictions we get from news reports, movies, and stories makes it especially hard to connect with. This is exactly how my friends in village felt when I came back from America. A place so unfamiliar and due to the lack of maps, a place many people have no idea of where it is. The voyage anywhere starts by going down the path away from the mango trees. I have fielded many questions about America since returning, just as I fielded and appreciated many questions about the life in Togo. Questions about my family and friends, work, life in USA, food, and what it takes to get there. Sometimes it feels like being a very long bridge. By the way, Bikotiba told me to tell you “wassup?”
I brought a bag full of full of glow in the dark stuff back with me and handed it out to the kids in my compound last night. It was a new moon so the darkness in the village was suffocating, however with the snap of glow sticks the dark paths that wind in and out and around family’s houses became flickering tunnels filled with kids running and screaming with excitement because what else would you do with glow sticks on a dark night? After a while, I headed back inside my house to close out the day. Everyday begins with opening my door, just as everyday ends by shutting it. We’ll see what tomorrow will bring.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
back to togo
Where have I been these past few months? I feel like I went to South Africa. Maybe for medical reasons? Where is that place? There, Togo was a dream. Now, back in Togo, and in my little hut on the corner of two glorified footpaths South Africa seems pretty far away and almost dreamlike as I recall different memories of Pretoria.
I don’t exactly remember how I ended up in a five-story mall. I left my village on a Tuesday thinking I would be back in three days and Friday I was on a plane to South Africa. Being ambitiously spontaneous at the airport in Ghana I happened to make friends with a dude from Johannesburg who worked for some big time bank in N’Yawk. After some strategery I found myself sitting in the ritzy first-class lounge indulging in some of the “complimentary” finer things in life. They must have thought I was some sort of big shot walking through those big glass doors in my dirty pants a ratty t-shirt (the JcPenny in Lome was closed for repo when I went there to try and get some new clothes). Maybe they thought I was some celebrity trying to make a fashion statement, or that I was an up and coming musician trying to sell an image. Either way, the First Class lounge at the Ghanaian airport got the best of me. I had to remember what those three-pronged metal instruments are used for and tried my best to avoid causing any disturbances…THE HORROR THE HORROR.
Later on in the evening I was already asleep on the plane and eight to twelve hours later, arriving in Pretoria, I was quickly swept away to the second biggest mall in South Africa. I’m not quite sure what was a bigger shock: the freezing weather that punched me in the face as soon as I got off the plane, or the paved roads. I was with some other Peace Corps med-evacs who were a little more veteran when it came to dealing with things in South Africa. They got a cab with a telephone and paid a set price for the trip to the mall, all the while I’m trying to remember who I am, where I was a week ago, what was going on in my village at that moment and that it wasn’t cool to pee on the side of the road.
We got to the mall. It could have been five minutes or five hours. The ride was so surreal that time was something I didn’t bother to try and manage. The sliding doors opened and consumerism gave me a right, upper cut to the stomach and a hard left to the cheek. Everywhere I went the mannequins followed. They can change their clothes so quick! I don’t think they understood when I told them to stop staring at me. “Who you callin’ crazy!” (Harrelson, Woody. Kingpin. 1:03:43). I ditched the other PCVs and wandered around a bit. I wanted to make the most of the experience. Two extremes back to back. I wanted to explore, talk to people, tell my story and hear others. I ended up walking into the same store six times to look at the same sock-hat because it was freezing outside and took a break only to eat a mini-chicken samich from Chicken Licken’.
I finally bought the sock hat and immediately had intense buyers remorse. I hesitantly brought it to the counter and tried to talk the guy working the cash register into diminishing the price for me. I pointed out flaws in the fabric and told him what it actually cost to sew it together. He didn’t have any idea what I was trying to do and with a look on his face saying, “I’m just doing my job” he pointed at the price tag and bar code. Aaah Haa. I get it, George of the Jungle goes to New York City.
Had it been 45 days in Pretoria I would have been on a plane back to the USA to seemingly start over. Instead, I spent 44 days in South Africa and on the day that the Peace Corps would have sent me home packing I was stepping off the plane in Ghana. It was night when we were flying in and it very much reminded me of the first time I flew into Togo. The giddiness was ever-present. There were many lights and Accra had far more than I remembered Lome having. At first I didn’t recognize the flickering lights that seemed to float in the middle of nowhere, but after a year spent in West Africa and looking out of the window watching the approaching landscape zoom by, I immediately recognized these twinkling gods as family stove-fires. We touched down and all the nervousness, anxiety, and uncertainty of being in limbo in South Africa was lifted as I finally felt comforted that I had made it back and healthy to West Africa.
I wanted to be the first off the plane, which I knew was going to be hard because I was sitting in the back. I tried to run, but in four rows, just as I was getting a good head of steam, someone blocked my way. I made it to the door and was immediately entrapped by the hot, musky, swampy, malarial scent of coastal West Africa. The smell grabbed me and hugged me all the way down the stairs, into the airport, past the customs official pissed off at his job, and all the way to the flat I was staying at for the night. I don’t quite remember falling asleep, but I do remember the roosters the next morning. You love ‘em and you hate ‘em.
After a brief stint in Lome (B-dodd came to visit, we painted the town red) and a few days in transit I finally made it back to my mildewy house, Diogie, 80 rabbits, and an entire village very happy to have me back. The party lasted a few days.
I was really worried about reassuming my life and role here after being gone for two months, but after three days I was back in action. I think this says something about the life here. Things don’t change very often. I’m happy with this normalcy in a very strange environment.
Last night as I dipped my hands in the old tomato paste can to wash up for dinner, Gnon walked over to the stereo to pump some jams while we ate. We dug into the pate, pinching off globs of corn-mush and dipping it in to a spicy sauce, as kids started filing in followed by toothless old men, swaying to the music and light on their feet from the day spent drinking liquid courage, forgetting about the heat. Little old Nikabou Gbati with his loose, long front tooth stood there in the darkness in front of Gnon and I dancing away as we ate. Half naked, energy-filled kids shadowboxed in the background to the rhythm of the Togolese beats. This ensemble could have been the headlining performance for the Grammy Awards…We ate and I’d look up and old man Gbati would be motioning me out to the empty space we sometimes refer to as a “dance floor” to dance for no one to see. I pinched off a few more globs of pate, tossed some over to Diogie licking his chops in the corner and got up to boogey with this little old man. “Excellent dancing!” Gnon would yell from the table as he clapped his hands under the lone light bulb where we had just finished eating. I danced myself into a sweaty mess with old man Gbati under a silent sky filled with stars you could touch.
I didn’t realize it while we were eating, but from my new dancing vantage point I noticed that a man had been asleep on the bench next to Gnon and I while we ate. I quickly recognized this man as a crazy man that roams around Bikotiba and often catches a few Zzz’s on the benches in or around Bar L’Amitie, or the Friendship Bar of Bikotiba. This man might be the looniest, most clueless person in the world, but he seems pretty happy. Everyone knows he’s crazy and I’m sure he does too. You wouldn’t see people like him in the U.S.. He’d be in a home somewhere having people say that there is something wrong with him.
Most people in the village think he got hit real hard on the head one day a long time ago. He speaks English, which makes me think that at one time he was in Ghana, somehow made it over to Bikotiba, got knocked on the head real hard one day and now spends his time, alone, walking around, yelling nonsense from time to time, and often dancing in the street, with no music to be heard. I get up every morning when the mosque calls for prayer, or at the time when you can watch the darkness become light without seeing the sun. I open my back window to let in the light and the morning breeze while I start boiling water on my gas stove. This morning, I looked out and over to the bridge that runs over the creek separating Bikotiba and saw this crazy man dancing away as dawn was fastly approaching. I laughed, better than a cup of coffee at 5:00am, and I have to admit I was a little bit jealous of this madman, dancing away in silence, happy as can be for no one to see.
I don’t exactly remember how I ended up in a five-story mall. I left my village on a Tuesday thinking I would be back in three days and Friday I was on a plane to South Africa. Being ambitiously spontaneous at the airport in Ghana I happened to make friends with a dude from Johannesburg who worked for some big time bank in N’Yawk. After some strategery I found myself sitting in the ritzy first-class lounge indulging in some of the “complimentary” finer things in life. They must have thought I was some sort of big shot walking through those big glass doors in my dirty pants a ratty t-shirt (the JcPenny in Lome was closed for repo when I went there to try and get some new clothes). Maybe they thought I was some celebrity trying to make a fashion statement, or that I was an up and coming musician trying to sell an image. Either way, the First Class lounge at the Ghanaian airport got the best of me. I had to remember what those three-pronged metal instruments are used for and tried my best to avoid causing any disturbances…THE HORROR THE HORROR.
Later on in the evening I was already asleep on the plane and eight to twelve hours later, arriving in Pretoria, I was quickly swept away to the second biggest mall in South Africa. I’m not quite sure what was a bigger shock: the freezing weather that punched me in the face as soon as I got off the plane, or the paved roads. I was with some other Peace Corps med-evacs who were a little more veteran when it came to dealing with things in South Africa. They got a cab with a telephone and paid a set price for the trip to the mall, all the while I’m trying to remember who I am, where I was a week ago, what was going on in my village at that moment and that it wasn’t cool to pee on the side of the road.
We got to the mall. It could have been five minutes or five hours. The ride was so surreal that time was something I didn’t bother to try and manage. The sliding doors opened and consumerism gave me a right, upper cut to the stomach and a hard left to the cheek. Everywhere I went the mannequins followed. They can change their clothes so quick! I don’t think they understood when I told them to stop staring at me. “Who you callin’ crazy!” (Harrelson, Woody. Kingpin. 1:03:43). I ditched the other PCVs and wandered around a bit. I wanted to make the most of the experience. Two extremes back to back. I wanted to explore, talk to people, tell my story and hear others. I ended up walking into the same store six times to look at the same sock-hat because it was freezing outside and took a break only to eat a mini-chicken samich from Chicken Licken’.
I finally bought the sock hat and immediately had intense buyers remorse. I hesitantly brought it to the counter and tried to talk the guy working the cash register into diminishing the price for me. I pointed out flaws in the fabric and told him what it actually cost to sew it together. He didn’t have any idea what I was trying to do and with a look on his face saying, “I’m just doing my job” he pointed at the price tag and bar code. Aaah Haa. I get it, George of the Jungle goes to New York City.
Had it been 45 days in Pretoria I would have been on a plane back to the USA to seemingly start over. Instead, I spent 44 days in South Africa and on the day that the Peace Corps would have sent me home packing I was stepping off the plane in Ghana. It was night when we were flying in and it very much reminded me of the first time I flew into Togo. The giddiness was ever-present. There were many lights and Accra had far more than I remembered Lome having. At first I didn’t recognize the flickering lights that seemed to float in the middle of nowhere, but after a year spent in West Africa and looking out of the window watching the approaching landscape zoom by, I immediately recognized these twinkling gods as family stove-fires. We touched down and all the nervousness, anxiety, and uncertainty of being in limbo in South Africa was lifted as I finally felt comforted that I had made it back and healthy to West Africa.
I wanted to be the first off the plane, which I knew was going to be hard because I was sitting in the back. I tried to run, but in four rows, just as I was getting a good head of steam, someone blocked my way. I made it to the door and was immediately entrapped by the hot, musky, swampy, malarial scent of coastal West Africa. The smell grabbed me and hugged me all the way down the stairs, into the airport, past the customs official pissed off at his job, and all the way to the flat I was staying at for the night. I don’t quite remember falling asleep, but I do remember the roosters the next morning. You love ‘em and you hate ‘em.
After a brief stint in Lome (B-dodd came to visit, we painted the town red) and a few days in transit I finally made it back to my mildewy house, Diogie, 80 rabbits, and an entire village very happy to have me back. The party lasted a few days.
I was really worried about reassuming my life and role here after being gone for two months, but after three days I was back in action. I think this says something about the life here. Things don’t change very often. I’m happy with this normalcy in a very strange environment.
Last night as I dipped my hands in the old tomato paste can to wash up for dinner, Gnon walked over to the stereo to pump some jams while we ate. We dug into the pate, pinching off globs of corn-mush and dipping it in to a spicy sauce, as kids started filing in followed by toothless old men, swaying to the music and light on their feet from the day spent drinking liquid courage, forgetting about the heat. Little old Nikabou Gbati with his loose, long front tooth stood there in the darkness in front of Gnon and I dancing away as we ate. Half naked, energy-filled kids shadowboxed in the background to the rhythm of the Togolese beats. This ensemble could have been the headlining performance for the Grammy Awards…We ate and I’d look up and old man Gbati would be motioning me out to the empty space we sometimes refer to as a “dance floor” to dance for no one to see. I pinched off a few more globs of pate, tossed some over to Diogie licking his chops in the corner and got up to boogey with this little old man. “Excellent dancing!” Gnon would yell from the table as he clapped his hands under the lone light bulb where we had just finished eating. I danced myself into a sweaty mess with old man Gbati under a silent sky filled with stars you could touch.
I didn’t realize it while we were eating, but from my new dancing vantage point I noticed that a man had been asleep on the bench next to Gnon and I while we ate. I quickly recognized this man as a crazy man that roams around Bikotiba and often catches a few Zzz’s on the benches in or around Bar L’Amitie, or the Friendship Bar of Bikotiba. This man might be the looniest, most clueless person in the world, but he seems pretty happy. Everyone knows he’s crazy and I’m sure he does too. You wouldn’t see people like him in the U.S.. He’d be in a home somewhere having people say that there is something wrong with him.
Most people in the village think he got hit real hard on the head one day a long time ago. He speaks English, which makes me think that at one time he was in Ghana, somehow made it over to Bikotiba, got knocked on the head real hard one day and now spends his time, alone, walking around, yelling nonsense from time to time, and often dancing in the street, with no music to be heard. I get up every morning when the mosque calls for prayer, or at the time when you can watch the darkness become light without seeing the sun. I open my back window to let in the light and the morning breeze while I start boiling water on my gas stove. This morning, I looked out and over to the bridge that runs over the creek separating Bikotiba and saw this crazy man dancing away as dawn was fastly approaching. I laughed, better than a cup of coffee at 5:00am, and I have to admit I was a little bit jealous of this madman, dancing away in silence, happy as can be for no one to see.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Whats up doc...?
This is an article that I've written and hope to have published in a Peace Corps publication called "Farm to Market" which is distributed throughout Peace Corps Africa. Its on the rabbit raising project I'm working with in my village...
My best friend in village, Thoma, is a hunter, legally or illegally and knows the bush around Bikotiba the way most people know the way around their bathrooms at night. He had me over to his family’s compound one afternoon and after a usual calabash the family elder excitedly invited me into his room because he wanted to show me something. I slipped off my sandals and ducked into the 6ft x 6ft musty, cool mud hut that smelt of wood-smoke and dried grain and immediately spotted a pile of different types of animal skulls and two shotguns that looked like they were held together by some crazy African greegree. Next to the pile of hand-made shotguns shells, that I gathered from our discussion, only worked half the time was a straw mattress, which no doubt was the conception point of all his 7 children. He reached to the side of this mattress and handed me an attached bundle of extremely bristle, thick hairs. It wasn’t until he made hand motions forming tusk that I realized I was holding the souvenir of an elephant he had killed. He looked at me and proudly poked his chest and said “moi meme.” There are many times here, in many different situations, where life doesn’t exactly seem real. Sometimes it’s a giddy feeling when you get pulled into a group of people singing and drumming so loud that it is impossible not to join in the dancing. Other times, you feel like you are in a really weird dream and wonder if Mr. Webster has the words necessary to explain it. You can drive yourself crazy trying to figure out how…I ducked out of the mud hut, squinting at the morning sun, and slipped on my sandals, thanked the elder for the visit and bid Thoma and family farewell as I walked back into my village to take on the day. I thought about the idea of hunting here and how its wiping animals clean off this continent.
Bush meat, most of which is acquired illegally, serves as the only source of protein for many people in my village and throughout much of Africa. Bush rat, Biche or antelope, a funny looking lizard, crocodiles, hares, and monkeys offer chance to feed a hunter’s family and also a supplement to the meager income of a village farmer in Africa. Shrinking the demand for this type of meat is something that is difficult as there are few alternatives and a huge lack of foresight. Also, it is difficult to argue against someone, ahem Thoma, who is trying to feed his family because after all, meat is meat. This problem, which exists throughout Africa, is something that I’ve become drawn to as like I said earlier its difficult to tell someone, a friend, not to hunt bushmeat and start bushfires, because after all he is trying to feed his family. Thus, I decided to devote my energy to developing other options to provide a cheap reliable way to provide a source of meat in my village.
I’m currently working on a rabbit-raising project with a groupement composed of about 25 farmers from my village. It’s a rather large project as we started in April 2009 with 24 rabbits and as of July 27 we now have 74 (males, females, young, and enfants). We have a rabbit-raising facility, which is a cinder block building that was designed by the president of the groupement and divided into three different rooms with cages reserved for males, females ready for mating, females with enfants, and young rabbits who hop around on the floor, curious about life and what it has to offer for them.
I was interested in the goals and objectives of the project so a few months ago I held a PACA (community meeting) session with the groupement composed of men and women to better understand why they chose to raise rabbits. After the session I realized that there was a huge problem with the management of the project in that they were treating it as any other elevage project in village Togo--throwing the males and females together and seeing what happens. After the PACA session we held a follow-up meeting and I devoted myself to developing an easy, systematic, management plan that would ensure the sustainability of the project, as well as, maximize the resources that rabbit raising can offer as a supplement to agriculture. I designed some cages and a mating schedule in order to control the rabbits instead of having the rabbits control us. This management plan is continuing to be developed and is a day-to-day process, as there are factors involved such as illiteracy, language barriers, and surveillance problems. The idea is that with every problem, there is a solution.
Raising rabbits is beneficial for many reasons including the low-space requirements, minor start-up costs, the animal’s high reproductive rate, and lack of competition with humans for the same foods. Rabbit raising under subsistence conditions is usually regarded as a labour-intensive activity, but the advantages greatly outweigh the input costs of rabbit production. The low investment costs involved on embarking on a small-scale rabbit project make raising these furry creatures extremely advantageous.
Rabbits are clean, fast growing and breed rapidly. You know the adage…I don’t think its necessary to repeat it in this article, but trust me its true. They can digest many forms of vegetation and could potentially be raised on vegetation not used by people or other domesticated livestock. In my village we use Tchouck waste as a main source of fodder as it is abundant, cheap, and high in nutritional value. Its important that this is dry and we mix it with salt, ground up soy, corn, and manioc to provide extra nutrients. Their meat tastes better than chicken and does not carry the stigma of rodent, like bush rat.
On small family farms and gardens, rabbits can be strongly integrated into traditional farming practices. This entails the recycling of garden and/or kitchen refuse as rabbit feed and the conversion of rabbit manure into compost for enhancing farm soil. Using chemical fertilizers is like shooting yourself in the foot. Substituting chemical fertilizers with rabbit manure is like wrapping yourself in a warm blanket.
Many times, often stateside, rabbits are viewed as pets rather than food-producing animals; these cute and cuddly creatures are fun to look at and play with, but they can also serve as a delicious, high protein food source. With proper training, I’m hoping to promote the nutritional value and benefits of rabbit meat and as a prolific meat animal species.
The wonderful thing about rabbit production is that it does not have to be done in a large project format. Small-scale rabbit projects can be initiated on a backyard family basis, since the ultimate goal of rabbit raising is to provide more meat and a protein source for a family/community. As of now, we are trying to increase the number of rabbits with the eventual goal of giving each groupement member’s family a certain number of rabbits to take home and do a small-scale rabbit raising project for home consumption and/or selling, while keeping the larger project as strictly a village small-enterprise.
When dealing with animal husbandry in Togo, most livestock is free to roam around and are forced to scavenge for their food, find shelter, and water. This system supports limited production. In the case of rabbit production many farmers are hesitant to begin a project because of the care and labour required to have a successful project. This of course is the purpose of animal husbandry, seeing animals as investments and understanding with foresight that each and every rabbit means either a meal or a source of income. In my village I’ve often found that when a chicken dies or a chevre gets hit by a car, there is disappointment but its more of a “c’est la vie” attitude. Correct care and management are necessary if rabbit raising is to be successful.
Proper farmer training and extension support is probably the most important component to ensure a successful program. That is where Peace Corps volunteers can come in. With proper research and collaboration with other volunteers or Togolese doing the same projects, it is not that hard to become an expert rabbit raiser. These projects demand proper foresight and failure can often be attributed to neglect and inadequate education on proper rabbit care. Training key farmers in your community is an essential aspect to the success of any elevage project.
While you can easily do an “at-home” rabbit-raising project yourself, a large-scale community project should come from the community itself to ensure proper commitment, interest, and care. The participants of such projects should look at the project as their own and understand that they are the direct beneficiaries. This is an important factor for rabbit care training and project development. There are many ways to develop a rabbit committee or groupement much of which depends on your situation in village. After this has been developed it is important that each member of the “rabbit group” is on the same page by including each person in the daily surveillance and project operations and changes. Basically the left hand needs to know what the right hand is doing to ensure proper care and education.
From a business perspective, successful marketing is extremely important and I’m working with a SED volunteer, Matt Hix in Kabou, in developing a business plan for the rabbit-raising project in my village. As with any business, it is important to find potential buyers of rabbits. We are hoping to start with fufu bars and other restaurants in the rural and semi-rural areas surrounding Bassar and hope to eventually expand marketing to larger cities and urban areas. This involves extensive market research and development and depends on the capacity of the project you’re working with. Collaboration with other volunteers and counterparts is extremely important and advantageous and we are hoping to develop viable and well-established markets to increase the economic incentive to raise rabbits in the area. Market research, evaluation, and a feasibility plan are important steps in the development phase of the project.
Promotion of rabbits as an excellent source of meat is also an area where you can use you creativity as a Peace Corps volunteer-- through artwork, song, or even magic…pulling rabbits out of the hat can be a good way to introduce this idea to interested communities and counterparts.
Adam Smith (Bikotiba)
EMS Bassar
745.93.94
aysmith1@gmail.com
My best friend in village, Thoma, is a hunter, legally or illegally and knows the bush around Bikotiba the way most people know the way around their bathrooms at night. He had me over to his family’s compound one afternoon and after a usual calabash the family elder excitedly invited me into his room because he wanted to show me something. I slipped off my sandals and ducked into the 6ft x 6ft musty, cool mud hut that smelt of wood-smoke and dried grain and immediately spotted a pile of different types of animal skulls and two shotguns that looked like they were held together by some crazy African greegree. Next to the pile of hand-made shotguns shells, that I gathered from our discussion, only worked half the time was a straw mattress, which no doubt was the conception point of all his 7 children. He reached to the side of this mattress and handed me an attached bundle of extremely bristle, thick hairs. It wasn’t until he made hand motions forming tusk that I realized I was holding the souvenir of an elephant he had killed. He looked at me and proudly poked his chest and said “moi meme.” There are many times here, in many different situations, where life doesn’t exactly seem real. Sometimes it’s a giddy feeling when you get pulled into a group of people singing and drumming so loud that it is impossible not to join in the dancing. Other times, you feel like you are in a really weird dream and wonder if Mr. Webster has the words necessary to explain it. You can drive yourself crazy trying to figure out how…I ducked out of the mud hut, squinting at the morning sun, and slipped on my sandals, thanked the elder for the visit and bid Thoma and family farewell as I walked back into my village to take on the day. I thought about the idea of hunting here and how its wiping animals clean off this continent.
Bush meat, most of which is acquired illegally, serves as the only source of protein for many people in my village and throughout much of Africa. Bush rat, Biche or antelope, a funny looking lizard, crocodiles, hares, and monkeys offer chance to feed a hunter’s family and also a supplement to the meager income of a village farmer in Africa. Shrinking the demand for this type of meat is something that is difficult as there are few alternatives and a huge lack of foresight. Also, it is difficult to argue against someone, ahem Thoma, who is trying to feed his family because after all, meat is meat. This problem, which exists throughout Africa, is something that I’ve become drawn to as like I said earlier its difficult to tell someone, a friend, not to hunt bushmeat and start bushfires, because after all he is trying to feed his family. Thus, I decided to devote my energy to developing other options to provide a cheap reliable way to provide a source of meat in my village.
I’m currently working on a rabbit-raising project with a groupement composed of about 25 farmers from my village. It’s a rather large project as we started in April 2009 with 24 rabbits and as of July 27 we now have 74 (males, females, young, and enfants). We have a rabbit-raising facility, which is a cinder block building that was designed by the president of the groupement and divided into three different rooms with cages reserved for males, females ready for mating, females with enfants, and young rabbits who hop around on the floor, curious about life and what it has to offer for them.
I was interested in the goals and objectives of the project so a few months ago I held a PACA (community meeting) session with the groupement composed of men and women to better understand why they chose to raise rabbits. After the session I realized that there was a huge problem with the management of the project in that they were treating it as any other elevage project in village Togo--throwing the males and females together and seeing what happens. After the PACA session we held a follow-up meeting and I devoted myself to developing an easy, systematic, management plan that would ensure the sustainability of the project, as well as, maximize the resources that rabbit raising can offer as a supplement to agriculture. I designed some cages and a mating schedule in order to control the rabbits instead of having the rabbits control us. This management plan is continuing to be developed and is a day-to-day process, as there are factors involved such as illiteracy, language barriers, and surveillance problems. The idea is that with every problem, there is a solution.
Raising rabbits is beneficial for many reasons including the low-space requirements, minor start-up costs, the animal’s high reproductive rate, and lack of competition with humans for the same foods. Rabbit raising under subsistence conditions is usually regarded as a labour-intensive activity, but the advantages greatly outweigh the input costs of rabbit production. The low investment costs involved on embarking on a small-scale rabbit project make raising these furry creatures extremely advantageous.
Rabbits are clean, fast growing and breed rapidly. You know the adage…I don’t think its necessary to repeat it in this article, but trust me its true. They can digest many forms of vegetation and could potentially be raised on vegetation not used by people or other domesticated livestock. In my village we use Tchouck waste as a main source of fodder as it is abundant, cheap, and high in nutritional value. Its important that this is dry and we mix it with salt, ground up soy, corn, and manioc to provide extra nutrients. Their meat tastes better than chicken and does not carry the stigma of rodent, like bush rat.
On small family farms and gardens, rabbits can be strongly integrated into traditional farming practices. This entails the recycling of garden and/or kitchen refuse as rabbit feed and the conversion of rabbit manure into compost for enhancing farm soil. Using chemical fertilizers is like shooting yourself in the foot. Substituting chemical fertilizers with rabbit manure is like wrapping yourself in a warm blanket.
Many times, often stateside, rabbits are viewed as pets rather than food-producing animals; these cute and cuddly creatures are fun to look at and play with, but they can also serve as a delicious, high protein food source. With proper training, I’m hoping to promote the nutritional value and benefits of rabbit meat and as a prolific meat animal species.
The wonderful thing about rabbit production is that it does not have to be done in a large project format. Small-scale rabbit projects can be initiated on a backyard family basis, since the ultimate goal of rabbit raising is to provide more meat and a protein source for a family/community. As of now, we are trying to increase the number of rabbits with the eventual goal of giving each groupement member’s family a certain number of rabbits to take home and do a small-scale rabbit raising project for home consumption and/or selling, while keeping the larger project as strictly a village small-enterprise.
When dealing with animal husbandry in Togo, most livestock is free to roam around and are forced to scavenge for their food, find shelter, and water. This system supports limited production. In the case of rabbit production many farmers are hesitant to begin a project because of the care and labour required to have a successful project. This of course is the purpose of animal husbandry, seeing animals as investments and understanding with foresight that each and every rabbit means either a meal or a source of income. In my village I’ve often found that when a chicken dies or a chevre gets hit by a car, there is disappointment but its more of a “c’est la vie” attitude. Correct care and management are necessary if rabbit raising is to be successful.
Proper farmer training and extension support is probably the most important component to ensure a successful program. That is where Peace Corps volunteers can come in. With proper research and collaboration with other volunteers or Togolese doing the same projects, it is not that hard to become an expert rabbit raiser. These projects demand proper foresight and failure can often be attributed to neglect and inadequate education on proper rabbit care. Training key farmers in your community is an essential aspect to the success of any elevage project.
While you can easily do an “at-home” rabbit-raising project yourself, a large-scale community project should come from the community itself to ensure proper commitment, interest, and care. The participants of such projects should look at the project as their own and understand that they are the direct beneficiaries. This is an important factor for rabbit care training and project development. There are many ways to develop a rabbit committee or groupement much of which depends on your situation in village. After this has been developed it is important that each member of the “rabbit group” is on the same page by including each person in the daily surveillance and project operations and changes. Basically the left hand needs to know what the right hand is doing to ensure proper care and education.
From a business perspective, successful marketing is extremely important and I’m working with a SED volunteer, Matt Hix in Kabou, in developing a business plan for the rabbit-raising project in my village. As with any business, it is important to find potential buyers of rabbits. We are hoping to start with fufu bars and other restaurants in the rural and semi-rural areas surrounding Bassar and hope to eventually expand marketing to larger cities and urban areas. This involves extensive market research and development and depends on the capacity of the project you’re working with. Collaboration with other volunteers and counterparts is extremely important and advantageous and we are hoping to develop viable and well-established markets to increase the economic incentive to raise rabbits in the area. Market research, evaluation, and a feasibility plan are important steps in the development phase of the project.
Promotion of rabbits as an excellent source of meat is also an area where you can use you creativity as a Peace Corps volunteer-- through artwork, song, or even magic…pulling rabbits out of the hat can be a good way to introduce this idea to interested communities and counterparts.
Adam Smith (Bikotiba)
EMS Bassar
745.93.94
aysmith1@gmail.com
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