My Three Acres

warm milk

2011-11-05T11:39:00.000-07:00

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

Friends

2011-10-20T21:17:00.000-07:00

I am sorry for the hiatus. My Three Acres is now up and running again.

adayinthelife

2011-04-22T00:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Fire Dance

2011-03-09T09:10:00.000-08:00

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.

faati choo gbanti

2011-01-25T10:16:00.000-08:00

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.

back to togo

2010-10-31T06:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Whats up doc...?

2010-08-15T05:03:00.001-07:00

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

bikotiba

2010-07-26T07:44:00.000-07:00

I went fishing the other day and it was awesome. Sitting in solitude, a worm on the line. I was starring into downriver when the line yanked and the cork went under and it wasn’t long before I had an African mudcat the size of a forearm flopping on the rocks. I tossed another worm on the line hoping to continue my “luck” when I spotted a two-foot head slowly float and rest at the surface of the water. It didn’t take long for me to realize that the visitor was a rather large croc popping up for some fresh air and to let me know that he knew I was there. He stayed up for a few seconds before going under again to rest at the bottom of the river. I thanked him for the visit and apologized for not introducing myself. After all it was his river.

The mudcat stayed alive longer than I expected. I rolled it up in the “Washington Post” Alex had sent me. Packed it in my bag and hoped on my bike, anxious and giddy to get back to village to show my catch to my homolouge and his family. I arrived with a smile and Mama could tell that I had been up to something. I started unrolling the paper on a table and as a group of kids had gathered around creating a suffocating human semi-circle that I’ve gotten so used to. I opened the paper and the fish jumped to the ground sending all the curious children and Mama running away screaming. Despite the amount of fish people eat, seeing a live fish is something that is pretty rare, especially a fish that had been “dead” for an hour. I chopped up the fish to put in a sauce for Mama to prepare. It was still moving even after I chopped it up. I’ve never seen Mama so scared to cook something. I think she thought the fish was under some spell. I don’t think she ate any.

Around lunch today I went out to walk around a bit. Its planting season so its not rare to only see, say, three people on any given morning, especially mornings after a thunder storm. I walked over to the huge mango trees that for the most part, serve as the central meeting area for the village. I walked into the shade and spotted my homolouge lounging against the base of the tree. I noticed he was wearing his tatered, dirty, champ clothes, which are about as identifiable as a police uniform and asked him about the work on the farm. He said everything is good as I picked out a protruding root and sat down. Now there were three of us--Gbandi, my homolouge, to my left and a very old, old man to my right.

This old, old man doesn’t do much. In fact, the most I’ve seen him ever do, and I see him everyday, is stand up out of his chair and scoot over to a fire in the middle of a crowd of people, walk into it, and dance. Other than that he doesn’t do or move much and when he does its always across the path over to the “bar” where he gets what I suppose is sympathy shots of sodabe’ to continue his perpetual state of deteriorating drunkenness. He drinks, sits, and sleeps, but occasionally, if you’re lucky, you can spot him chasing around the Dennis the Menances of Bikotiba with a stick, or throwing rocks at dogs or muttons.

I sat under the mango tree next to this lifeless old man as a sickly goat walked by, with its head down and chomping at the fallen mango leaves. The old man reached to the ground and curled his ghastly fingers around a marble sized rock. He picked it up and launched it at the sickly chevre. It plopped down and bounced over to where the goat was eating causing him to scurry off. The old man let out a chuckle and I let out a chuckle as there is nothing more justifiable than sharing a laugh with someone to break the monotony of day to day life in a Togolese village.

thoma

2010-06-17T03:59:00.000-07:00

I’d imagine Thoma is around 26 years old. He has two wives (one recently acquired) a son and another baby on the way. He’s a farmer and never been to school, but somehow he has learned to speak French. He’s my best friend in village.

Fighting boredom, isolation, and loneliness during the first few weeks at post, I would often find myself sitting under a tree behind my house—to meditate, to read, or to just pass the time. On day I walked out to visit my tree and saw Thoma digging a huge hole right next to the tree that I had come to value so much. I asked Thoma what he was up to and with sweat on his brow said that he was going to build his house. He said it so calmly, holding his pickaxe over his shoulder that the only way I could respond was by nodding as words of encouragement where not needed. He’d found that gumption long before he broke the earth.

For the next few months I would often find myself sitting under my tree watching Thoma work and offer any assistance I could. I’d sit and we’d talk about various things. We’d talk about hunting and the work he’s doing on the farm. He’d talk about his wife and how he doesn’t want any girlfriends and I’d talk about relationships in the U.S. and the different ideas about marriage. One day he told me that his son was his fourth child. Confused, I asked him about the other three and he told me they had all passed away over a span of three years. He only smokes when he drinks, which is on Saturdays and Sundays and often tells me that I remind him of Jean Claude Van Dam.

Five months have gone by and the mud house is finished, for the most part. I walked over as Thoma was nailing on the last of the tin roof and we sat under the new shade. I couldn’t help but feel the giddiness jumping off of him. Thoma’s house doesn’t have air conditioning, high-speed Internet, running water, electricity, or a toilet. Nevertheless, it is what it is, a home. I told him that he has claimed his stake in the world and that not many people can say they’ve got a home of their own and even less can say that they built their house from the ground-up, with their bare hands. He laughed as if I was joking, but toward the end of his tee-hee, I recognized a proud glimmer.

Our friendship has grown since he finished his house and he is often one of the first people I see in the morning. He spends weeks at a time at the farm, sleeping under the stars and cooking over an open fire. I’ve gone to the farm with him a few times and enjoyed my time there wandering around and beating the heat by sleeping under the shade of the huge mango trees that provide a canopy over his farm huts. I’d sleep; he’d cook and would be woken up by Thoma telling me to wash my hands. We’d eat fufu au champ with our hands. It was the first time I ate a mouse.

He’s a hunter, legally or illegally, by night and knows the bush around Bikotiba and surrounding villages the way most people know their bathrooms at night, orientating himself by the stars and the greegree he performs before he goes out on a hunt. He once told me that he could run for twelve hours during the night, using a gas head lantern for light, only stopping if he kills something. He carries a single shot 12-gauge and fabricates the shells himself, as the sporting goods section of wal-mart is 7,000 miles away.

In Thoma’s family’s compound one afternoon an 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 9 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 this idea is 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 lookin’ lizard, hares, monkeys, and elephants too offer a chance to feed a hunter’s family and also a chance to supplement the meager income of a village farmer in Africa. Shrinking the demand for this time 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. The other night Thoma told me he ran across a lion in the bush. It was dark, it looked at him and he dropped to the ground. He changed out the single shot slug to put in the nine-shot slug because he thought he would have a better chance to take out its eyes if it charged at him. He told me he never would try to kill a lion, but in a situation like the one he was in that is all he could do. Kill or be killed I guess. He waited, slowly raised up and when he looked the lion was gone leaving a rustle of branches in its wake.

animism

2010-05-12T23:52:00.000-07:00

I never thought I would ever start a day with a chicken sacrifice, three for that matter, before my cup of coffee.

I woke up, just like any other morning in Togo. I didn’t really have any plans so I decided to make the day a “yes” day and went wandering around the village to see what I could get roped into doing. It had rained the night before so the morning was cool and crisp enough for me to wear my flannel. The ground squished under my feet as I rounded the corner and saw group of people surrounding the huge Baobob tree behind my house. It looked like some sort of ritual was going on so I decided to just keep walking. I was curious about what was going on, but not curious enough to interrupt something that got everyone together at 5:30 in the morning. As I walked past, between chants, someone in the group yelled “Gbandi, da,” or “come over here Gbandi.” It was impossible to say no, or make up some excuse, because I had decided before I left my house that it was going to take whatever the day threw at me and I happened upon the first of three chicken sacrifices before I ate my imaginary egg mcmuffin.

The ceremony took place under a Baobob tree, less than a stones throw away from my back window. The wind was rumbling in the newly budding trees. There was blood and feathers smeared on the tree and the rest of the chicken (besides the meat) lying in a pool at the base of the tree. Mangy dogs were circling in the background, noses to the ground, curiously wondering what in the world these god-giants could be doing and hoping to get a piece of the scent that was trapped in their noses. I walked to the rear of the 15 or so people squatting in a semi-circle around the tree and took my place as an elder in sunglasses and a ski cap was tapping the trunk of the tree with a stick and chanting something in Bassar in between drags of his cigarette. The others would nod and chant in concurrency. The ceremony moved forward as the charlatan, or leader, splashed water from a calabash on the bloody tree trunk. They chopped up the chicken that had been boiling in a pot resting over an open fire, which by now had been reduced to simmering, red coals. Everyone got a piece. I was handed a leg and thigh—a choice cut I assume-- and after we ate and reduced the chicken to a pile of broken, clean, chewed up bones, a calabash with the chicken broth was passed around for everyone to drink from. It was pretty good. Kinda like Campbells Chicken Noodle Soup minus the noodle and MSG and with a little pinch Togo greegree thrown in. We washed our hands together over the fire as the cigarette smoking, Ray Charles looking, charlatan poured the water causing new smoke to rise.

This type of ceremony happened two more times this day. I left full from the sacrificed chicken, which ended up being my breakfast for the day. I later learned that the chicken sacrifices were for a rabbit-raising project that I’m working with. Killing chickens to save rabbits. Puzzling.

There’s a saying among Togolese, although I don’t think it has or should receive adage status. “If you’re a Christian or Muslim during the day, you are an animist at night.” Lately, I’ve taken quite an interest on the topic of animism, or greegre, as it is very popular in my village and in the region I live in. I neglect to compare animism to what most people would refer as voodoo for two reasons. Voodoo sort of carries the connotation of devil worshiping, but through the research I’ve been doing in the form of asking questions, being curious, attending rituals, and watching sacrifices (the usual), I have found out that animism differs greatly from the heart ripping voodoo of Indian Jones and the Temple of Doom and although I’m no expert, I would imagine animism probably would resemble traditional Native American beliefs, after the introduction of Christianity and smallpox. This is no surprise when you see how close to the earth the people in my village live.

Sitting under the thatched roof of Bar L’amite one morning, trying to beat the heat, I asked a friend of mine to help me understand better greegree, how its practiced, and the differences between sorcery, voodoo, etc. He explained many things, a lot of which I couldn’t exactly follow, but one example he gave was that if someone was sick with a stomach ache, which in Togo there is no such thing as a simple stomach ache, you would walk into the bush to look for a root or tree known to fix the illness. After performing a small ritual, which more or less is simply preparing the bark of a tree or root in a sauce or soup, you would give this substance to the person who is ill and he or she would then be “healed.” Not exactly like popping a Pepto and continuing on your way. Thus, instead of paying homage to a deity, you would pay homage to the tree, root, or bush itself. The notion of greegree carries a lot of weight for many people in my village. My host family keeps a small bundle of feathers tied to a branch of the orange tree in my compound. One day I asked why this was and Gbati told me that someone had stolen oranges from the tree and the bundle of feathers was to prevent the person from stealing again because, if he did, the greegree would make him fall ill, or worse. One day, as I was getting ready to leave my house to go to the market, Gbati came over and told me not to eat anything at the market that day. I was hungry and asked him why and he said the radio in Bassar announced that a sorcerer (the bad form of greegree) had put an evil cham on the food in the market and if you ate it you would tombe malade. I took my chance, didn’t get sick, but was a bit unnerved by the lack of people eating in the market that day.

keep on digging

2010-03-19T04:28:00.000-07:00

I tell you what, Its hotter than 6 fat women packed into a Dodge Neon, with no A/C, roaring down I-75 heading to a Kenny Chesney concert at Lakewood Amphitheatre on an muggy GA-August afternoon. I was told that March was the hot month. I didn’t believe it then as I thought every other month was hot. I believe it now. Relief from the heat comes in the form of 2-3 bucket baths of warm water a day. Sometimes you can catch a breeze while you’re still wet—its what I count on. Sleeping, or even hanging out, indoors hasn’t happened in the past 4 weeks as the tin roof radiates heat. Every night I lay down on my mat outside my door and enjoy the nighttime breeze. Mama and Gbati share a mat 15 paces from my door and between us rest a group of 12 or so of Gbati’s friends who come over during the week to study the day’s lesson under the lone lightbulb outside Mama and Gbati’s door. They study, but it always seems to turn into a farting contest, which of course, results in bursts of laughter from the participants. It kills me that kids are the same everywhere.

The other day it rained, which is probably the coolest thing in Africa, literally. The stars are a close second. When it rains, it pours. It was getting to be dusk. I sat in my chair and watched the clouds move in between the mountains and I could hear thunder rumbling off in some nameless distance over the sound of the mosque in Bikotiba calling for evening prayer. I sat with my shirt unbuttoned and my pants rolled up as I waited for the rain, giddy like a newborn goat that I would be able to finally sleep inside again, or at least for the night.

There was a presidential election in Togo earlier this month—you may or may not have heard about it. I walked the 2k to the polls at the ecole primaire with Umain, my mama in Bikotiba, and Gbati, my 12 year old brother. Gbati and I waited with other folks from Bikotiba while Mama voted. While we waited I watched a gray, dry season, haze move past the mountain separating Bassar from Bikotiba. I thought about the similarities between elections in Togo and the US, felt the giddiness of people waiting to cast their votes, and smiled with those who walked away from the polls proudly showing off their purple, ink-stained fingers.

Later on, a day or two later, as the country waited for the results, I rode my bike through Bassar. The streets were literally empty, giving off a very eerie feeling and you could almost cut the tension in the air with a knife. It was quite a change from the campaign period when motos and bushtaxis would constantly be on the move with people waving banners and racing through the streets celebrating their candidates. Being an apolitical Peace Corps Volunteer, I steered away from political conversation and activities. Nevertheless, the excitement of democracy was ever present during the campaign season here in Togo.

I was walking through the bush with my friend Gnon, the best bartender/mechanic in the world, when we heard the election results. We were looking for a medicinal root to give to Gnon’s 91 year old mother who was ill. As we were digging into the hard, dusty soil I looked over and saw Diogie, my dog, chasing after something and heard a muffled roar from one village 6k away, followed by another roar from another village, and soon after that we heard Bikotiba expressing its excitement. I looked at Gnon and, unsurprised, he said they must have announced the election results. We kept on digging until we found what we were looking for.

traveling

2010-02-27T01:41:00.000-08:00

The bush taxi had fifteen places available. I got to the station in Sokode, bought my ticket to Bassar, fought off a few relentless vendors and a fou who kept insisting that I take him back to America with me. I told him I was going to swim and he lost interest. My ticket read number 12, which, in any other situation, only three more people would be necessary to get the show on the road—so they say. Not in Togo.

Traveling in this country is something that will change your outlook on life. Not because it’s pleasant. I was talking with another Peace Corps volunteer the other day and we got on the topic of traveling by bush taxi in Togo. I told him my method for staying sane when traveling is by literally turning into jello—from the moment you arrive at the station until you arrive at the destination. You just have to let the things that are going to happen, happen.

We got packed in, all 19 of us, and before I had time shift my legs in the cramped van, the driver told three more people to jump in. 22. We got moving along the dusty rocky road. I was in the middle of two rather large women, making an Adam sandwhich. The woman on my left shifted, resting her armpit on my head. On my right, the woman’s breast rested on my shoulder and she was nice enough to offer me a piece of her fried dough and pepper sauce. I politely declined, kept my eyes forward and began to drift off into a trance that lasted until I heard the woman on my left start making a mixture of clicking and hissing noises in order to express her dissatisfaction at the driver, who at that moment, was pulling over to pick up 5 more people on the side of the road. 23 and a goat in the van, 4 on riding on top. I continued daydreaming looking out the window, laughing to myself about my predicament and trying to picture different people I know sitting in this situation with me.

Two hours after we left the station, the van is screaming down the “paved” road from Bassar to Sokode, swirving in and out of potholes that more closely resemble bathtubs. Every once in a while the driver’d hit one, shocking our spines and setting off a string of hisses and clicks of dissatisfaction. Two hours go by without a spoken word. Then someone in the crowd yells at the driver to stop because a little girl was getting sick—something I felt like doing myself. I stayed in the van and in lala land while every got out to use the restroom on the side of the road, or to walk around and stretch. We got moving again, the little girl was now beside the window in case she had another vomit attack so the vehicle wouldn’t have to stop. We pass a few more villages of mud houses and swirve in and out of a few more “bathtubs.” The van stopped, startling me out of my daydream—I think I was on hole 13 of Augusta National, or maybe at a Drive-By Truckers concert. I looked up to see the driver getting out of the car with his prayer mat and beads. I looked at my watch and realized I’d picked the worst time to travel in Togo—1:30 on a Friday afternoon, the most important time for prayer during the week for Muslims. The driver put the 27 passengers on hold to fulfill his duty and an hour later we were back on the road.

BOOM!!! A very recognizable sound riding down a bumpy road in a packed taxi—the tire went out. We all got out. The driver did a 14-second change and we were back on the road. This happened again before we made it back to Bassar.

We made it. Dusty, tired, cramped, dirty. Back to Bassar. I snapped out of my jello, trance-like state, hurried out of the van, and flagged a moto to hitch a ride back to my village.

noises

2010-01-22T00:15:00.000-08:00

Women chatting and laughing outside my window, motos racing by on the semi-eroded footpaths that seem to slither their way from village to village, and Bar La-mite blaring African jams until the wee hours of the morning are the sounds of Bikotiba breathing and what I usually fall asleep to every night. However, these nightly occurrences abruptly come to a halt at some point in the night and I often find myself creeping out of my house during this time to enjoy the silence of Bikotiba holding its breath.
An explosion of confused roosters frantically trying to claim their territory for the day, followed by the domestic chatter of women as they walk to the well to get water means its time rise and greet the day. The mornings are favorite part of the day in part because you can almost catch a shiver. These momentary, bursts of shaking are hard to come by in West Africa considering Togo’s proximity to the equator. However, right now it’s the dry season and its been cool lately because of the harmattan—a dry, dusty, wind coming off the Sahara Desert that usually makes it down to the West African coast during December-February. I now understand why the word “gust” is used to describe a brief, strong rush of wind as I thought the roof was going to fly off my house the other night. In the morning I seem to be the only on in village who is not bundled up and explain to folks that I’m used to this kind of weather. Its still hot, in my opinion, but if you ask a Togolese person they will tell you that you haven’t seen anything yet, that this is the “cold season.” Apparently the heat really turns up in March and April.
As I leave my compound, I immediately intercept an elderly woman who usually spends her days shirtless, sitting, and staring. She is walking with her cane and spots me exiting my compound and I’m greeted with a toothless smile. I stop, squat down—age determines how low you go—and proceed with a string of greetings in Bassar that lasts around 15 seconds (count to 15 right now and think of greeting someone for that time—I thought “gassers” at football practice were bad). I continue my stroll through the village, stopping and greeting where necessary, and aimlessly taking paths that wind in and out of family’s huts. I have a goal in mind.
The path to the farms. I can see it in the distance, only three more families to go. I’m there. Nothing but African bush for as far as the eye can see. Bikotiba is the end of the road, so they say. Oh crap! Who’s that? Nooo, it’s the chief walking out of the tall grass! It looks like he’s just finished taking care of his morning “business.” Ok Adam—stay calm, breath…concentrate, dominate, celebrate. Here we go. Time to squat down. Do I greet first? Oh good! He’s telling me to stand (it’s the thought that counts). Oh I hope he “used” his left hand. What’s he saying? I can’t understand him!!! Get a hold of yourself! Mumble, mumble, mumble, mumble, mumble. He smiling and walking away!!! Whew. I wonder what he’ll tell his three wives? I hope he likes me.
I made it. The sound of the village is long gone, just footsteps on the crunchy sand and the birds’ song which I can’t quite make out. I continue until I turn around to head back, sometimes walking until I find another person—that can take a while. As I reach the hill that overlooks the hill overlooking Bikotiba I can begin to make out the faint noises of a bustling village, rocking with life.
On this screen, I can’t smell the woodstoves burning, or feel the cool breeze coming off the mountain. I can’t hear the roosters, nor can I fully explain the gift of connection I’m starting to develop with the village. It’s within the noises that I am beginning to feel the heartbeat of Bikotiba.

Bassar market

2009-12-29T01:45:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

NEW ADDRESS:

Adam Smith, Corps de la Paix
B.P. 81
Bassar, Togo
West Africa

Sometimes we forget where our food comes from…its easy to when the “fresh” chicken we eat is neatly wrapped in cellophane. Frozen vegetables, frozen pizza, bread in bags, and every tasty treat you could ever want all readily available, 24/7. I’ve tried to explain this concept to some of my Togolese friends and they think I’m joking or say I’m lying...”Gbandi, why would you ever want to eat a frozen vegetable?” or “you mean the food you eat doesn’t grow in your village?” I reply by saying—often no one knows where his or her food comes from (other than the neighborhood Piggly Wiggly), or what’s in it for that matter. Again, they laugh at me like I’m crazy, but if you really think about what we eat and how we get our food, it is kinda crazy…

Market day is Bassar is every Saturday and little by little I’m beginning more familiar with this crucial element of the Togolese economy and Togolese life in general. Last market day I put on my finest pagne shirt and made the journey into Bassar. On my way, passing countless women dressed in brightly colored fabric, or pagne, carrying huge baskets on their head with everything from dried fish, to electronics, to pharmacy products. It is truly amazing to see how much stuff can be piled in these baskets especially when some women will travel upwards of 10k on foot for market day with these huge loads.

When you arrive in Bassar on Market day I think the first thing you notice is the smell—the dried fish, burning oil, food cooking, engine fumes, and animals all throw into a mélange that is the Bassar Market. The facades of boutiques shield the market and the market itself covers roughly the size of 2 or 3 football fields. As you enter the market a transformation takes place and you quickly become engulfed in the crowd of people moving around this crazy labyrinth of bright colors and screaming vendors. I wander, keeping my eyes on the horizon, moving past women trying to sell vegetables, beans, rice, and maize laid out on mats in the hot African sun.

Last Saturday, as I was wandering around the market, not looking for anything in particular, I found myself lost and surrounded by dead animal heads, the stench of meat cooking in the sun, chickens squawking as they loose their head, clueless goats, proud, cocky roosters oblivious to their fate, and the butcher yelling and taking orders by pointing his bleeding hammer. I rushed through this section of the market swatting flies and the steam of fresh meat knowing I will never think of a double cheeseburger from McDonalds or a bucket of chicken from KFC the same way again.

I escaped the “meat market” with my head and all my limbs intact (unlike the aforementioned parties) and found myself wandering through yet another labyrinth of vendors except this time their goods more or less resembled the Salvation Army clothing line. This is the “Dead Yovo Market.” The name is derived not from the selling of dead yovos (I have yet to find that market...), but from the belief rampant among Togolese that no one (alive) in their right mind would throw away perfectly good things, thus all the clothes must have belonged to dead white people. The name makes too much sense.

The constant barrage from vendors coupled with the sheer multitude of people meandering through the market almost makes Christmas shopping at Wal-mart seem tame (I’ve yet to see anyone get trampled). By the time I left the “Dead Yovo Market” I was exhausted, tired, and dirty and felt like I had walked a thousand miles, but it really only ended up being from one side of the market to the other.

I am now at post and have been for the past month. Internet doesnt exist where I live and the closest connection is aprx 2 hrs away so be patient when it comes to internet coorespondence...the best way to reach me is through "snail mail" (address above...packages/letters are welcome) and telephone--my number is: country code 228 745.9394 (I think Skype works fairly well 10 bucks for 20 min and it doesnt cost me anything if you call). Things are going well as I am slowly becoming more and more familiar with life here.
Tinda Bar (Happy Holidays)

rocked by a chevre

2009-12-03T06:44:00.000-08:00

The other day I watched a tiny, lonely goat eat over-grown grass under a monument to an ego in a military uniform, or a past Togolese president. The monument was in the middle of the African bush on a blacktop the size of three football fields. The huge concrete statue was pointing at the ground in conquest and this ego-hand was pointing to the spot where 20 years earlier a “plane had crashed” and this president had been the only passenger to survive. I’m sure he “walked away.” The plane was still there and surrounding it was a massive, empty pavilion that looked like it should have been filled with classes of field tripping sixth-graders. It wasn’t and smelled like mildew. This massive monument to this past president was in the middle of nowhere and the road leading to it passed by tiny Togolese villages that could use some help. The road made me car sick. This president is dead now, but his memory lives on in the middle of nowhere. Just look for the lonely little goat, he's hanging out with irony.

Goodbyes are tough wherever you are and having to say goodbye to the family that I have lived with for the past three months was harder than I expected. The morning as I was leaving for my post, my host father and mother called me in the common area, sat me down, grabbed me by the hand and told me to “be careful…don’t stay out late...don’t drink too much, don’t smoke, watch what you eat, and have patience…” Good advice for anyone, I think. I said goodbye to my Togolese family, the ones who have “raised” me to be Togolese, said goodbye to my friends in Gbatope, the Peace Corps training staff, and set out for Lome to swear-in as a Peace Corps volunteer at the US Embassy on December 3, 2009. The next phase is beginning. Saturday I move to my village post in the mountains of Kara outside of Bassar. My home for the next two years…

Today is December 3, 2009—It’s a beautiful day in Lome, Togo, hot but cool under the shade at Hotel Galion. It was a hectic morning at the Grand Marche buying things I need for my house and trying not the get ripped off by the vendors. It was a lot of fun though. At first glance the market, or all of Lome for that matter, looks like a city tinkering on the brink of chaos and confusion. However, after spending some time here I am beginning to see some the intricate microcosms that hold this place together and believe me its not the police, meter maids, stop lights, or anything that helps maintain a level of order in the US. In the marche prices are not set, and being a “yovo” it is presumed that I have money, which means the first price is always ridiculously high. What happens next is a series of exchanges, or game rather with the end goal being a price that more resembles what a local would pay (most of the time, I lose…it takes practice and is very much a part of Togolese culture). This bargaining routine requires a lot of shooting the breeze, dropping the local language every now and again, and convincing the “marche mama” that your business in the future is more important than a one-time “sucker-punch.” I’ve been ripped off plenty…the second week in Togo I paid 300% too much for three oranges. Live and learn. I didn’t go back to that vendor. So it goes…

the world is a village

2009-11-07T04:15:00.000-08:00

The world is a village…it is hard to believe that I have cell-phone reception as I am at post outside of Bassar in the mountains of Kara. I am writing as I am on post-visit for one-week and living in the village that I will call home for the next two years. Unexplainable things have occurred over the past two days…the odd and unusual is now reduced to a strange state of normalcy. Is it strange that I step over 8 goats as I walk to my morning shower? Not in Togo.
The village is beautiful—which I feel weird and almost guilty saying because of reasons I can’t really explain, but it is. Life goes on here. And I assure you that “life” is the same here as it is wherever you may be. It may do things differently, but it still moves. It talks. And it laughs—a lot. In just two short days I have realized that privacy may be out of the question for my time here as it seems I have recruited a marching band’s worth of company wherever I go. This ensemble enjoys giggling at my feet (I think it’s the hair on the toes), following and imitating my every move, and running away whenever I turn around. It’s a funny sight. As I am writing this I hear giggling at my door. Luckily if I stay quiet enough they will leave, or I can scare them by opening the door and screaming…it depends on the mood.

As it stands right now, chickens 2…Adam 0. I have been beaten. Twice. I don’t even really know what happened, one minute I was walking along the path to the tech house, minding my own business, the next minute I am running away from an angry chicken trying to peck me. Apparently I got to close to her chicks? I saw that chicken a few days later and turned and walked the other way. Vengeance is coming…in due time. Maybe Thanksgiving?

Back to village---So far I have spent the week meeting my work counterparts, village elders, and officials/security officers in the neighboring city of Bassar. I have probably eaten 60 bananas and certainly had my share of tchouck-tchouck. Yesterday (not really…but the other day)…I went with my homologue to the primary school. It was pretty overwhelming as it was not unusual for the 7-8 classes to have over 80 kids…that’s 3 or 4 to a desk. As I walked in each classroom every child methodically stood up and screamed “Bon soir Monsieur…” followed by a deafening “Comment ca-va?” A teacher was out sick on the day I visited. There are no substitutes. This particular teacher apparently taught two classes at the same time (~160 children) in two different classrooms and because of his absence, the two classes were combined into one with no sort of authority figure present…it was mayhem. A deafening mayhem. Now, a few days after, I think the visit to the school was definitely worth it. My homologue introduced me to the entire school as Monsieur Adam or Monsieur Gbandi, and I think told them that there would hell to pay if they addressed me as Yovo or blanche, ect…The other night, as I was cooking dinner, the ensemble gathered at the door to my compound and one by one walked up to me and greeted me… “Bon soir Mr. Gbandi, or Bon soir Mr. Adam…” It was better than “Yovo yovo, bon soir, ca vas bien, merci”…though I don’t think I’ve heard the last of the “Yovo song”

Last night my homologue invited me over to watch a video at his house. We watched various Togolese/Beninese music/dance videos…need I say more…try to YouTube it if you get really bored at work…I gladly accepted the invitation as it gave me something to do while I waited for my beans to cook. His house/family compound is a stone’s throw away from my house and his house doubles as a bar…I think…there was a grand party there the other night…I went for a bit—lots of dancing---and left, but the party was still going on when I woke up at 5 the next morning. I tried to ask my homologue what the occasion was and I’m pretty sure it’s a weekly occurrence…a sort of celebration for the end of one week and the beginning of another…I guess.

Today is Saturday November 7, 2009 and I am in the city of Kara after a 2-hr ride on the back of my homologues motorcycle finishing up post-visit week. The president’s family is from Kara, which means there are paved roads and apparently the city has an indoor market…Wal-mart? It was strange saying good-bye to my village after spending a week there…a bit sad, even though I will be back in ~4 weeks. Good news, I am very excited about returning and look forward to December. I hope all is well in your world as I have come to realize that I could be on another planet. Life is good here. I’m healthy, happy, and eating well. Until next time…

Du Courage.
Adam

gbatope

2009-10-24T03:30:00.000-07:00

A stomach full of Fufu--Eaten with my hands. Bucket showers. Malaria pills. Palm wine. As hard as it is to believe, I think I’m in Togo.

Word on the street in Togo is—Georgia is underwater, the Dawgs aren’t doing so hot, and I’m still a yovo. Bon jour tout le monde and greetings from Gbatope/Tsevie…depends on where I am when I finish this post. I hope all is well in the states; it’s hard to believe I’ve been here for a month and regret that I haven’t been able to post on here more frequently. I’ve been in quite a whirlwind these past few weeks, but life is good.

As you probably imagine, life in Togo is a bit different from life in America. Days go by slow and weeks go by fast, but lately the days have been going by just as fast as how slow they normally go by. It’s strange. I’m trapped in some sort space-time continuum. "Togo-time" I guess.

No alarms are necessary as roosters typically begin their morning routine around 3:45am—I’m convinced all of Togo sounds the same in the morning. Roosters crowing immediately followed by incessant sweeping as the country begins it day. When chicken makes it to the dinner table (rare) I eat it with a vengeance and feel like I am doing the country a service. I am beginning to hate those birds….live and let live for now I guess. Anyways, my host family is a very Catholic, very patriarchal family. I have four sisters ranging from 7 to 22, a brother I’ve yet to meet (he works in Lome), and a nephew who is nine months. I eat every meal (breakfast, lunch, and dinner) with my host father. My host mother is an excellent cook…pate rouge, fufu avec sauce d’arachide, pate sauce d’legume (spelling may be off) are some of my favorites and the fresh fruit from the trees behind the house is a great treat. I have bananas, papaya, and oranges coming out of my ears. They have a table and two chairs---of the houses of friends/neighbors that I’ve been to, my house is the only one with a table. Not sure if it is a status symbol, as they don’t seem to exist here, but I know it is a source of pride for my host father.

I begin everyday with a run. My goal by the end of training is the town of Tsevie, 12k roundtrip. It’s going to happen very soon. Next 4 hours of language, basically a one on one class. Exhausting. Tomorrow I begin local language (Bassar…the locql language of my post)along with my French studies. I will get to more of this later, but I’m excited about learning local language as it is “the key” to communication on many different levels in village.

After lunch, the best social norm of all time—nap time followed by a bucket shower---in the south, water is more readily available so three to four bucket showers a day is not uncommon for the Togolese, which is very refreshing after a hot, humid nap. I don’t know why naptime hasn’t caught on in the US…. Technical training is in the afternoon, which usually consists of garden work (experimenting with planting techniques, crop rotation, etc), tree/plant id, lecture, info on the general environment of Togo. Home at 6. Dinner at 7. Bed at 8:30 or 9. Without electricity, lights out in Gbatope literally means lights out.

In a week or so I leave for my first post-visit or “demystification.” The post visit will be my first exposure to the village that I will be living in for the next two years. I will spend the week moving into my new home and begin getting to know my village. I will meet my primary counterpart, village chief/village elders, and visit other volunteers who are posted in my region.
My post is located roughly 3k south of the city of Bassar. Bassar is the yam capitol of Togo, so I expect to eat lots of fufu and coli co (sp?) over the next two years. I told my host family where I was going and the first thing they mentioned was how much fufu I was going to eat…

Right now all I know of my post is a paragraph description of my village and some information about Bassar. My village has aprx. 3,000 people and is a purely agricultural village located on a dirt road outside of Bassar. I will be the first volunteer to serve there. According to the project description—The volunteer has been requested to help improve agricultural techniques including the processing of local farm products. The village hopes to combine their animal husbandry and farming techniques into a symbiosis. Also, the village development committee would also like to start a village health clinic and a village savings and loan. A packet detailing my post is on its way from the north and should arrive in Gbatope later in the week. Based on the information I have right now I think it is going to be a good fit. I really like the projects that are being developed and am extremely excited about my involvement with them.

I’ll post more when I get the chance.
Look out for photos...
Thanks for the emails
Send letters.
National Geographic is cool.
So are newspapers.
Tasty treats are good too.

Du courage.

lights out means lights out

2009-10-10T09:59:00.000-07:00

bon soir to you all
10 min left on the internet at the cyber cafe
Thanks for the emails, I will try to respond when I get the time
Life is good
Togo is cool
No electricity as of now
Letters, articles, etc are encouraged and welcomed
replys are guaranteed
My family is great
Language is coming along slowly, but surely
Learning alot
Patience and humor is key
I have phone now
number is: 0112287459394: itll be on on the weekends...holla at me
I hope all is well in the states
Be thankful...

Lome

2009-09-22T11:11:00.000-07:00

Bon jour! I am writing this to you all form Hotel Gallion in the heart of Lome, Togo. Internet is a bit screwy and life (at least life as a Peace Corps trainee, "Togo time," is a bit different) has been moving pretty fast so I am going to keep this brief and hopefully in the next few months I will be able to elaborate more on what is going on here. It is a very strange feeling to be writing this email to you all and you would know what I mean if you could see and hear the street that runs parallel to the window beside my bed. For the past few days I have been woken up to the sound of roosters at the crack of dawn, followed shortly by the sound of incessant sweeping of women clearing the dirt/dust off their "doorsteps" (which is basically the dirt road in front of their homes), and the intoxicating smell of cooking oil as the women prepare the stoves for the days cooking. This is everyday in Lome, but it is great. The people are friendly and love the Peace Corps and the Peace Corps staff and current PCVs have made us feel right at home and have prepared us well for the task ahead of us. Tomorrow, I am leaving for my training site, Gbatope, for the next three months about 35km outside of Lome. The town has no electricity and I'm not sure what my internet capabilities will be for the next three months, so get your pens and paper ready! There is an EMS post (Togo PC mail service) 6km from my site. I will be living with a host family and basically easing in to Togolese village life during this time. It should be very interesting and I am anticipating a very awkward, laughter filled, and exhausting evening tomorrow night. Life is about experiences and I am excited about the one that is ahead of me.

I plan on getting a cell phone soon, but probably after training. I'll post the number when I get one.

Its always sunny in Philadelphia

2009-09-18T03:29:00.000-07:00

An early morning. I can only imagine that getting used to the sounds of Togo will be just as, if not more difficult, than getting used to the sound of the city. A combination of city noise, hotel anxiousness, and excitement are some of the reasons for my insomnia.

Today is the day we leave for the land of Togo. At our orientation session yesterday, a common theme that seemed to be generated over and over again was the very surreal feeling of being in Philadelphia and finally on our way after a seemingly endless application process.

The adventure is beginning. Today we begin our immunizations, which will carry over into Togo shortly after we arrive Saturday evening around 8:30. My flight leaves Philly around 630 tonight (Friday), a roughl 6 hour layover in Paris, and from Paris a 6 ½ hour flight to Lome, Togo. In our brief orientation yesterday, we were all asked what we were most excited about and I could not help but think of the first night we arrive in country. The feeling of finally getting there, settling down, and spending my first night in Togo is something that has seemed so far away at times and now the reality of finally getting there is the reason I only had four hours of sleep.

Looking forward to my next post, which will be in Togo. Hopefully I’ll have some cool stories.

All the best.

In the words of Weaver D..."communicaation"

2009-08-26T08:03:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Macon, GA...soon to be greetings from Lome, Togo…

It is getting extremely close to my departure date and as I finish my packing and arrange my travel plans I thought I would post some information about my communication capabilities while in Togo.

Mythreeacres.blogspot.com---From what I can tell, my blog will be the easiest way to stay in touch and will act as sort of a “mass travel email” except I will not be filling up your inboxes. Mythreeacres will always be there so you can look it up at your leisure. I will try to update it regularly, although I am not sure what my internet capabilities will be quite yet. Not only is there a lack of infrastructure to access the internet but many of the cybercafes that I will be using contain old computers that run off generators. I will do my best to post at least once a month... Needless to say, I think I will be flying by the seat of my pants for the first few months. I think I am getting pretty good at doing that.

Another cool aspect of mythreeacres is after every post there is room to leave a comment, so if you have questions about Togo or my involvement there, leave a comment and I can respond. One of the Peace Corps missions is to foster a cultural exchange so if you have questions about Togo: its history, people, culture, etc, please ask away.

Email—I look forward to receiving emails and promise to respond whenever I can…aysmith1@gmail.com…quick, easy way to say hello. While email will be available, I think the best way to reach me is using ancient mail...write/type something, buy a stamp and send it away.

Cell phone---While the third/fourth world may be suffering from malnourishment, poverty, HIV/AIDS, and other diseases, cell phone service seems to be available in many parts of the country. In Togo, the telephone system has fairly reliable service to the US but varies depending on where you are in the country. For the most part volunteers in Togo all have cell phones. I have an international phone that I will be taking but I do not know the number and will post it once I set up service in Togo. My cell phone will probably be the easiest way to reach me should the need arise, although it is quite expensive. In terms of calling me, its best for you to call me as opposed to me calling you as it is very expensive for me to make international calls on a Peace Corps budget. Some advice I’ve gotten suggested that if I want to talk to you, I should text you first with the phrase "Call Me" and then have you call me on my cell. Apparently texting works great and is relatively cheap so don’t be alarmed if you receive a Togolese text message.

Mail---Not email…Mail does exist in Togo and I even have an address:

Adam Smith, PCT

Corps de la Paix

B.P. 3194

Lomé, Togo

Afrique de l'Oues

*PCT—Peace Corps Trainee, after December I will be sworn in as a volunteer so my title will change to *PCV—Peace Corps Volunteer.

I’m not sure how the mail will work quite yet and imagine that it will take some time to reach me, but DON’T BE DISCOURAGED!!---I look forward to corresponding the ancient way and promise that anything that reaches me will be cherished and a reply is guaranteed. So, write a letter, fix a package, buy a stamp, go to the local post office and support the mail service that has been around since 1860.

Some advice for sending mail:

When sending postcards, place them in a regular envelope before sending as postcards can go missing and get stolen.

Mail is less likely to be opened/stolen if you write my address in red ink; mail is also less likely to be opened if it appears to contain religious material. So throw a "father" in front of my name; draw a couple of crosses; and perhaps write your favorite bible verse…

Send articles from local newspapers, sports, magazines, funny stuff etc…I want to keep up with the world events and what going on in your lives so when sending letters attach an article or two. It's a great way to save space in an envelope addressed to me.

Notes from the Peace Corps---

"The mail service in Togo is not as efficient as the U.S. Postal Service. Thus, it is important to be patient. It can take from three to four weeks for mail coming from Togo to arrive in the United States via the Togolese mail system.

From a Volunteer’s post, mail might take up to one to two months to reach the United States depending upon how far the Volunteer is from the capital city, Lomé. Sometimes mail is hand carried to the States by a traveler and mailed through the U.S. postal system. This leg of the trip can take another several weeks as it is also dependent on the frequency of travelers to the U.S.

We suggest that in your first letters, you ask your Volunteer family member to give an estimate of how long it takes for him or her to receive your letters and then try to establish a predictable pattern of how often you will write to each other. Also try numbering your letters so that the Volunteer knows if he or she missed one.

Peace Corps Togo has established “The Lomé Limo” which runs up and down the country monthly, delivers mail, medical supplies, and sometimes volunteers or staff to central sites along the national road.

It is recommended that packages be sent in padded envelopes if possible, as boxes tend to be taxed more frequently. Packages can be sent via surface mail (2-3 weeks arrival time) or by ship (4-6 months). The difference in cost can be a factor in deciding which method to utilize.

For lightweight but important items (e.g. airline tickets), DHL (an express mail service) does operate in Lomé, but costs are very expensive. If you choose to send items through DHL, you must address the package to the Country Director, s/c Corps de la Paix, 48 Rue de Rossignols, Quartier Kodjoviakopé, Lomé, Togo. The telephone number for the Peace Corps office in Togo is (228) 221-0614, should DHL need this information.

If you send the item to the Country Director, no liability can be assumed. For more information about DHL, please call their toll free number, 1-800-CALL-DHL, or visit their web site at www.dhl.com. Please be aware that there is a customs fee for all DHL packages sent to Volunteers. For each DHL package, the Volunteer will be taxed 10,000 CFA (roughly US$20)."

I hope this info is useful. Please email me if you have questions…If you have questions of things that you can send me while I am in Togo, I promise I will post items on mythreeacres once I am in country.

Later.

photo update

2009-08-04T15:54:00.000-07:00

A friendly shout-out to William Wickey who has motivated me to give the world wide interweb an update on my life at Flatwoods Farm. Also, many thanks to Tim and Lucy for sending me the pics....

"Migrant worker"---in the back-40

praying for rain

Cantaloupe patch is almost ready

chilling while laying plastic thanks to the new plastic laying machine...

"My three acres" in full bloom

Close to a month before I depart for the land of Togo. I'm getting very anxious, excited, but most of all ready to begin this adventure. I received an email from a former Togo volunteer who offered some very encouraging words. He attached this incredible photo of a Togolese (Vogan market) market from 1971.

Aspiration statement

2009-07-08T07:16:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I received an email from my country desk asking for an aspiration statement that will be sent to the Togo Country office. I have pasted the statement below:

For the past year and a half I have tried to imagine what life would be like as a Peace Corps volunteer. I have read everything I could get my hands on about the program, life as a volunteer, and how I would fit into the organization. I have talked to past volunteers, old and young, and it seems that a general consistency throughout my conversations is that each PCV experience is different and it is best to approach service with an open mind, flexibility, patience, and most of all a sense of humor. I have expectations about service in Togo but I imagine that I will be surprised to find out that life in Togo is not going to be what I expect it to be. This excites me.

I have been pursuing this program long before I sat down and started the application process. I have had time to analyze the benefits, as well as, the costs and sacrifices that I will make. This has allowed me to develop my own expectations, which inevitably leads to developing personal goals associated with Peace Corps service, an aspect that I believe is crucial to Peace Corps success. In understanding that my expectations are likely to change, many of the goals and objectives I wish to accomplish are fluid and will vary as I adapt to a new country and culture. I also hope that as I gain experience as a volunteer, my goals and objectives will become more specific to better serve the community and people I will be working with. As of now my expectations, goals and objectives include:

Move outside of my “comfort zone” and the “bubble of academia” in order to share the skills and knowledge I have acquired to further development in an area where my presence is requested
Foster a cultural exchange in which I will be able to learn from a new culture, as well as, share my own.
Master a new language
Keep my personality but adapt it to whatever situation I may be in
Adapt the skills and knowledge I have acquired when faced with challenging situations
Learn things about myself
Live modestly/humbly
Share my experience and enable my family and friends to live vicariously in Togo through various means of communication
Become a “citizen of the world” by creating lifelong friendships and a second family while I am in Togo

I believe that education extends far beyond the walls of the classroom. Education involves experiences in which one is able to see the differences in people and places and apply these differences to ones own background and personal experiences. I majored in International Affairs at the University of Georgia and my studies primarily focused around researching topics related to world politics, international law, and international development. Along with my major classes, I focused my studies around learning about various peoples and cultures, as well as, courses relating to resource management and resource economics. I hope to share the knowledge I have acquired in the classroom with the Togolese community that I will be working with. I have also held jobs throughout high school and college in which I have worked beside people from very different socio-economic backgrounds and know that the technical knowledge that I have acquired will be useful in whatever technical situation I may be in, if nothing more than to prepare me for the physical/manual stress that will accompany working in Natural Resource Management/Agriculture.

I have always thought of myself as a very adaptable person. My strategy for adapting to life in Togo will start with the basics---housing, food, work and from there build a base of friends from which I can learn more about the culture. Having friends you can depend on in a new environment is crucial because they form your basic support system. If there are things I can’t understand or if I have questions about the country I think it is important to have these allies in order to avoid violating social customs or looking out of place. I plan on being honest and clear to ensure that my needs are met and I am able to complete my task. I will try to find as many friends as possible to help me have resources to depend upon when issues arise. I will start small, using my host family and their friends and as time goes by I hope to develop friendships with my co-workers and other members of the community.

During PST I am most excited about being immersed in French language studies, as well as, learning about the culture I will be living in for 27 months. I also hope to gain a stronger understanding of the agricultural environment in Togo in terms of both technical and traditional methods. I am excited to learn more about my job as a Natural Resource Management Agent and looking forward to working with local farmers and community groups in developing NRM techniques.

I imagine service in the Peace Corps will propel my life in a direction that is conducive to my personal goals and aspirations. It is a program that facilitates my present and ultimate goals. I do not think Peace Corps service will make me a different person, but I’m excited to gain a different perspective, which will hopefully allow me to solidify the path I will take once service is complete. I’m hoping to develop my passions and pursue these passions once service is complete. After service I plan on pursuing the USA/Fellows program studying environmental management. Ultimately, I hope to come home and share my experiences with my fellow Americans with the hope that I can expand their opinions about people of different nationalities and religious backgrounds.

my three acres update

2009-06-22T19:06:00.000-07:00

Invitation issued...

2009-06-20T21:03:00.001-07:00

I arrived in Macon today after spending some time in Leefield, GA (south GA) with my grandparents and found my Peace Corps invitation packet waiting for me on the kitchen counter...I was notified via email that I had become an invitee, however actually seeing the package with the information detailing the next two years of my life was a bit overwhelming. Nevertheless, I hurriedly opened the package to find that I had been assigned to a Natural Resource Management Position in Togo, West Africa. Togo is a very tiny African country on the Atlantic side. Its neighbors are Ghana to the west and Benin to the east. If you have trouble finding it: 1. Locate Nigeria 2. go West along the coast 3. After about two-three inches (depending on the map), stop and your finger should be on Togo.

Togo has a long history of collaboration with Peace Corps volunteers since its inception in 1962. The NRM project in Togo is focused on assisting individuals, extension agents, groups, and communities to evaluate the condition of and plan for the sustainable utilization of their existing natural resources. The projects focus on promoting a wise and sustainable use of natural resources through forestry and agro-forestry techniques to improve the general environmental condition and the quality of life in the Togolese communities where these projects are happening. Im happy with the assignment and pumped about working with natural resources as it has been an interest of mine for some time now.

I have photos of the progress so far with "my three acres" that need to be posted. That is the next thing on my to do list. Ill continue to update as things move forward...peace out.

2009-06-20T20:53:00.000-07:00

my three acres before...

plowing...disking...drag harrowing...

planted with buckwheat and alice clover... notice the hint of green coming up

The beginning...

2009-06-08T20:37:00.000-07:00

I have decided to join the wonderful interweb by starting a blog which will follow "my three acres" at the wonderful Flatwoods Farm in Elberton, GA. This will hopefully transition into a "Peace Corps blog" to detail my experiences in working as an Agriculture volunteer in West Africa starting in mid-September.

As for my progress thus far with the Peace Corps...

I began applying in the beginning of October 2008, received and nomination for a Ag/Forestry program in West Africa in December, just recently received medical clearance, and now am awaiting a final placement. It has been a long process but it seems as though things are finally starting to dwindle down and a placement seems likely.

In the meantime, I have been working/volunteering at Flatwoods Farm in Elberton, GA (www.flatwoodsfarm.com). So far it has been a great experience and I have been learning much about various agriculture techniques and methods which will hopefully come in handy in the coming months.

This site is under construction so bear with me while I spice it up...