Joey makes quite the Santa

Christmas is not that big of a deal in Togo. People celebrate it, but nothing like back home. But the American International School, where I work, likes to infuse bits of U.S. culture into the environment. And what's Christmas for little ones without Santa?

Pretty Crappy, that's what.

The original Santa Clause bailed at the last minute. The director asked me the day before Santa's scheduled appearance if Joey would be willing to play the part.

What the director didn't know is that Mr. Joseph never turns down the opportunity to be in costume. Ever.

So it was her lucky day.

A few things to note about these pictures of Santa Joey:

1. The Santa suit was WAY too short for him. We all assumed this would be the case, so he came prepared with tall black socks. This worked to cover his legs when he was standing, but when he sat down you could see a strip of hairy-man-leg above his knee socks. If I didn't know better I might have thought he was of the creepy Santa sorts ;)

2. We couldn't get the pillow to stay on his stomach. It kept creeping up, making him look like a skinny santa with big boobs.

3. The morning assemblies are held under a Paillote, or little Tiki hut type thing. "Santa" had to bend down in order to come under and say hello to the kids. You'll see from the pictures that their initial ecstatic expressions turned wide-eyed as they looked up at him. As one little one said in a hushed voice: "I didn't know Santa was so tall."

4. Before that he rang that huge bell you see in the photos as he came down the hall. The kids were screaming their little heads off. Joey later told me that he was actually a little nervous about the whole thing: "I could see in their eyes that they actually thought I was Santa Clause."

5. Joey missed the best part of the morning when he was in hiding. Before Santa came, the little ones did some traditional African dancing for the school. You'll see the kids in a line and then each one stood in a circle drawn with chalk on the ground to do this funny little dance with their hips. It was a riot. I wish I had video to share.

We miss all of you very much during this holiday season. Enjoy this little tid-bit of the holidays in Togo!

Bet you Didn't Know!: This Week's Top 5

Last week I had the opportunity to attend a week-long training with an NGO on grant writing.

There was an interesting group of people in attendance: a Polish woman who heads the regional NGO office here, two German men from the International office, a Dutch woman who lives in Northern Ghana and heads up a childhood disability program, an Ethiopian eye surgeon who lives in Guinea and leads an eye care program, a Nigerian man working on self-help programs for women, an a man from Niger doing disability prevention work.

I wanted to share a few little nuggets from the week that you might find interesting:

V. There is such a thing as "Professional Crier" in West Africa. They are hired to attend the huge funeral celebrations that are culturally imperative here. Families will spend their life savings on throwing the biggest, most lavish funeral they can afford to honor those who've passed. In addition to live music, drinks, food, and gifts for guests, particularly well-off families will hire people to cry loudly at the burial. Those who can produce tears as well as hysterics are in very high demand.

IV. There's a belief among pregnant women in Northern Ghana that they can not eat eggs, as eggs are another creature's baby. Per their voodoo beliefs, if they eat eggs, some harm will be done to their own fetus. This belief has caused many a problems for non-profits who've come in preaching the importance of eating enough essential fats and proteins during pregnancy and saying there's a perfect solution for poor women in villages: eggs.

III. Similarly, if a child is born with a disability in Ghana, Togo, Benin and Burkina Faso, it's largely thought that the mother is to blame. She must have done something wrong to deserve the punishment of bearing a disabled child. These babies are hidden away from society (including doctors) and, in extreme cases, left to die. So when researching country data on disabilities, consider questioning Togo's report that only 3% of the population has any disabilities.

II. Throughout Central Africa, there is only 1 eye specialist for every 510,000 people. There's a neat program in Guinea that is trying to build up Africa's base of medical specialists in this field. It's touted as the only medical school in many surrounding countries to have things as basic as state of the art microscopes (3 of them) and a laser to actually do the eye surgeries. With the help of funding, they offer the chance to gain 2 years of specialty training in exchange for giving 4 years to a rural community in Africa.

I. There isn't a single doctor in all of Togo who can perform the surgery that heals vaginal fistulas. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, I highly recommend watching A Walk to Beautiful. Once you see this documentary (YouTube or NetFlix), you'll understand how terrible this is.

It was a really neat week. Maybe someday I'll get to see some of these programs in remote Ghana or Niger in person.

Prez's Main Lady Friend

The other night I accompanied Joey to a work dinner. It was a "casual" event, extended to all US Officers via the Ambassador, at her good friend's house in Lome. This friend just so happens to be a leading member of the opposition party here, and the likely candidate for Mayor. "Casual" is in quotation marks on purpose, just in case you didn't catch that.

I ended up sitting next to a Togolese woman at dinner who I'd been introduced to by name only. Based on the bling dripping from her neck and hands, I assumed she was the wife of a wealthy businessman. Mostly I was just trying to act normal while sitting at a dinner table with top government employees who were all being "casual" with each other.

Somehow manis, pedis and massages came up amongst the women and I mentioned a massage place down the street where you can get an hour and a half massage for $20. !!! Bling-Woman and the host's wife immediately perked up and started asking specifics: Where is said parlor? What does it look like inside? Is it classy? Are the massage rooms private? What kind of clientele does it have? Who's the masseuse? What is his name? What is his last name?

I was confused by the sternness of their tone, as is typical in many of my conversations with people here, because I lack the cultural cues I took for granted back home. I was equally clueless when Joey kept mentioning to the woman that she should call me to join me the next time I get a massage. It was weird.

I am typically the one who doesn't miss the meaning behind a single glance. But here I'm dumbfounded by an interrogation. It's unsettling to me and I find myself less confident in social situations.

The truth came out about the questions and who this woman was in the car on the way home. Turns out, Bling Woman was the President's Main Woman. Despite his many, many mistresses, she is the one the locals call "Mrs." and appears to be as close to a wife as this guy will ever have.

Obviously I spent all evening sitting next to the friggin' President's wife and had no idea.
It is flabbergasting how foreign and inaccessible this place is at times. How is that possible in this day and age with information galore that I've never seen a single picture of this woman, or heard of her? How can I have lived in a country for almost 6 months and be so unaware of this kind of thing?

Yet it happens to me all the time. This kind of thing happens ALL THE TIME. That fact is completely bizarre to me. I read the local news when I can get it, slim pickin's that it is. I listen to Joey's work-talk and know some of the unclassified embassy happenings. I've done as much homework on this country as any normal expat can do.

But information is hard to come by. Top officials make no bones about the fact that they have no obligation to explain themselves or their lives to anyone. They own the press. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that there's so little said about the inner workings of this country. But it does. There aren't many countries left in the world that remain so foreign.

I've been so curious since that evening. What is that woman's life like? How did she meet the President? How does she handle his 16 other woman? And even more kids? Is she with him for the money? Is it family influence? Power? Or does she love him? She seemed smart and articulate - does she feel passionately about her country's dire situation? Does she support the President in all he does to his face, or does she challenge him? Would we have anything in common?

I honestly can't begin to fathom the answers to the above.

I've never been so clueless. I take back my "WTF? face" to Joey a million times over for his valiant attempts to pimp me off on the President's Lady. I should have given her my number, per his many hints. ;)

BouBous

Sometimes when a few weeks go by and I haven't had a chance to write, I continue to stall and stall because there are just too many things to share.

So pardon my lack of chronology over the next couple of weeks as I attempt to catch up, as there are fashion shows and taxi dramas and detours in the middle of nowhere to describe. But for now, I will introduce you briefly to the glorious world of the African BouBou (pronounced Boo-Boo, yes, laugh, we did!).

Aunt Pat is visiting us right now. The poor thing arrived in Africa for the first time sans her suitcase. This isn't exactly a place you want to arrive while your luggage is stuck in Paris. There are no malls. No stores. I honestly still don't know where one would go to buy underwear (thank God she had that in her carry-on at least!). The director of my school, an American woman who's lived here for years and years, could only direct me to what the locals call the "Dead White People's Market," a place where tons of used clothing shows up and gets sold outdoors.

It's not actually filled with clothes from Dead White People, it's just that locals can't imagine why we'd all give away perfectly good clothing to strangers unless we'd died.

Imagine that.

Needless to say, Aunt Pat didn't want to go shopping there.

So we headed into the Grande Marche instead, the only other alternative, where African robes and Western clothing alike hang from lines strung between old tree branches that serve as store posts.

We were in search of BouBous.

The name itself provided some much needed comic relief to the experience as we wove through the packed, muddy streets of downtown Lome. Joe and I had walked through the Grande Marche before. But only as tourists. Never in search of something specific, which makes for a striking difference.

After avoiding all of the stalls of things we didn't want - drums, masks, fruit, beads, mobile phone cards, toasters, soccer cleats, crocodile bags, woven baskets and bedazzled Obama T-shirts - we finally spotted some BouBous: long, loose dresses made of African prints or batik materials. They said the one we wanted was 10,000CFA ($20) and Joey responded with the generous offer of 2,000CFA ($4). Thus began our first 10-minute-long negotiation in a mixture of French and Ewe.

The women all stood around awkwardly grinning at each other while our men haggled it out. One of the many gendered roles here I gladly abide by when I can. But that's for another day.

We eventually landed on 5,000CFA ($10) and the Togolese man who begrudgingly agreed on the end price smiled brightly as soon as we paid, broke into English to tell us that he'd studied briefly in Michigan, and started calling Joey a Togolese name (Kokou, meaning Tuesday - the day of the week Joey was born) as he took us in search of more BooBoos.

By the end of the day we had three BouBous for our efforst. Two for Trish to survive until her suitcase came, and one that I promised to wear with her in public. Which I amazingly got her to do. Once. Otherwise her two shirts from her carry-on ended up seeing a lot of Togo in the first week!

Trish was certainly glad to see her suitcase (7 days after she arrived) and will likely never travel without an overstuffed carry-on bag again. She might even some day forgive Air France. But one pleasant surprise did come out of the whole fiasco: we discovered that the African BouBou is about the most comfortable thing in the world to wear, and will likely be seen from time to time wandering around our homes in ancient tribal wear.

Who knew.

It's telling me that it will take approximately 12 hours for a picture to upload. You'll have to use your imagination for now and I'll try to update with an image on a faster internet speed day.

Empty Staff Quarters

I do not work on Mondays; I do some lesson plans, I walk my dog, I read, I write, I go to my tennis lesson at 5.

I do not cook; Moise, a Togolese man in his 50's with three daughters, spends 2 full days a week at our house making enough food so that I never have to boil water if I don't want to. We pay him the generous salary, by Togolese standards, of 7,000 CFA ($14) per day.

I do not clean; Clara, a Ghanaian woman in her 50's with four children, spends 1 day a week here doing laundry, scrubbing our floors, vacuuming, etc. Aside from some dishes on the days when Clara or Moise aren't here and organizing of stuff, I am spared household duties for the price of 7,000 CFA as well.

Despite this ridiculous luxury by our standards, many locals think it's strange that we don't have full time staff. But I feel lazy and guilty by American standards for having said cook, cleaner and all around easy life as much as I do.

So imagine the conflicting emotions that arose last week when Clara broke down into tears about how much she is struggling right now. Her husband died years ago and her nearly grown children can't find jobs as there are so few in Togo. She only works one day a week right now because there aren't any US Embassy families who need her. We keep telling her that we'll recommend her to arriving families, but we can't make any promises.

She is living on $14 a week (sadly, still more than the average Togolese makes) and is struggling. As she cried, I became privy to a family drama that I still don't fully understand. It went like this:

"I wish I hadn't been born African. Africans have black hair, which means they have black minds," said Clara after telling me she needed to leave early to attend a court hearing about some land issues.

"There are bad people everywhere, Clara. It's not just here." I responded, taken aback by her comment.

She looked genuinely surprised. "Really Madame? There are?"

She went on to describe how her late husband's brother had been managing her money because that's how finances pass when a man dies. It doesn't go to his wife - it goes to another man. Her son wasn't yet old enough to be put on their accounts and properties as the owner, so it all went to her brother-in-law.

This man used his dead brother's money to buy a house for his family, instead of leaving it for Clara's kids' education. But this detail came after learning about her present problem. He had recently come to Togo to visit some land that Clara's husband had purchased with 2 other men. According to Clara, he put a "joojoo" spell on the land that would make it so that she would drop dead if she ever stepped foot there. He then asked her to meet him there and discuss its "true" ownership.

She refused to meet him there and was going with some of her friends to meet him at a court house to discuss the land deed. Her brother-in-law was claiming that Clara forged her husband's signature on ownership documents and somehow or another it was actually his money that purchased the land.

This is where I started getting lost in the family drama. Clara's Ghanaian English combined with all of the intricate voodoo references and incomprehensible legal structure (or lack thereof) made things very confusing very fast.

But all I know is that I had an older woman in my kitchen with tears rolling down her cheeks, desperately wanting to ask for more work to help her through this tough time. I know because I was avoiding the question.

We recently gave our cook a huge advance on his pay so that he could cover her tuition. He's paying us back over 6 months. Our gardener (yeah, we have one of those too - it's not normal, I know) was only just recently able to move out of his sister's shack because he's working 6 days a week (shared between 3 houses) on $6 a day, all the while paying for his little brother to go to school.

So where does the help begin and end, in a country where everywhere you look are people in desperate need? How can you be sure that your money will do any good at the end of the day when the family structures and cultural differences are so foreign?

And how can you reconcile suddenly being in a place where you're richer than most locals' wildest dreams, when you come from a place where you're most certainly not?

Most of us were raised on a certain moral code that taught us not to pay for things just because you can. We admire people who can live in mansions but chose not to. We respect those who can afford a full time chef but enjoy cooking for themselves anyway. Just because you can pay for a bell-hop doesn't mean you can't carry your own friggin' luggage.

More than anything though, most of us never have to make the above decisions. Life in the US is simply too expensive, and even when it's not, we all find ways of needing or wanting more and more things that make it so in the end.

But it's not like that here. People with money hire staff. Doing something yourself takes away a job from someone who needs it. People with staff quarters fill them. Leaving them empty deprives someone of a clean, dry room in a malaria and flood ridden land.

I don't need someone cleaning my house two times a week - it'd be absurd - but I can. Does that mean I should?

Joey and I have discussed possibly giving Clara an old sewing machine to help her start another revenue source, or trying to cover some of her younger kids' schooling. We'd hoped to wait a few more months to get to know her better. Mostly we just feel incredibly awkward about the whole thing.

And I can't even begin to process the implications of an African woman telling an American woman that her people are inherently bad and that she wishes she'd been born something else.

Piece Of Cake, Ms. Welsh

Many of you already know that my stint with Kiva was very brief. For those of you who hadn't heard, basically I came to Togo at a very bad time for Kiva. First they couldn't figure out anything for me to do, then they placed me with a microfinance institute whose relationship with Kiva was on the rocks. The organization wasn't being honest about where funds were going, so I was asked to sleuth.

This would have entailed visiting villages without anyone else from the organization, to try and figure out what was going on.

Sounds fun at first, but then I discover that a) the embassy isn't keen blonde girls driving themselves an hour to villages where most people don't even speak French, b) a driver + gas would cost around $500/month and Kiva wasn't covering this and, c) my efforts would likely end in terminating the relationship between Kiva and the local organization: good for Kiva and lenders, bad for Togo.

SO, I decided to take a teaching job instead.

I teach English to high school students part time. Since there are no books or supplies or even a curriculum, I get to do whatever I want in class. So long as I can get them to speak more English, which most of them avoid doing.

Early on I discovered a weakness for American culture. And by weakness I mean adoration. Fortunately for me, I am American. Example:

I started with "Hi (Student Name), How are you?" in the halls where most of them speak French, and forced them to embarassingly respond to me. Then I moved to, "How's it going?" (Most students still respond "I am fine, thank you" to this and don't understand when I keep telling them that the appropriate response is, "it's good!"). A handful of eager students are onto "What's up!?" but only run away from me in response. I will hopefully reach "Sup" with a head nod by the end of the year.

Anyway, in reading an article on Hurricane Earl with my class, I realized that we Americans are very dramatic when we talk about the weather. In this instance, everything was a battle. The storm was pelting down. It marched steadily north. Everyone braced for the onslaught. Etc. It opened the doors to a conversation about our many expressions using "wind": "I got the wind knocked out of me", "she left him a windfall", "he's 3 sheets to the wind."

When I attempted to explain what it means to "get a second wind" I received 12 blank stares back at me.

"You know, it's when you're REALLY tired after lunch but then you fight through the tiredness and suddenly you have more energy again!"

"Oh!" said the kids, "You mean when you take a nap and you wake up not tired anymore."

"No, no, no, there is no napping involved."

(Blank stares)

"You get more energy from... well I don't know where it comes from... it just comes after you were once really tired."

They had no idea what I was talking about. I eventually laughed and said that perhaps it's an American thing because we don't take naps. More blank stares ensued.

Another week was Food week, which started with an article about a new restaurant in Brooklyn that served insects. I thought they'd find this interesting and weird, but the only thing they were utterly confused about was the fact that the diners ate a 5-course meal and paid $85 to do so. They wouldn't let it drop that 5 courses was way too much food (I agree, but was equally confused by their confusion, given some of the meals I've eaten in this country). And $85 to eat bugs!? Eating worms is apparently not that interesting to them, but paying $85 to do so was the funniest thing they'd heard all day.

The week ended with a list of idioms using food: "She's the breadwinner", "He's a tough nut to crack", " They're two peas in a pod." Most of them were easy enough for the kids to understand. But one was impossible to explain: "A piece of cake." Why in the world does this mean "easy." Anyone? I have no idea. But it just does. That was my answer.

As things go, the one expression that made absolutely no sense to myself or them was the one they remember. Now I hear 10 times a day, "It-is-a-piece-of-cake, Ms. Welsh" (each syllable annunciated perfectly). Giggle giggle.

Now onto explaining that it sounds really weird when you actually say all the words.

Baby steps.

Where the Wild Things Are

Imagine the cover of "Where the Wild Things Are," with those huge jungly looking palm trees, replace the hairy monster with my blindingly white self on the beach, throw in the ocean and a few fishing boats, and there you have it. My official Happy Place here.

Ouida, Benin is a little over an hour past the border of Togo. Since Togo's coast line is only 40 miles long, and Lome is right on it, the dirt and chaos of a developing country's capital city has stripped away most of the natural beauty. But Benin's coastline, at least near the Togolese border, has remained untouched.

Once we reached the village of Ouida's center, we had to roll down our windows a few times and ask the locals where to find our hotel. As with most African cities, signs and markers are lacking. They pointed us to a road that ended at the beach, upon which we needed to turn right. On the beach. Sans road.

We passed huts made out of dried palm leaves. Cows and chickens and baby goats and children playing under palm trees passed us on the 5 mile trek down the beach.

We arrived at the little resort in the middle of nowhere just before the sky went completely black. Save all the stars that were perfectly clear once night fell.

I think Joey has experienced remote beaches like this with all of his surf trips. But I haven't. So it was officially the most beautiful beach I've ever been on. The cabins we stayed in reminded me of the housing for the dancers in Dirty Dancing. (Wow I am filled with bizarre visual references for all of you today). They were simple little wooden structures with a porch out front, overlooking the ocean. The only thing between the cabin and the beach with it's thousands of giant WTWTA palms was a tiny little sidewalk.

We ate some fresh seafood for dinner, played some cards with our friends who had joined us, and fell asleep to the sound of the ocean. We awoke early to native singing and chanting, and looked out the window to see a group of men and boys starting their day's work of pulling in huge fishing lines. It was easy to imagine the same thing happening 200 years earlier.

I told Joey that I was moving into one of those cabins and he could come visit me on the weekends ;)

Zafi Grooves

Last Sunday Joey and I had our craziest village experience to date.

There were probably close to 1000 Africans in attendance, and then me & Joey. We were seated on special couches next to all of the village chiefs from the area who were all wearing (fake) gold crowns and carrying giant walking sticks. We were treated to hours of traditional dancing, plays and music.

It's almost impossible to put the experience into words. I'm still kinda speechless about the whole thing. At one point, I leaned over to Joey and eloquently said, "ummm, this is maybe the coolest thing I've ever seen. Where ARE we!?"

Other than that, I sat in wide-eyed silence just trying to take it all in. My brain is still humming from it all. More than the ceremonies and dancing was the chance to watch a little piece of the world that is oh so very foreign to us. And to wonder:

Why are African children all so well behaved?

This was one of my very-deep-thoughts while watching the crowds. There were kids everywhere, all huddled together, sans adults, watching everything in quiet happiness. I'm talking packs of 8-year-old boys, teen girls, and little toddlers, all simply - get this - enjoying the show in front of them.

This would NEVER happen back home. Babies would be screaming, kids complaining about being bored, teenagers rolling their eyes and snickering.

It was seriously amazing. I'm sure the answer is in part the fact that they have so little "entertainment" of the traditional sort. But it seemed like more than that. It seemed like a deeper respect for what was unfolding in front of them. And an ability to be present than most of us will ever have.

I wonder if this whole fake-gold-crown-thing of the past influences the whole $300K-car-thing of the present?

I don't mean to be judgmental, but I couldn't help but stare at the chiefs and wonder if their way of flashing status and wealth has negatively influenced modern African leaders' propensity to do the same?

There are rumors that the President of Togo has recently purchased some $300,000+ car for himself. As I sat there in a village with no running water and watched people moving couches for their chiefs with their "gold" crowns to sit on, I wondered why people weren't more peeved than they are about their current leadership. I'd be protesting in the streets if I had to carry 30 pounds of water on my head back and forth all friggin' day long while my "elected" president drives around in a car that could provide water and then some for the entire country!

Then again, I've already grown used to the military men everywhere with their giant guns slung across their backs. So maybe I wouldn't run protesting in the streets.

Why can't I dance like those 4 year-olds?

Enough said.

Night Like Buffalo

Images from Lome's fetish market popped up during my very first Google Image search of Togo. I saw hundreds of dusty animal skulls on my MacBook screen back in Washington D.C. and said, "Heeelz NO are we bidding that place!"

But here we are. And today we saw said dusty animal skulls in person.

A group of us piled into an armored embassy van and drove to the outskirts of town to the infamous market in the hopes of meeting the voodoo chief. We met his Supposed Son instead, although our Togolese driver said the guides and S.Son were speaking a native tongue of Benin. Hmm.

On our tour, we discovered the cure for asthma: 16 porcupine needles, 5-7 skulls of cat, dog, mouse, snake, and whatever else the chief requires, all ground up in a turtle shell, burnt to a black powder, mixed into local honey, then eaten.

We saw hyena skins, shark jaws, crocodile tails, horse manes, and snake spines scattered around on tables - all intended for traditional healing purposes.

The finale came in the form of an invitation, as special guests, into S.Son's lair: a shack with a tin roof, mud walls, and air hazy from the white dust of burnt skeletons.

Squished in the room inside the room inside the shack was a disappointingly normal looking guy with lots of disappointingly normal looking trinkets. But the stories that followed made up for it. We received our initiation into the Supposedly Six important fetish objects for every man and household:

1. Little Wooden Man with Hole in Mouth to ensure safe travels of the one you tell the Little Wooden Man to keep safe.

2. Ebony Seed to ensure safe thoughts and good dreams to the one who kisses it 3 times, dunks it in water, and makes a cross sign with it on his forehead.

3. 21 Herb Talisman Pouch with conch shells to ensure good luck in general to the one who wears it around his neck.

4. Seal of Love Mini Raft to ensure devotion and passion between the one who drops perfume onto it and the other who holds it between his palm.

5. Little Clay Man with Holes in Eyes to ensure protection to your home if you light a cigarette and let it burn all the way down from one empty eye hole. Beware future burglar: blindness will befall if you strike!

6. Buffalo Stick to ensure a "night like buffalo" to the man who shaves bits of it into a glass of whiskey and lets it sit for 2 days, then takes a woman to his bed.

For those who chose to take their powers with them, it would go like this: you'd place what you wanted in the turtle shell on the ground and the S. Son would take it, rock it, pick it up, put it down, and rock some more until he received word of how much it would cost you.

Joe and I weren't interested in purchasing our magic items, so we were dismissed as to not taint the powers of others' choices. We went outside to watch the monkey (alive, for now) instead.

All fun aside, I'm intrigued by the history of voodoo. What we saw today was the cheesy tourist version of it, but I know it has a strong hold on Togolese history, culture and life behind the scenes. It'd be fascinating to better understand it.

http://picasaweb.google.com/jen.a.watts/FetishMarket#

Kouvoun and Skype

Two posts in one day! I'll be quick, but just had to share one of my favorite moments in Togo thus far.

I was talking to Rick, my bro-in-law, on Skype and the connection is miraculously good today so I was able to give a tour of the house. While walking around outside with my laptop, showing Rick the garden, our guard saw me on the computer.

When he realized I was talking to someone back in the US on my computer, and that person could see and hear me, he FREAKED OUT and started spewing about miracles in French. He couldn't believe it, and came over to see for himself, and talk to Rick.

He was so amazed that I could talk to people half way around the world, and we could SEE each other. He asked me how much my computer cost and said he was going to start saving for one for his kids to see this miracle (I can still hear him laughing outside in amazement).

Unfortunately, even a reliable old Dell would cost him his entire year's salary. And then he'd be hard pressed to find internet worth anything. Even at the expensive Cyber Cafes around here, the connection is completely worthless. It takes 15 minutes to download a video on YouTube.

Oh the riches we all have and take for granted!

Anyway, it made me smile and I'm pretty sure Rick got a kick out of seeing our guard jumping around in amazement too!

Landlords and Fufu and MJ, Oh My!

The last almost-week was a blur of dinner parties and other festivities.

I hate to do the chronological rundown, but can't think of any way around it. So here we go:

Friday night Marine Movie Night: Our escapism into a faux movie theater (there are no cinemas in Togo) - complete with a large screen and projector installed into the ceiling of the Marine house. Iron Man 2 was more enjoyable than I thought it'd be. Especially with my Bailey's on ice and two bowls of buttery, salty popcorn (you will understand my appreciation for this American gastronomic moment by the end of this post).

Saturday Village Artisinal: I promised before to talk about the artists' market. Once you know what's available, you can visit an individual stall and get things made to order: shoes, bags, dresses, pots, carvings, etc. In our case, we requested a traditional African baby outfit, complete with hat, for little Lachlan. It will be ready on Saturday for the outrageous price of 7000 CFA ($14). I love that this is an outrageous price here.

Saturday Night Landlord Dinner: Joe had some representational event for all landlords, bankers, and shipping kings (the perfect recipe for some shady dealings, most def') the other week. We received a dinner invite from one of the landlords, who also happens to own a Pharmaceutical company in West Africa, along with some other business in Benin (and obviously a rental property or two to boot).

After arriving at a massive home, a butler opened the door for us and we were taken into a small room with couches and a single photo on the wall (the hosts' wedding photo). The butler closed the door behind him on his way out, and returned shortly with water. The Togolese man with us who works with Joey explained that it's tradition to offer guests water before coming to greet them.

We drank our water and proceeded to the pool/jacuzzi area for champagne and cookies. Finally the host and his wife came to meet us. After many moments of awkward silences due to language barriers and simply not knowing each other in the slightest, we moved onto the first of many ridiculously huge meals of the weekend.

The feast for 5 included plantains, yams, fish (whole), fish (stew), fish (skewered), chicken, beef, shrimp, beans, rice, couscous, sauces of every color, vegetables galore, salad, and too many wine bottles to count. I ate as much as I possibly could, and the hostess kept telling me I needed to eat more. "Eat, Drink! You didn't try this fish - here. Why you not eat and drink?" Then came dessert. She seemed genuinely heartbroken when I passed on the huge chunk of watermelon after just finishing a half of a giant pineapple.

We had to apologetically excuse ourselves after 3 hours because someone was already late for the finals of Miss Togo.

Sunday Morning: Off to another Togolese feast. Still full and slightly ill from the night before.

Frederik Egbe was one of Joey's French professors at the Foreign Service Institute in Virginia. He was back in Togo visiting family and invited a group of us to his home for traditional Togolese food.

We showed up at 11:30 and asked the driver to pick us back up at 3PM. Our comrades were aghast, but Joe just left it with, "Trust Me," and got out of the car.

Frederik greeted us with his gregarious energy and two bottles of liquor: Scotch and Malibu Rum. One for the gents and one for the ladies. He told us to get a glass and proceeded to pour each of us straight liquor. I tried to protest and say that I hadn't yet eaten anything that day, could I possibly wait until after the first course? No, no, no, that wouldn't do, he said. See, the Malibu is exactly the right thing to have on an empty stomach. It will open up your stomach and prepare you for the fufu.

Yes, yes, trust me, he says.

After our early afternoon shots, small talk lead to the news that none of us had yet tried Fufu. Laughing heartily, Frederik took us out back where men and women were pounding raw yams into a paste-like substance with huge wooden sticks. He insisted we all give it a try and pose for a photo op. The sticks were surprisingly heavy, and the yams suctioned to them in a pounded, gluey paste.

The Malibu hadn't yet worked its magic on this so-called opening up of the stomach. Pass the bottle fellas!

I knew it was going to be a looong afternoon once the first course of beans and goat liver came out. Followed by some unknown corn starch and fish stew (this was actually decent). And then the fufu.

It came out in giant goopey globs on a platter. We were all given one glob and awaited the sauce. Fufu is really just a cheap starch base that people eat to fill up. The sauce is what gives most of the flavor. (Although we all agreed it tasted kinda like mashed potatoes with an unfortunate Playdough-like texture).

The sauce that came around is still a mystery to me. I watched the ladle pour the following over my fufu: 2 wrapped tentacle thingies (that I later discovered were intestines), some chunk of something that had odd bony looking things (that I later discovered was a goat hoof), and two of the spiciest yellow peppers I've ever had in my life.

No matter how many times I told myself that it must be good if all these people eat it, I should just try it, I couldn't bring myself to bite down into a nice chunk organs from an unknown animal. At the time, I was internally gagging and thinking that I was a weak, terrible, unforgivably rude guest.

Self loathing didn't do the job though. I only managed to get down about 5 bites of my fufu. Like a 6 year old, I made a mess of what was left on my plate in a futile attempt to trick someone into thinking I ate more than I did.

As 3 o'clock in the afternoon approached, and all of our stomachs churned with too much new food, Scotch and Malibu, we had to once again apologize for being the first guests to leave.

We all had about 2 hours to prepare for our next dinner party at the Deputy Chief of Mission's home, in honor of a parting officer. I'm not kidding. But I will spare you the details.

Tuesday night was the final dinner party of the marathon. It was at the home of the Public Affairs Officer, and it was her 61st B-Day. She's spent most of her career in Africa, so the guest list was a mix of embassy and local people.

After another multiple course meal, a surprise performance began. The DJ put on Michael Jackson's "Rock With You" and out walked an MJ look-alike, in full costume, to dance for all of us. Next was a contemporary dancer who did lots of crazy thing with his arms. MJ came back to finish the show off with "Thriller."

That, and the Milli Vanili that followed, was the perfect end to our 5-day stretch of festivities.

Tonight we're locking ourselves inside our house and watching hours of The Wire.

Kpalime Photos

Some photos from my trip to Kpalime a couple of weeks ago:

http://picasaweb.google.com/jen.a.watts/Kpalime?feat=email

The mound of dirt that we're standing in front of is a termite tower. Gross, yes. But also cool. The locals use the mixture of soil and wood to make bricks.

D'accord

My first week at Microfund Togo, the local microfinance institute I'm placed with for Kiva, was filled with many adventures: technical difficulties (no internet access at the office), packed taxi rides to the Cyber Cafe to do any work, and many lost in translation moments between people attempting to communicate in their 2nd (or 3rd, or 4th) tongues.

The latter entails an embarrassing story.

The Togolese in the south speak a local dialect called Ewe (pronounced Eh-vay). French is not their maternal language, so they speak Ewe amongst each other. Thus, while I'm at the office, the people at Microfund speak French to me, but the other 99% of the time I have absolutely no idea what's going on.

One afternoon last week, a group of people came into the small office wearing traditional attire. Everyone stood up. Hands were shaken. A meeting commenced. In Ewe, of course.

I spent the next 30 minutes trying to figure out what the deal was: "Why is that Dude smiling but that woman over there keeps shaking her head and tisking?" "They all seem a little subdued to be selling a group loan idea..." "Ooo! I heard 'BEBE' twice when that woman gestured towards herself - maybe she's talking about her child?" "This is torture - I don't get it."

Everyone eventually stood up and made the rounds to say goodbye. After they left, someone was kind enough to clue me in on what just happened. In French. But here's the catch: my French isn't THAT amazing. I sometimes don't catch every part of a conversation or explanation. And sometimes, what I miss is key.

Octave told me that the people were a coworker's family. The older woman was his mother (yesss...I got something right). His brother, uncle, sister and aunt were there as well. And they came by the office to say Thank You.

What came next is the part I didn't understand. "Notre collegue (our coworker) a decidé."

I knew this was the key part by the way he looked at me. I gave him a puzzled look in response and asked, "pardon?" (i.e. HUH?). He just kept repeating himself and emphasizing the "a decidé" part. I eventually felt too stupid to ask him to please explain the verb he clearly expected me to know. I guessed that perhaps "a decidé" meant "to decide, or accept" something. Okay, so some guy decided to accept a job and his family came by to say Thanks?

I smiled and said the "oh, okay" phrase in French that I repeat falsely 1000 times a day:

"Ah... D'accord..."

Octave gave me a weird look and went back to his computer.

Okay, maybe the coworker didn't decide?

I asked the driver who picked me up from the embassy what "a decidé" means, and explained the situation. He told me that "a decidé" means to die. Wait, I said, I thought "est mort" means to die? Yes, he said, that's a synonym.

Crap.

Apparently, when a coworker dies, it's tradition for a Togolese company to visit the family's home and give money to help pay for the funeral, etc. There's really no such thing as life insurance here, so this is how a family can survive financially for a short period of time. Tradition then insists that the family come back tot he company to express their gratitude.

I thought back to my dumb, smiling, "oh, okay!" response and cringed.

Must work on French immediately.

Then sign up for Ewe lessons.

They've Seen the Movies

Clearly living here is giving us a taste of new cultures. But as many of you lovers-of-travel know, one usually comes back having learned more about their own culture than anything else.

I was about to take Nala out for a walk the other day. By this time, our guards had gotten used to her. And even begun to like her. One in particular enjoys practicing the "Sit Nala" and then "High Five!" game with her. He does it every time he sees her and then busts out laughing as her little paw smacks his hand.

Generally speaking though, the Togolese are petrified of dogs. They'll see you coming with one and cross the street to get as far away as possible. Or just stop and stare. Sadly, there's an army of stray, violent dogs in this country. And the people who do own dogs generally do so for protection only - not companionship. The dogs often end up malnourished, sick and mean.

So our ever-growing black Labrador, who loves people so much that she freaks out and wants to jump all over them when they come near, can literally make them scream in terror.

I commented on this to our guard before I left and asked if people here thought we Americans were off our rockers for walking around with dogs on leashes and loving all over them.

He got very serious and told me that, no, they don't think we're crazy. "We see the films. We know you love dogs like you love people."

Yes, well, when you put it like that...

Two Days in Kpalime (Pa-Lee-May)

This Thursday I was invited to go hiking in Kpalime, an area about 2 hours northwest of Lome. Joe went to the same little village the very next day for work. My visit was as a tourist. His was as a Diplomat. You get to hear from us both today. Herein lies our two very different days in Kpalime:

Jen's Day -
I looked at the speedometer of the car from the back seat and saw that we were getting scarily close to 160KpH. This on a road filled with potholes, motor bikes, and people walking down the street with 10-foot logs balanced on their heads. I felt my stomach churning from all the bumps and looked forward to arriving in the mountains in one piece.

I was with the son of a woman Joe works with and a man named Michele, our guide who was from Kpalime. Just when I thought we'd finally arrived, Michele pulled off onto a field and started driving through the window-high grass. He told us he had to make a quick stop at his cousin's wife's house to get a camera. ? Oh, okay. Sure. Cool.

Initially, I was fascinated. The chance to see Real Life African Homes! But as this continued throughout the day, I was caught between the amazing experience of seeing what I was seeing, and the horrific poverty in front of me.

We did squeeze in some sites in between Michele's family and friend visits: a beautiful waterfall in the forests, an agricultural project way out in the cocoa and banana fields that helps support adult orphans, and an old dilapidated chateau built by a German lawyer after WWII and taken over by the former President of Togo as his 70's Glam Fest party house.

Quick digression: Something someone, somewhere should help the Togolese with is the art of tourism. It doesn't really exist here outside of a group of men sitting at a gate of a blocked-off section of the road where Site X lies. You have to pay them Amount Y to get by and then Amount Z upon your arrival. The "guide" you get does little else but show you the kitchen of an old house and say, "here is the kitchen of President Z." End of story. My favorite part was being pointed out the Presidential urinals.

I wanted to know why in the heck some German lawyer would build this giant thing in the middle of nowhere Togo. And what crazy things happened in the 9 guest bedrooms where the old, dirty, round mattresses and gaudy chandeliers still rest. I see the urinal buddy. Give me the good stuff.

Squeezed in between the sites and the friends were the stops for us to buy things that we didn't want to buy. I made the mistake of commenting on a pretty dress in a photo that Michele's cousin's daughter showed me. I was trying to be polite, but unbeknownst to me, in this country, if you compliment something, they will either give it to you or, in our case, take you to the very place you can buy it. Without asking you if you want to go there. So when we pulled into a fair where the very dress from the photo happened to be on sale for the bargain price of 100,000 CFA ($100USD), and I looked confused, Michele knew enough to say the day was over.

We stopped at his friend's bar on the way out so that we could buy him a soda (also unspoken, but we were catching on). I sat there as the local drunk came up in a furry zebra cowboy hat (Another aside: Why is it that furry animal print cowboy hats are the chosen accessory of local crazies everywhere?) and chatted us up in English. Hmm. Meanwhile, a woman with a baby strapped to her back and a huge metal bowl balanced on her head walked back and forth in front of us for an hour.

She was transporting water from a pump to her home. I'd guess that the bowl weighed around 30 pounds. I saw her make 4 trips in the hour that we leisurely sipped our Coca Colas.

As the day progressed, I felt a growing urge to get back to my giant home with the gates and the guards and the running water. At this point it was almost unbearable. And then I felt horribly for feeling that urge.

It was an amazing day, but I arrived home tired and moody. In hindsight, I think it was the first time I've really, truly experienced culture shock. And the utter discomfort of observing that my life is a certain way because I just so happened to be born somewhere else.

Joe's Day -
7AM pick-up and off to Kpalime we go. I was super excited because I was finally getting out of the office and have a chance to "win hearts and minds" and do real diplomacy in action.

We drove through village after village of grass huts on our way, on the one narrow paved roads with dense trees and hills on either side. It was very Africa. Probably the same way it was 50 years ago.

We arrived at a large, flat schoolhouse, where we were honoring a group of Togolese English teachers from around the country. They'd just completed a teaching seminar to learn new methods put on by the embassy's Cultural Affairs specialist - a Togolese man - and a hired English teacher trainer brought in from the States.

There was a long table set up front with 4 name tags, including mine and I soon found out that I would be speaking. Delighted, I ran to the back room to cook something up on short notice. I thought about my many hours spent in our garage with our guards, trying to learn some basic Ewe phrases. I started using my tape recorder so that I could capture the words, since the accent is so hard to recreate. It made me think of our own words and sounds, and how hard they are for the people here.

Soon after that, I found myself staring at 50 African faces with a microphone in my hand. I talked about the importance of learning languages as a gateway to other cultures, and that English was their chance to understand US culture and much of global trade.

I busted out the few local Ewe phrases I'd learned, and that got the whole room hooting and laughing. The rest of the day we spent chatting, and I made many promises to go speak at their high school English classes.

You could tell this was a huge deal to each of the English teachers (who unfortunately couldn't speak that well). Nonetheless, it was a wonderful experience and perhaps the favorite I've had in my career. The chance to inspire so many disadvantaged people was why I joined the Foreign Service in the first place.

Miss Togo & Tete's Church

Many people warned us that this post would be "sleepy." (i.e. boring). Lome is a relatively small capital city in a developing country: there are no movie theaters, malls, or boulevards to stroll down.

Not that lacking these things equates boredom. I just think you have to look a little harder.

If this weekend is any indication of our 2 years here, I don't think we'll be itching for new experiences. Perhaps just a bit of normalcy. But that's what we have our little bubble of a house for.

Saturday night was the Maritime Region pageant to select the contestant for the ultimate prize: Miss Togo. 10 girls competed in the competition and the winner will ultimately be one of Togo's most well known and important people for the year. Crazy, but true.

We got dressed up for the occasion, as we got the tickets as US representatives, and were glad we did because we saw women in gowns at this thing. The ushers took one look at us and walked us to the front by the judges (we were the only white people there until the French embassy people showed up).

Suddenly cameras were flashing in our faces and bright lights from the local TV stations burned down on us. My nervous laughter threatened to make an appearance as I tried to... what?... smile?...pretend they're not there?...fake a conversation with Joey?... I opted with trying to keep a straight face, but for those of you who know me well, you can guess that didn't go well.

Anyway, the pageant proceeded with the typical gown section, bathing suit dance and musical acts. The coolest part was the Traditional Dance section, where each girl had to wear a traditional costume and perform the dance or music that went along with it. Super cool.

After Miss Maritime was crowned, Joey shook hands with the Chinese Ambassador and we were off to get some sleep in preparation for church on Sunday.

One of Joey's local employees is also a pastor at a church in Lome. We were schooled in training that religion is hugely important to Africans. They will come right out and ask you if you are Christian. If you say No, they assume you're Muslim or something else. You can't be what many of us Americans say we are: "Oh, I'm not really anything..." or "I'm more spiritual than religious." Your religion is considered to be part of who you are, your culture, and your family here.

Since we both grew up culturally Christian more than anything, that is what we tell people. This, however, lead to many an invitation to church. So we accepted when we found out that Tete was the pastor at a church on the outskirts of town.

We drove beyond the paved roads where plaster walls changed to thatch and real Togolese life seemed to begin. The church was surrounded by a clean white wall that stood out amongst the dust everywhere. Its walls were made from thin reeds, its roof was tin. A woman came to escort us in and, once again, usher us to the front row.

Inside the church was sweet and cared for. Bright blue fabric hung on the front wall and there were streamers of fabric hung from the ceiling. The reeds proved to allow a nice breeze to enter inside. Women and children were on one side of the church, men on the other. Women were mostly in traditional fabrics and dresses. We were introduced as newcomers and breathed a sigh of relief that there wasn't more to it than that. (So we thought).

A 3 hour service commenced. Tons of singing in Ewe. And, surprisingly enough to me, they weren't good singers at all. (Yes, I imagined amazing gospel music... not so much). However, the bongos and dancing made up for it. We were on our feet probably half the time, clapping and marveling at this little girl who danced her little heart out any time the drums started up.

I couldn't understand much of it, despite being in French occasionally, but it was a treat to experience. The kids were the best part. They just STARED at us. One little girl came up and crawled into Joey's lap. Her friend came to sit on mine but was too shy at the last minute. One little boy kept running up to us, waving, and then running away.

Admittedly, 3 hours was just a wee bit too long for me. And just when I thought the pastor was wrapping things up, he called us forward, in front of everyone, and proceeded to tell his church how happy he was to have a boss from the US who is a Christian. He asked everyone to please come forward to greet us and pray for us. Around 100 people lined up to shake our hands. The women didn't look Joey in the eye, nor the men in mine, as is custom.

I think the people who warned us about boredom didn't leave their houses much. It might not be easy or pretty around here, but it's no snoozer.

Leftovers

I should be telling you all about the artists' market we visited where potters use wheels cranked by the hands of their assistant (the pots are amazing, by the way). Or how so many woman walk down the streets of Lome carrying giant loads of fruit, boxes, and fufu (national starch I've yet to try) on their heads.

All of this is neat and curious and something I need to take pictures of to share and tell you about later.

But today I want to talk about the art of leftovers in Togo.

Towards the end of my first week here, I realized I was on Day 5 of eating the Fried Rice dish our cook (yes, I'll get to that one later as well) made for us. I also noticed our guards' (I know, I know - lots to share) eyes light up when I took 4 giant cardboard boxes out into the garage for disposal of some sort. And, coincidentally enough (or not, perhaps), I started reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. It's a book about a family who decided to eat only what they were able to grow themselves or get locally for an entire year.

Anyway, our refrigerator is currently as empty as it's been since about my Sophomore year of college. Don't get me wrong - I'm not starving in the slightest. It's just not as easy to get food the way I'm used to getting food around here. Unless you want to eat at the one terribly overpriced and not that great of a restaurant in walking distance, you need to go out and get yourself some food. And there are no Whole Foods in sight.

It entails making lots of stops at various food stands where Togolese woman are selling fruits, vegetables and eggs. Then perhaps you head to the terribly overpriced supermarket (even by US standards) to see what's on the shelves and try and improvise on the spot.

Once you get your goods, you have to bleach and clean the produce since it's not safe for us to eat otherwise. And don't even ask about me how we get meat, etc. I have the number of a guy who delivers but haven't yet been organized or brave enough to do it.

Thus, the cook. He comes once a week and cooks up a ton of food that lasted us about 5 days the first time. The last two days I need to get creative with. It currently involves adding potatoes to other dishes to bulk them up and anything with eggs. Or heading to that aforementioned restaurant. I'll get better about that eventually.

In a related incidence, our guards eventually asked us if they could have our cardboard boxes. We said, yes, of course, but what do you want them for? They told us they'd use them for tons of things: side tables, storage containers, even beds for small children.

This from men who make a relatively very good salary in Togo.

Since then, I've noticed them take my garbage in what initially seems a gentlemanly gesture. But then I see an empty plastic bottle or pieces of tin foil being pulled out of the bag as I turn the corner to go back inside. Presumably they'll use the bottle to store clean water or rice. And of course the foil can be reused. I suddenly feel like a spoiled schmuck. It's clear they anticipated that I'd throw away Perfectly Useful Things.

I don't want to give you the impression that I'm surrounded by poor beggars. Or that people are miserable and starving in this country. That's not the case at all. What IS true is that they creatively reuse everything, while we throw things away without a second thought.

I include myself in that accusation. Back home, I'd eat what I felt like eating. If there was leftover chili in the fridge, and I felt like Indian food, I'd ignore the chili and go get myself some Indian food. I wouldn't even bother freezing the chili - it'd just eventually go bad and I'd throw it out.

Don't even get me started on the things I'd break or lose. And trust me - the thought of sewing up a hole on a pair of socks has never crossed my mind. Ever.

But I hope this experience will change me. I think it's already begun to. I'm incredibly conscious of the size of my trash bag each night. And leftovers most certainly get eaten.

Fishes Live in the Sea...

...as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.

I'm going to be very nerdy and tell you that this bit of Shakespearean philosophy is quite meaningful after my eventful flight to Togo. Bear with me.

First off, despite my love of travel, Airplanes + Me don't mix well. My first memory of being on a plane is of my sister throwing up all over me. Since then, any and all storms, cancellations, technical difficulties, rude people, baggage problems and potable water issues seem to find me. It's quite funny.

And by funny I mean that you probably don't ever want to travel with me.

However, the Red Sea parted on the day I left DC for Togo. Imminent thunderstorms passed. A record heat wave through Europe moved on. A full rainbow (not kidding!) bid me Bon Voyage as I drove across the Potomac. Nala was easily boarded, I had an Exit row, and - get this - two empty seats next to me.

Miracle upon miracle!

Things changed pretty quickly in Paris. I could hear Nala crying three floors up as the escalator ushered me down to the baggage claim. No one could tell me where to take her out to go to the bathroom, so I laid out puppy pads in the middle of the terminal in desperation. Of course she proceeded to pee everywhere but.

As I cleaned up one pile of pee, she moved as far as her leash would allow and start peeing again. This happened about 6 times before I sat down surrounded by doggy urine, a giant crate, 3 suitcases and one freaked-out puppy in defeat.

No one at De-Gaulle airport took pity on me.

After a 20 Euro bribe to an airport baggage guy to help me get everything to our next terminal, I thought the drama was over.

But this is me we're talking about, so of course it wasn't.

Going back to Mr. Shakespeare, his second point about the darker side of human nature - or at least our faulted behavior toward one another - is something I've been mostly sheltered from. The strong do not eat the weak in America! We are all created equal! No one is naturally a "great one"!

I'm not totally naive to the real picture of the world, but I've not yet seen it up close and personal. I think that's going to change quickly here.

I awoke on the airplane to two men fighting. Rather, one man yelling at the other in French, and the second man sitting in silence trying to ignore him. A huge commotion broke out because of it with half the plane trying to calm the situation down, with the stewardesses eventually threatening to call the police.

All I could gather was that the Togolese man who was yelling had previously tried to engage the European man, who said he couldn't speak French well. Then the Togolese man heard him speaking French and lost it. He loudly berated the other man for not being honest, for being disrespectful on the way to HIS country, for belittling his pride, etc. This and other things I didn't quite understand lasted for a good 30 minutes.

Before I even stepped foot in Africa, I saw some of the tension that still exists between Black and White, African and European, Colonized and Colonizer.

It all felt so foreign to me. Complicated. Sad. I hope that once my feet are a little more planted, the jarring presence of history will soften with what's actually present.

Anyway, here's to thousands of air miles and all the little ones ahead. (Speaking of which, Nala, our runt of a puppy, is doing just fine).

A Trailing Spouse Named Jen

Every organization has its lingo, and the State Department is no exception:

Joe is an FSO (Foreign Service Officer).

Serving as a GSO (General Service Officer). 

Who works alongside DOD (Dept. of Defense). 

Most of whom have EFMs (Eligible Family Members).

Etc. 

There's one piece of lingo that tickles me pink.  Get what they call diplomats' husbands and wives: 

Trailing Spouses.  

Trailing Spouses!  Isn't that amazing?  It brings to mind a tired animal who's fallen behind the pack.  Or some margin you're supposed to be hitting but you're not.  Or the struggling kid in school who's, well, trailing behind his peers.  

I chuckled when I heard this, because it mirrored the tone of many questions I got after we broke the news about Joe's job: but what are YOU going to do Jen?  

That was the million dollar question for awhile.  However, today was Day 1 of my new job!  Well, it's not really a job, it's a fellowship.  With a very cool organization called Kiva that uses social media to connect people like you and me to people in developing countries who have no access to banks or credit.  You can lend small loans to people all over the world and re-lend again after they've paid you back.

I'll be working with local Micro-Finance Institutes (MFIs - see, here we go again) to help them understand how to use technology to get loans from the likes of us.  And I'll go out into the field to collect the photos and stories of people in Togo who want to borrow money for their small business.  

Borrowers are mostly women who, beyond getting out of poverty, are able to begin shifting the power structure that exists between themselves and their husbands.  The ability to bring in money creates a new sense of freedom for these women, and increases the respect they're given in their households.  They gain a voice for the first time in their lives.   

So here's to my role as a Trailing Spouse.  It's given me the opportunity to help those who've truly been forced to trail for far too long.  

Check it out and consider lending even $25 to someone with an idea to improve their lives:

http://www.kiva.org/

Tiny Little Flags

Togo was the last place in the world we expected to hear on Flag Day.  As the Ambassador of Somewhere was up on the stage waving tiny flag after tiny flag of various countries, I sat in the audience going through each posting as it was called in my head:

Istanbul, darn it.  Ciudad Juarez, phew.  Athens, ah well.  Khartoum, thank god.  Kathmandu, bummer.  Caracas, hmm - I thought that'd be it.  Montevideo.  Bujumbura.  Mexico City.  San Jose.  Beijing.  Sao Paulo.  Colombo.  Etc. Etc. Etc.   

When Lome, Togo was called, I was barely paying attention.  We hadn't ranked that country.  I'd honestly never heard of Togo before we got the list a week prior.  It took a minute to register.  What?  Wait - Togo - I know that's in Africa - What? - Is that the country I Googled and saw pictures of cannibals? -  OMG I need to get to the internet.  

But we had to go to a happy hour with all the other people who received tiny little flags that day.  Some of you were kind enough to send more details as I downed a few vodka tonics:

Togo is a country of 6.7 million people.  Over 50% of the nation still practices tribal religions.  The southern Togolese were of the same people as Ghana before colonization, and cultural practices were influenced by Benin on the East as well.  It was once a German colony, so there's still some good beer.  And then it became a French colony, so there's decent wine.  

Voodooism is still commonly practiced.  Haiti was influenced by this part of West Africa when slaves came over and settled there, so many commonalities between the people exist.  It's one of the poorest countries in the world: people make on average less than $1USD per day.  

Beyond the basics, we learned that the Togolese are known to be incredibly warm.  If you walk past in the street without stopping to say Hello, it's considered to be rude.  And greetings can last 10 minutes before you can move on again.  We've heard them called the most socially evolved people in the world.  I liked that.  They'll remember your name when you tell them once and will open their homes and families to you.  

The music is supposed to be amazing.  The food some of the best in West Africa (although I'm wondering if that's a relative statement?).  The fabrics festive.  The fruit markets divine.  It used to have the best wildlife in West Africa but it's all pretty much poached now.  But there are elephant parks up North in Burkina Faso and some small game parks near the lake.  

There are only 2 paved roads in the country.  

Figured that needed its own line.  

We have 3 spare bedrooms.

I'll leave that one hanging for all of you to consider as well.   

Africa Bound

In one year, I got married, quit my job, moved from my beloved San Francisco to Washington D.C., eagerly awaited my husband's first posting within the Foreign Service, found out it was Togo, spent many nights on wikipedia researching said country, freaked out, calmed down, learned French, got a puppy, and now, finally, after 10 months, one of us is on his way to Africa.  

This wouldn't be me, clearly.  I have 13 more days in the U.S. 

Just enough time to finally start this blog so that friends and family can share in this adventure with us! 

I'll start by cluing you all in on how we're feeling right about now.  Check out this Norman Rockwell print entitled "High Dive."  It was Joey's 1st yr. anniversary "paper good" present from me.  It pretty much sums up this year: standing at a ledge, looking down, heart pounding, stomach fluttering, and something between a scream and a huge grin forming around our mouths right before we... jump. 

The unknown is something we both thought we had down pat.  In fact, we sought it out to the extreme with this job and all it entails.  The unknown is exciting!  It's adventurous!  It's so much less boring than the non-unknown!  

But as it turns out, we all create maps of what we think our lives are going to end up looking like.  And how the world we live in takes shape around it.  Whether we know it or not.  And the more we lose sight of those previously drawn shores, the more we realize we're going to need a very, very large eraser.  

And ink smears.  

So we best proceed with a Number 2 pencil.