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.