Pretty in Sotouboua

Yesterday I found myself playing dress-up with five elderly African women in a remote village of Sotouboua, a long, long way from, well, anything. They were a group of weavers who hand spin yards of a specialty “pagne” worn by what they call the “big mamas.” I was there to evaluate their request to receive one of the U.S. Embassy’s Self Help grants. After hours of holding on for dear life in the back of a Land Cruiser, we walked into a semi-dark mud building with partial walls and rusty manual weaving machines. Everything around blended into the rust colored dust that covered everything in the village except for me, my giant white 4x4 and bolts and bolts of colorful, sparkly fabric.

I let my Togolese coworker start asking stern questions about how they finance their business, who’s in charge of taking product to market, and what they plan to do with U.S. money, while I started quietly snapping photos of my surroundings to take it all in. Once questions got to the actual product, one of the elderly women started to model how the fabric is wrapped and worn in different ways for special events. She began to strut her stuff, swinging her hips a little wider and moving her arms like the aforementioned “big mamas” and laugh from the fun of it all. I snapped away and showed her the best portrait.

Her response? Utter glee and, "je suis jolie!", a statement that translates simply to “I am pretty!”

Soon we all found ourselves talking at once, swapping colors, laughing and eventually wrapped up in various pagne. More photos were snapped and each of the women was delighted to see themselves on camera.

Let me be clear that none of these women are pretty by any standards of beauty familiar to us. They’ve lived hard lives and it shows. But they loved seeing themselves in photos and not one of them flinched or cringed the way women in our culture do.

I suddenly felt foolish and shallow for all of my self-judging every time a photo is opened. I can’t imagine a single woman I know responding to a self portrait with such carefree happiness. If anyone ever did we’d all think she was a stuck-up, good-for-nothing-but-her-fake-(fill in the blank) bleep-bleep-bleep. Or something like that. We all secretly hate our own images in some way, and hate any women who doesn’t hate hers! It’s messed up.

I know that moment in Sotouboua won’t change my own ingrained Western perception of beauty, perhaps beyond biting my internal tongue when I inwardly groan at the site of tiny wrinkles around my eyes. But I admired those women in that moment, even envied them. And envy is not a feeling I’ve experienced, well, ever, since moving to Togo. It caught me completely off guard, and for that I am touched.

Sex Ed in Afrique

The pictures you see here, aside from being hysterically amazing, give you a tiny glimpse into Western attempts to improve Public Health in the Developing World. The one of Joey is him next to a Vagina Maze, that's right people, and the one of me is from an HIV awareness event at a military health clinic.

Let's start with the picture of me and the military men. The Togolese rely on skits to educate people on health and social issues in village settings and we were watching one when this photo was snapped. The plot line was typical to this part of the world: man sleeps with a woman besides his wives (yes, I said wives), contracts HIV, and gives it to his wives who also happen to be pregnant. Both of them.

The wives find out because they're the responsible ones who go to get tested, and are terrified of telling their husband. They eventually do, after tip-toeing around him and never questioning where he was the night before, or the night before that, or the night before that (even though they were just told they have friggin' HIV because of him!!!). I found this point in the drama alarming. Not only was the husband not questioned or reprimanded, the audience didn't seem to bat an eye about that missing bit of action.

Once informed of Wives diseases, Husband storms out without an apology or explanation (at which point I'm trying not to look to my left where all the women were sitting and give them a "why aren't you boo-ing and "hellz no-ing" at this chump?" look). Husband eventually gives wives leave to attend follow-up treatment to prevent mother-to-child HIV, which was the point of the skit. Gee, isn't that so modern of him? Meanwhile, his mistress is also pregnant, but doesn't bother receiving treatment, as she's not a Wise Wife figure in this story, and her (bastard) child ends up with the disease.

Sigh. It's important for U.S. development efforts to have a local flair like this, but sometimes it's hard when some of the messaging isn't exactly in line with our beliefs.

Another example of cultures colliding comes from a U.S. military Doc I met at a training I was able to attend in Germany. He was somewhere in Central Africa counseling a young woman on how to use condoms appropriately. He used a penis-like statue to show her how to safely put on and remove condoms, and made sure she understood by having her practice with a few condoms as well. Once he was confident in her technique, he sent her on her way.

She came back six months later and tested positive for HIV. The doctor was surprised, as she'd seemed eager to keep herself safe. He asked if she'd been using the condoms. Her response? "Yes! I even kept the condom statue by my bed to be extra sure I was protected!"

I don't tell this story to imply that people here are stupid. It just illustrates a deep chasm in communication and realities between our world and theirs. That, and it highlights how lacking basic levels of education are. The Dept. of Defense now uses more life-like dolls, complete with sex organs, to make sure nothing is lost in translation.

Joey and I also had the chance to spend two days at a Peace Corps camp for young girls who show leadership promise. One of the many activities they experienced over the week was a tour through a giant vagina. Now, the Peace Corps has no money, so this life-size vagina was made of pagne (African fabric) and wood. But the girls got a tour of their cervix and fallopian tubes nonetheless, and many were shocked. Most had no idea how their bodies worked before that. Ladies, try and imagine being 16 or 17 and not understanding where your period comes from or why you get pregnant. How are young girls expected to make smart decisions for themselves when they don't have the basic tools (knowledge, empowerment, etc) to do so?

I could go on and on, but I'll end with this: in the midst of all the struggles we're facing in the U.S. with our own country, take a moment to be grateful for the education, services and infrastructure we DO have. The little things we all take for granted, like Sex Ed, have huge impacts on our lives. Thank god I was never so in the dark! I'm also thankful I won the birth-right lottery and was born a woman in the United States in this century. It is heartbreaking how shitty women have it here.

Whirlwind

The last few months have brought more changes than we've experienced in years. And that's saying a lot for two people who got hitched, moved to D.C., and then moved to Togo. A quick breakdown:

Surgery for Joey
Many of you might not have known about Joey's struggle with pain over the last two years. For a long time we had no idea what the real problem was - only that his hands and arms were in excruciating pain. With the help of Courtney & Chester, we finally found a surgeon who knew exactly what the problem was and said she could fix him. So we spent close to 2 months in St. Louis, where both of Joey's arms were operated on. It was no fun for him, aside from the ability to watch every World Series of Poker games over and over, and we still have months of healing ahead of us. But the nerve pain has begun to subside and we're hopeful that this is the beginning of the end to that horrible health chapter!

A New Post
We recently found out that our next post will be in Norway! Talk about a paradigm shift. Of the 172 countries ranked by the World Bank for GDP per capita, Norway is #4 whereas Togo is #164. We're most excited about the ski resort that's 20 minutes outside of Oslo, hiking paths scattered throughout the city, the chance to sail, cross-country ski and even dog sled! In short, we look forward to the fresh air and chance to get physically fit again. We're saddened by what happened there recently though; it seems that no place is immune to dogmatic fanaticism.

On a different note, if you ever hear Joey worry over wasting 6 months of his life learning Norwegian, please remind him that it's his wet dream to speak Viking. You all know it's true too.

3 Weddings, a Funeral and a 40th Bday
I was fortunate enough to be back in the U.S. for three of my good friends' weddings. All stages of life were hit in various parts of the country: high school wedding in MA, college wedding in FL, and SF wedding in SF (the only obvious fit here!). Then I got to be a part of the fabulous surprise 40th Michelle planned for Rick. Sadly, after all of this family and friends time, my grandmother passed away a few days after we arrived back in Togo. We have been fortunate to be there for the good times and the bad with the people we love most. Considering we live in W. Africa I consider us pretty darn lucky for that.

A New Job
My new official title is "Development Projects Special Assistant." Oo-la-la. It's a full-time gig at the embassy managing USAID, Dept. of Defense and Humanitarian Assistance funding that comes through Togo. So far I have played Vanna White in many a check delivery ceremony, visited HIV+ Togolese women in their homes, questioned high-ranking Togolese military men about their vague transportation budgets, and politely took a giant box of condoms from a Colonel in charge of HIV prevention and Family Planning. I'm heading to Germany in August for a week of training at a military base on managing DoD funds. It's a pretty cool job and it's proving to be key in helping me get through our remaining year here.

A Safari
My parents flew back to Africa with me to see Togo and then head to Tanzania with us. Laine had previously avoided all airplane bathrooms her entire life. Can you believe that!? She'd never before been on a flight longer than 5 hours and always figured she'd just hold it. Obviously that wasn't going to work for this trip. Her impressions of such a ground breaking moment? Quote worthy!

"They're so small! How does anyone join the "Mile High Club" in there?"

I kid you not.

The rest of the trip was equally amusing. Stan helped Joey invent words their "Safari Man" song, Laine tortured Stan with a million questions to the Massai Warrior in the tiny Dung Hut, and we all fought constantly when losing at bridge (it's just a slightly competitive bunch). We would recommend the safari to everyone - it's an amazing thing to see 100 elephants crossing your path in the middle of nowhere Serengeti.

Despite the fun, we are happy to be back with Nala! The adventure continues...

Togo Randoms: Boobies, Potted Instruments, Bikes and Doggie Raciscm

Boobies at the President's House
Ooo do I have your attention now! According to embassy sources (if Wikileaks can do it, hey, why not me?) the Prez-Man gave himself a Boobie Party on Friday night. Sadly for Joey, he did not receive an invite to said event, but our good friend did. He said he felt like a creepy 40-year-old man watching 20-year-olds dance topless all under the watchful eye of his boss. Awkward! The performance was supposed to illustrate the "traditional virgin's dance" that occurs in villages. Mind you, this dance is typically done in villages by girls aged 11-13 (actual virgins), but, hey. The Prez likes his virgins a little older. Let's hope. Can you imagine the hey-day if Obama threw himself a titty party and invited diplomats around the world to join? Ah Togo.

Dobet Gnahore: A Must-Hear Lady from Cote D'Ivoire
Since I already said "titty" in this post, I should refrain from saying "Badass" but what the h*&%. Badass Dobet Gnahore is. Her concert on Sunday night and it was everything you'd hope to get from a West African concert: raw vocals, awesome percussion (she played a clay pot!!!), and dancing that made me feel very white. It was incredible. See if she's playing in SF or NYC and go to her show.

Bike Riding Makes People Happy
I saw this on Oprah and thought, I should get myself a bike. So I asked Francis to find me a bike with a basket on the front of it and, voila, that afternoon I rode a bike around the neighborhood with Nala and felt like I was 10 again. The main benefit of this is that it makes it possible to visit the fruit lady and buy bread during hours other than 7AM and 6PM. It is SO hot right now that I would previously walk my errands and come home red, sweaty and cranky. Now, with my little red bike, I get a lovely fake breeze as I bring home all of the mangoes, avocados and baguettes I want. I am very happy indeed. Go buy yourself a bike and smile.

Is Nala Racist!?
I came home last week from school and Clara told me that she had been talking to Francis and the guards and they'd decided that Nala doesn't like black people. "Yes, we see Nala act all happy when your white friends come, but she is not like that with us. I need to have a talk with her and tell her that, Nala, you are black too!" This was all said with a smile and a lot of laughter, something that is an interesting thing to get used to. I was embarrassed of my dog's behavior (really she just senses a difference in our relationship because Nala doesn't act this way with our black friends, plus I think I read somewhere that dogs are colorblind) but Clara thinks it's funny. Even today at school my students were joking about painting their skin white to be European Colonizers for International Day. I am learning to laugh with them.

Nunchuck Skills

Boy I have really dropped the ball with this thing. I probably have no readers left after my dismal posting record so far. Jumping back in the saddle!

I recently recalled a conversation I had with one of Joey's friends about my good luck in developing what he called my "nunchuck skills." You know, like bowhunting skills, computer hacking skills... skills! (Sorry for those of you who haven't see Napolean Dynamite...)

Jen's Newly Acquired SKILLZ: Speaking French - check. Becoming a yoga teacher - check. Teaching at an International School - check. Taking tennis lessons & Learning Bridge like the proper diplomat's wife that I am - check. Writing grants for NGOs - check.

The latter nunchuck addition is a recent development. I had the chance to go to Niger as a part of the grant research process. Here's a quick rundown of the experience:

- I had many internal chuckles re: the contrast of my life pre and post Foreign Service. Previous meetings consisted of serious debates over print ads and current ones entail strategizing how to lower birth defects in rural villages. Oh the curve balls life can throw!

- There are camels walking down the streets of Niamey. Huge, awesome camels.

- Almost as cool were the donkey carts everywhere.

- Camels + Donkeys = Love.

- The contrast between Egypt (palpable intensity around the Muslim faith resonating through the streets) and Niger (moderate influences of Muslim religion seen in clothing and prayer mats) was fascinating.

- Sadly, extremists are taking hold there, resulting in kidnappings of Westerners, a mass exodus of expats from the country, and a severe safety regiment for those who remain. We felt safe, but could not leave our hotel at night or visit the country outside of Niamey. Which is a total bummer because apparently there are giraffes and hippos nearby.

- How so many people can survive in the Sahara Desert is beyond me. No thank you.

- Visiting Niger made me very glad that I live in Togo. Who'd have thunk. Niger is only slightly poorer than Togo on the international ranking list of average GDP. But when you're THAT poor, those extra 50 Cents per person make a huge difference. You can't even imagine.

The grant I'm writing is for a massive program to prevent and rehabilitate people with disabilities (physical and mental). It involves everything from training more doctors to planting gardens and teaching families with a disabled child to feed themselves and generate extra income.

I used to have $2 Million to plan a Super Bowl ad and buy the media. Now I have it to save starving babies in Africa. I smell the makings of a very cliched memoir! Heehee.

This whole thing Joey and I are doing is not always easy. Not even close. For instance, the place we stayed at on Saturday night was flea infested with brown amoeba filled water coming from the faucets, and we recently had to tell our cook that, no, we can't give him a $600 loan so that he can get electricity for his daughters to study over more than a tiny lantern. (Don't judge too harshly on the last one - we did the math on his salary and were concerned that he doesn't have enough to pay us back plus keep food on the table and keep his daughters in school).

But it's opportunities like this trip to Niger that make me thankful for being put in what's quite often a difficult place. Don't get me wrong. I am seriously hoping for Spain or Argentina next post. In the meantime, I admit that it's a pretty cool thing to see a little bit of life from this lens.

Ghana's Wonderful Jesus Classic Cosmetics

I know it's been awhile, but I have an excuse. Since the beginning of January, I've been traveling. Five weeks were spent jetting between Ghana, Egypt, Israel and Benin.

I'll begin the chronicles with some nuggets from Ghana (see a few photos here).

As soon as we crossed the border from Togo to Ghana, a shift was apparent. First of all, everything was in English, and we soon saw that the majority of signs had something to do with God or Jesus. With all respect to God and Jesus, it was quite funny. Here are some of our favorites:

Wonderful Jesus Classic Cosmetics
Amen Cold Store
Hope in God Auto Shop
I Am Saved Herbal Clinic
In God We Trust Barbering Salon and Business Center
God Is Able Electrical Works
God's Glory Fashion
The Lord is My Shepherd Food Stand
Glory Gas
Try Jesus Fashion
God's Will Architecture Services
By the Grace of God Fast Food
Psalm 100 Radiator Specialist

As I was generally in the middle seat between Don and Carol, and the roads were generally atrocious, I did not get photos of this amazingness. Next time for sure.

Layer on ever-present Ghanaian music, complete with tom-toms (bongos), and the scene gets better. Music is an essential part of West African culture and for whatever reason, Ghana blares its music while Togo keeps it private. A fun soundtrack awaited us at every village.

In general, it seems that Ghanaians are more proud of their country than the Togolese is of theirs. Ghana is touted as the golden-child of West Africa and, although it's still very poor as well, you see signs of development everywhere. They sometimes seem minor on the surface: street lights outside of the capital city, the occasional 4-lane road, official signs to villages, and more cars than motos. But if things continue this way, Ghana will be very much changed in 10 years, while Togo will be exactly where it is now.

My favorite part of the trip was visiting the slave castle in Elmina. If you ever have the chance to visit Ghana, don't miss this stop. Although it's tough to see such a terrible side of human history.

Aside from the sites, Carol started learning to play Bridge (yes, I now play Bridge and tennis and all sorts of ladies-who-leisure type things). It was a fun beginning to the upcoming travels!

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...