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 ;)