One Year In

Well here we are, one year (plus some) from the day I officially swore in as a Peace Corps volunteer.  It seems most volunteers post something about their one year mark from the date they arrive in country, but I really think my growth and work began after our three months at pre-service training, when I officially swore in as a volunteer.  Those first three months were challenging in specific ways that I’m sure I discussed in my first couple posts.  But the realities of Peace Corps, and of living and working abroad in the developing world, only really become obvious when you are the only American living among a vastly different culture.  Though it’s sometimes hard to remember how I felt and viewed Togo one year ago, I do remember the massive discomfort I felt doing very basic tasks, the huge amount of effort I had to put into simple interactions, and incredible emotional support things like WhatsApp and a taxi ride into town provided.  Now, a year in, I really don’t feel those things anymore.  Basic tasks feel just like that: basic.  Simple interactions remain simple despite continuing language barriers.  Discomfort has become constant, and therefore meaningless.  I notice more and more people here apologize or try to change Togo in some way to make me more comfortable.  I get into a taxi and the driver starts apologizing that he has to squeeze eight of us into a five-seater.  He might even yell at the man in the front seat to squeeze into the back so I can have the front seat to myself.  I laugh and say it’s fine.  He shrugs and says the famous line from Blood Diamonds (though I doubt he got it directly from there), “C’est Afrique” (This is Africa).  I tell him, I’ve lived in Togo for a year, this is home for me and for him, not just the homogenous Africa.  He seems shocked.  But I do vaguely remember dreading public transportation for my first few months.  I remember trying, strategically, to pick certain seats, desperately opening windows at the first chance, or looking around for a seatbelt just in case this car still has them.  All of that seems so distant and different from my life now.  It’s a strange point to be at.  I find myself looking back and feeling like I haven’t done much and looking forward and feeling like there’s not nearly enough time to remedy that.  Whoever said two years in another country was a long time doesn’t understand how long it takes to become a productive member of another culture.  I started out this post thinking What have I done that’s interesting in the past year?, but then realized a better question was probably What would people who haven’t lived here for a year find interesting?. And so, to commemorate my first year here, I’ve gone gone back through my journals to remember all those where’s the seatbelt moments, and to compile a list of all the random, funny, sad, productive, and other things I’ve done in the past 12 months as a Peace Corps volunteer in Togo.  Here’s the list I finally came up with, one year in Togo:

• Gotten almost everyone in village to stop calling me “ansai” (white person) and call me either “Piyalo” (girl born on Tuesday) or Patricia instead.
• Provided my counterpart with three rabbits with grand plans to breed them, train others on rabbit husbandry, and ultimately give interested individuals rabbits from our litters for free. After months of trying to breed the rabbits, watched all three die inexplicably (okay, fine, I can probably explain it).
• Gotten yelled at by the chief for not remembering how important he was, but just once. He’s not chief anymore (I had nothing to do with this).
• Sat in and around various cars for 15 hours in one day trying to travel north that included one fist fight and a bunch of angry mamas telling the driver he shouldn’t fight because, “he already has a car!”
• Given 400 middle school students condoms.
• Planted 100 trees.
• FINALLY grew a mediocre garden that has produced three great cucumbers, a handful of beans, a bunch of tomatoes, and three stunted watermelons (thanks to a fungus).
• Played soccer a total of once, but successfully scored a goal and impressed the middle school students.
• Thrown up only once.
• Cried only once (during the U.S. elections).
• Spoken to a stand-in health director about a large malaria project I’m trying to start with another volunteer because the real director has been in Mali for over a year. When the real director randomly showed up, spoke to him about the project and was told to get approval from the ministries of health and education.  Now the director was affected (basically promoted and/or moved) so we need to find the new stand-in director… needless to say this project isn’t starting anytime soon.
• Become the best friend of a 13-year-old girl with way too much energy.
• Drank my weight in tchuk (the local brew).
• Eaten python and python egg.
• Sat by an empty pool and called it a pool party.
• Talked about aliens and ghosts on a Togolese radio show.
• Eaten dog and liked it.
• Passed out from drinking a cold beverage after months of no refrigeration.
• Experienced more culture shock eating at the Radisson Blu (a super fancy hotel you’ll randomly find in any large city) than on my trip to France.
• Eaten rotting meat and not gotten sick.
• Walked around the market with two old women yelling “fɔɔfɔɔ” (soap) at the top of my lungs. I didn’t make a single sale but I made a lot of people smile.
• Told men they were ugly, drunk, rude, and annoying straight to their faces (sorry not sorry).
• Made enough additions to my house that I can finally call it done (garden boxes, a roof over a portion of my porch, a gate on my fence, a fan, and a refrigerator are the most notable additions).
• Weighed two severely malnourished babies that never came back.
• Walked around my village “like Miss Togo 2017” to make my aforementioned 13-year-old best friend laugh.
• Taught 300 students how to make soap out of moringa leaves.
• Had a lizard fall on my head in the shower… twice.
• Conducted 70 surveys in my village on various topics like malaria, nutrition, and sanitation.
• Gotten burned by a motorcycle exhaust pipe as I saved us from tipping over into a giant concrete ditch.
• Carried around 700 buckets of water from my pump to my house.
• Allowed two Togolese girls to dance at a post-Ramadan party by literally boxing out men and throwing elbows. Heard from a male volunteer afterwards that he didn’t fully realize the extent of misogyny in Togo until that night.
• Did the worm in a club in Dapaong on Christmas.
• Seen exactly one other white person in my village (who wasn’t another volunteer who I invited). He had a go-pro on a stick and was wearing safari clothing… I felt downright normal.  I was later scolded for not greeting him like family.
• Formed strong boundaries but also decent relationships with children in my area (mostly thanks to the big gate on my fence, a controlled supply of candy, and one very well-loved soccer ball).
• Bought my first (and probably last) machete and have gotten all sorts of weird comments whenever I’m using it including: “Where are you coming from with THAT,” “Where’s the war?”, and “Is that for security?” always accompanied by lots of laughter of course.
• Sent a bunch of kids to various camps who are now a part of my Young Leaders’ Club. They run trainings for the school and the community with me on all sorts of subjects.
• Traveled to a few different villages to do a “Dirt Day” where we talked about various methods to improve soil. I don’t think any of the methods were adopted, but we’ll try again with improvements this year.
• Given around 40 loaves of bread away.
• Ate 3 giant helpings of fufu (pounded yams) with sauce along with several helpings of fried tofu, a few servings of beef and pork, two giant beers, and an uncountable number of calabashes of tchuk (some of which was non-consensual) to ring in the new year. Locked myself in my house for two days afterwards to recover.
• Successfully replaced cravings for pizza and fast-food with cravings for egg sandwiches and tacos in Sokode.
• Was accused of not liking black people since I’m still single in Togo.
• Went to a conference in Senegal on Malaria in Africa, came back inspired and ready to work.
• Was forced to give a customs agent in the Lomé airport my number, and successfully told him he was unprofessional and rude when he later WhatsApp’d me.
• Tried to impress my 13-year-old best friend with the episode of Planet Earth on the shallow seas. She was only somewhat impressed with the giant sharks and whales, but couldn’t believe the fish: “Il y a les jaunes? Les noirs? Les verts?” etc. (There are yellow ones? Black ones? Green ones? Etc.)
• Attended a pagne fashion show featuring another volunteer as a model.
• Watched about a thousand babies get vaccinations of various kinds.
• Successfully avoided malaria so far, but have watched my friends and neighbors fall sick over and over again.
• Supplied my father with a giant bottle of aspirin and very strict instructions on use to help him function around the house despite his severally injured knee. The bottle ran out about a month ago.
• Lost three external hard drives to the perils of Togo. As a result, am currently without movies, TV, music, and all of the pictures I’ve ever taken.
• Worn shorts out of my house once and was asked multiple times, “Tu fais du sport?” (You’re doing sport?)… No, I’m clearly just walking.
• Woken up every morning of rainy season to walk to my latrine and slam the lid of my pit toilet until all the cockroaches scurry out of sight.
• Speaking of rainy season, failed to avoid mold growing everywhere. No seriously.
• Seen only three mice in my house, which is apparently a huge success.
• Been scolded by mamas with new babies on their backs for carrying something mildly heavy. When I give in and put it down, they proceed to carry it wherever it needs to go.  I’m clearly fragile.
• Had a full (though very simple) conversation in Kabiye.

“ŋliwa lɛ?” – Good morning (literally “have you left”)

“Alafia wɛ.” – Good and you?

“Tʋnida?” – Health?

“Alafia.” – Good

“Payaŋ suwɛ?” – What is your name?

“Payam se Piyalo” – My name is Piyalo.

“ŋwoki lɛ” – Where are you going?

“Mowoki Sotouboua” – I am going to Sotouboua.

“Daya kpɔnʋ.” – Buy bread.

“Ya.” – Okay.

“ŋwoloŋgɔ.” – Go and come back. (This is my favorite Kabiye phrase)

“Ya.” – Okay.

 

I’m sure there’s much, much more.  It’s difficult, but fun, to try to think back to my mentality in the first few months looking at Togo as an outsider.  I’m still an outsider in many ways: I spend my free time inside my house instead of under the mango tree, I still really don’t speak Kabiye, I refuse to go to church anymore, I leave village once every couple of weeks while others leave once a year if ever, I am a constant fascination to kids even after living here over a year, I’m connected to the outside world through the internet, and much, much more.  Regardless, whenever I “ŋwoloŋgɔ”, or leave village and return, I remember how much of an insider I’ve become.  In Sokode and Sotouboua kids yell “ansai” and sing an immensely annoying song that ends in a demand for money, men harass me with names like “chérie” (sweetheart) and “jolie” (pretty) or with marriage proposals and the insistence that I HAVE to marry someone here, women stop to point me out to the babies on their back to teach them the term “ansai” (no wonder all the kids know it).  I’ve mostly learned to ignore these annoyances, but I can’t help but get a little angrier every time another cute kid runs up to touch my skin or every time a grown woman calls me ansai.  My reactions have become more overt: I began with polite smiles and requests to stop, but now I often yell at kids to “yelɩm mɛ hɛzɩ!” (leave me in peace) or scowl at men and roll my eyes.  But when I walk back to my house from the route with a bag heavy with bread, veggies, and slightly more Western food from Sokode, I feel a weight lift off my shoulders.  The kids run up yelling “Piyalo” and “Patri” (short for Patricia) and offer to carry my heavy bags, the old man who sits by the well asks me if I had a good trip, the woman stirring a giant cauldron of tchuk yells out “ŋyɔ solom!” (drink tchuk), my father comes hobbling out of the house to accept my bread and ask me if I spoke to my family and how they are, and as the gate closes behind me I know I am home.

 

I’ve lived in Togo now for 16 months, 13 of which have been spent in my little village that is home.  With 11 months to go, I am overwhelmed by the lack of time and the plethora of work left to do.  But even more than that, I am overcome by the immense amount of comfort I’ve found in my life here in Togo.

 

Tʋmɩyɛ wɛ doŋ, ɛlɛ mɛwɛ pɩyɔɔ.

The work is hard, but I am doing it.