La Paque and The Palu

I feel badly that I’ve neglected this entry for so long, lest any details slip my mind…however it is hard to focus on anything other than my stomach at the present moment, as I’ve had my first real encounter with an intimate bacterial intruder here in Togo. If I thought that my initial episodes of digestive malfunction were as uncomfortable as adjusting to my new diet would get, I was sorely mistaken…without going into the charming details, I will just say that by noon yesterday, after a sleepless night, I was so dehydrated I couldn’t see straight and couldn’t even keep any water down…trying not to be a fragile yovo, I waited to see if my symptoms would subside, but soon gave into my better judgement...

Yao and Jeanne from FECECAV and Papa Mensah took me to the clinic instead of the hospital because it was less crowded. It was on the outskirts of Kpalimé and I really wasn’t sure if I was going to make it through that bumpy and dusty ride. After assessing my fever and symptoms, the doctor decided that I probably had malaria, and sent me in for a blood test. He took my word for the conversion of Fahrenheit (on my personal thermometer because the one they had was not working) to Celsius and that was the last I saw of the doctor. For the rest of the day, three Ewe-speaking nurses tried to make me feel better. Through my haze I made sure, aided by the unrelenting attention of Jeanne and Mensah, that all of the needles were being opened from new packets and that they were sterilizing everything, which I had to ask them to do a few times…soon I had an IV of fluids in the arm and they had determined that I did not in fact have the palu (malaria.) They decided that I had some kind of infection, but didn’t do any further tests to figure out what it was…throughout the day I started to feel better, could keep some fluids down and felt less nauseous. Mensah, Jeanne and Yao told me over and over again that “Ça va aller” and “Du courage ma fille” (this will pass, hang in there) and as the solutions and medications fed into my veins, I started to believe them.

Now you’re probably all thinking why I didn’t press them to do more tests, figure out what was making me sick and for g-d’s sake, find the doctor. First of all, I did. No luck. The doctor was MIA and they kept on telling me that a white doctor was coming to the clinic later…why they thought that would matter still mystifies me…and where he ended up? Also a mystery. The nurses, one of which was a student and Mensah threw a fit when she tried to change the IV bottle (yes, no bags here, glass bottles for the IV drip,) were more interested in the Nigerian film they were watching in the other room than the fact that I was threatening to vomit on them if they didn’t tell me what the hell was going on. All I know is that whatever they did to me worked like a charm…I perked up like a banana tree in the rain. Soon I was able to joke with Yao about his driving on the way to the clinic, complain that the IV was hurting my arm and even think about drinking some juice…

They gave me an anti-malarial medication to take for the next 3 days because, although the test was negative, I still had a bit of a fever and they could not determine that it wasn’t the palu. If it wasn’t, and was instead some nasty amoeba attacking my guts, the solutions full of vitamins and strong antibiotics that they gave me while I was there should take care of it, and indicate that I will be ok in a day or so. The fact that neither the nurses, the doctor, nor my friends were at all panicked actually made me feel better. Sure they were concerned, I did not feel well at all, but immediately they knew I was not going to die and I just needed some Vitamin C and medicine to help my body fight off the attacker. At home, when I have a cut on my finger I immediately think that if I don’t get it checked out I am making a huge mistake and that it must be something serious. Although I have my reasons to be a bit paranoid about contracting weird infections, I think that we Americans need to recognize the phobic society we live in and remember that not every allergy is the end of your good health, and that its not really necessary to wipe down the Venetian blinds and the cats whiskers every day with anti-bacterial spray. All of that said, there are many reasons why my life expectancy is a lot higher most people born in Kpalimé…Although my stomach is not in its normal, steel-like state, I feel heaps better, minus the desperate craving for Ramen noodles and a bagel. We’ll see how it goes, and I am once again on the alert to avoid tap water and unsafe-looking fufu.

Anyway, back to La Paque, otherwise known as Easter. It is a big deal here, as you can imagine, with the religious fervor and all. There is no Easter bunny, Cadbury or pastel colored eggs, only a lot of Yesus Krist (Jesus in Ewe,) a lot of crucifying and a lot of ascending. The festivities began on Thursday afternoon, when I noticed a few my FECECAV colleagues changing into red shirts and heading off to church instead of their afternoon siesta. I soon figured out why. I was walking past Daniel’s wife’s boutique (where I head most days to buy bagged eau-glacé and Togocell cards) when I saw the heat outlining a sea of red slowly enveloping the road about a mile ahead. I noticed the policiers and the gendarmie stopping cars and motos and making them turn around, but had no idea what was going on. I asked my little friends Grâce and Jesu (Daniel’s children) to which they responded somewhat indifferently, “Oh it’s just the Catholics,” as if a vermillion procession of cross-bearing Africans takes over their street every Thursday.

Still a bit confused, I took out my camera and tried to discreetly snap some photos of the approaching parade. It was lead by a small boy, no older than 10 or 12, dressed in a red alter-boy’s uniform and holding a giant red-felt cross in the air over his head. He was followed by a group of children, all in red of course, and then a more disorganized and less homogenously dressed group of adults. As I was debating how to continue taking pictures even after being fiercely barked at by a policier, I wondered why it was taking them so long to arrive in front of Petit Suisse. Soon I noticed that as they processed, they stopped every few feet to kneel and pray, guided by a huge megaphone in the back of a white pickup truck, leading the mass in prayer and song.

On Friday, many people did not go to work, but of course the FECECAV crew was there. While the staff was a bit sparser than most days, the conscientious collectrices and cassieres continued to impress me with their diligence. I worked on writing new business descriptions until the electricity went out too many times and I decided to call it an early day.

Two of Akpene’s brothers, Theophile and Pascal, arrived at Petit Suisse to help with preparations for the weekend, when we would head up to the top of the mountains to celebrate Easter with Akpene’s family. She grew up with 2 sisters and 10 brothers in a village called Kouma, nestled in the rainforests on the other side of the mountainous hills that surround Kpalimé. Kouma is like most tiny African villages that I have seen, only not as hot and with lush panoramic views wherever you look. There is always a breeze at the top of the mountain, and I decided that if I were Togolaise, I would definitely have built my house there. There is a tiny marché in the center of town, a church, and some compounds and huts. Not a thriving commercial center. It is hard for people to get to Kpalimé or other towns to do shopping, which I understood after the drive up…the road got smaller and smaller, rocky and cavernous, and began to wind around the mountain at precariously acute angles. I wasn’t sure if our taxi was going to make it all the way there, considering the excruciatingly slow pace at which we were traveling to avoid the deep trenches and boulders, and the fact that the car itself appeared to be held together by a bungee cord strung between the two front windows…every time we heaved into and out of a pothole the car creaked so stridently I waited for the cracked windshield to shatter and the rusted body to cartoonishly split down the center and thud to the ground on either side. I contentedly sat and listened to the Ewe chatter of the 6 other people piled into the sedan with me and 40 minutes later we arrived in Kouma. We drove through the center, up an enormous hill (at about 3mph, literally) and down a footpath to Akpene’s family compound.

In front of an ancient banana forest, there were 3 huts and a stone barn-like structure surrounding a square dirt yard with an enormous mango tree. Also in the yard were fufu bowls and mallets, a few wooden chairs and tables under an open air, palm-roofed shelter, and several goats and a mangy dog milling about and panting. Under the shelter sat about 8 shirtless men passing a bottle of clear liquid around the table, an older man in traditional African garb and thick, black-rimmed glasses, and 2 women holding children. We could hear the smack and suction of fufu pounding in the distance as we peeled ourselves out of the car.

I was soon introduced to the brothers (whom I discovered were drinking Sodabi at 8am – the dangerously strong local alcohol distilled from palm wine) who were all as friendly and welcoming to me as Akpene always has been. They were thrilled by my African outfit that Akpene finished in time for me to wear and tried (in vain) to get me to try the Sodabi before heading to church. After the introductions, Akpene was angry that no one was ready to go to church, and started off down the path in a huff. At Mensah’s pleading eyes, I accompanied her down into the village where the service had already started. Along the way, we passed another mass going on with about 20 people singing in a tiny, open-walled building overlooking the valley. We also saw a cat dragging a dead chicken across the cratered path and woman with a tumor on her neck the size of a soccerball…(another reason it is hard to live in Kouma…no doctors nearby…not that this is the first time I have seen a medical emergency like this left completely unattended. People just can’t even think of trying to pay for a consultation…)

The church service was much more subdued than in Kpalimé, and completely in Ewe. The pastor recognized my presence a few minutes after Akpene and I had found our seats, and thanked me for being there. I thanked him in Ewe and felt proud for of myself for the next 15 minutes. There was less mongering for donations than in Kpalimé and a much more intimate atmosphere. People sang in groups of 5 or 6, simply standing up in the audience and breaking into a cappella psalms in 4 part harmonies. There was an offering of a live chicken and a basket of fruit, both of which sat in silence in front of the altar throughout the service. Shortly after we arrived, a visibly intoxicated man wandered in through an open side door and started yelling something in Ewe. As the pastor beckoned him to kneel in front of him and began gently speaking, the audience began to titter, the atmosphere somewhere between condemnation, lighthearted pity and outright humor. After a few minutes, several smiles from the pastor and murmurs of approval from the audience the man rose and, giving thanks to everyone in the room, stumbled out into the blinding sunlight.

After the service (which was long, considering I did not understand it and don’t really believe in the whole New Testament thing…) we walked out into the heat of mid-morning which, to my dismay, does still penetrate, even in Kouma. We greeted some of Akpene’s friends and relatives, all of whom commented with glee on my outfit, and walked back to the house. A group of half-naked children singing the classic, “yovo yovo bonsoir! Comment çava, merci!” followed me, begging for a photo. As I took out my camera about 12 more children came out of nowhere and jumped in front of the lens. It continues to send shivers up my spine every time they squeal in a mixture of disbelief, delight and terror when I show them the digital photo of themselves. It is entirely tragicomic, because while this is the highlight of their day and I can’t hold back my smile, it is so unfair that these children, who are just as curious and enchanted with childhood as any other, will never have the opportunities they are entitled to.

When we arrived back at the house the celebration had already begun. The family was so grateful to be together that I felt privileged to be a witness to their happiness. There were three generations present, all of whom welcomed me as a sister and a daughter. We ate fufu à la chevre (goat,) which was a delicacy for them, but difficult for me to eat as it was very fatty and, as with most meat here, comes complete with bones, teeth and skin. I managed to get about a quarter of it down and gave the rest to the brothers (the role of the brother as the dinner table garbage disposal seems to be universal,) who happily polished it off.

During and after eating, the Sodabi, whiskey and beers were passed around and people began to clap and sing. Sodabi is sweet and potent, and burns all the way down. I was glad to have tried it, but it definitely won’t become a habit…it isn’t as prevalent in Kpalimé or in larger towns, much more in remote villages where people really have nothing else to do…that said, not everyone is a drunk. When there is no football or golf to watch, no vacuuming to be done, no fancy games or technology to be found, people make their own entertainment. This has been something that has refreshed me since I arrived here – you can give an African child a spot in the dirt, a rock or a flat tire and they will be happily entertained for hours. Much nicer than the brats throwing temper tantrums in FAO Schwatrz because their spoiled playdate has a more recent version of Sony Playstation…

Throughout the afternoon, the younger brothers appeared to be the ringleaders of the singing and carrying on, but when grand-frère (the oldest brother) came over and jokingly grabbed the bottle of Sodabi out of Ferdinand’s (the youngest brother) hand, he shook with fear. One of Akpene’s brothers is deaf, yet hung in the background or sat in a chair next to his father smiling at me the entire time. The father of the brood sat in a chair under the mango tree, quietly surveying the scene and cracking a less than toothy smile every few minutes. Abigail, the youngest granddaughter who is 2, called out yovo and threw popcorn at me until settling into my lap, which gave me an excuse to sit down (the energy these people have never cease to amaze me and I was pooped by mid-afternoon.) I ate a huge bowl of rice in the afternoon and Akpene and Ferdinand got in a sort of rice-fight, which involved shoveling it into each other’s mouths, which the chickens and goats were happy to clean up after. One of Akpene’s brothers is deaf, yet hung in the background or sat in a chair next to his father smiling at his family the entire time. I was so grateful to have them grin and call me sister, to grab my hand and dance me around the clapping circle of chanting and singing, and to take part in an unorchestrated and genuinely joyful celebration.

We did not sleep over in Kouma, as our driver had waited for us, and we trekked back down the mountain at sunset, arriving in one tired and sweaty piece.

The next day, Theophile, Pascal and Ferdinand were back at Petit Suisse on their way back to Lomé. Theophile is an accountant at a school, Pascal repairs refrigerators and desperately wants to come to the US, and Ferdinand is a policier in training…sadly, like most people in Togo, while their appearance is one of dignity, none of them earn enough money to contribute to the medical care their parents desperately need, and who live in isolated poverty on the top of the mountain. We played cards and Edito (the authentic version of Mancala, as it is an Ashanti game and originally comes from Ghana) all morning, Theophile winning and knowing it every time. He must have done something magnificent in his past life to have that kind of luck…we had a fancy lunch on the roof of the hotel with a table cloth, salad appetizers (which I knew I shouldn’t have eaten and may have contributed to my sickness) and sparkling grape juice. They said some prayers and I said the motzi, although no one knew what on earth I was saying and, bizarrely, no one asked…

After lunch, the brothers got ready to leave and called me into their room. I had no idea what was coming and hoped I hadn’t done anything to offend them. Instead, they handed me a wrapped gift. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to do. I explained that I didn’t need or deserve any gifts and I did not want to take anything from them, at which they protested vehemently and said that this is the Togolese way. I know that this is true, but continue to feel uncomfortable with this kind of generosity as I know that, although I am not rich, I have it so much better financially than any of these people just by nature of my birth…through my tears I opened the package to reveal 2 beautiful African outfits that Pascal had picked out for me in Lomé, to remember their family and the time I spent with them. For one of very few times in my life that I can remember, I was speechless.

Although I am not feeling so great right now, the past week has made me so happy to be experiencing Togo in the way that I am. After meeting the Peace Corps crew, I know how different my experience is than theirs, and I am incredibly lucky to have met such wonderful people that have taken me into their lives and daily routines. When I was sick yesterday, my friends from FECECAV were there with me all day and everyone from the quartier stopped by last night to see how I was feeling (word spreads like wildfire around here!) Whatever cravings for some normal food and over-the-counter drugs I am experiencing right now are balanced out by the satisfaction I am getting from this adventure.

This Saturday will be one month since I left New York. It feels like so much less, although my Mom says it feels much longer haha. This weekend I am going to chat with the Peace Corps couple in Kpalimé about doing some work with them at their MFI when I am finished with FECECAV in 2 weeks. I am also hoping to travel up north to see more of Togo before I come back sometime at the end of April/beginning of May, depending on who comes to visit me.

I miss you all! It is definitely lonely here sometimes by myself, and I send you all my love. Paix partout.

K

PS – I had a dream the other night in French…I woke up and realized it immediately