Over the next few days, we had more meetings about the inhabitants of the Peace Corps Volunteers that we held. We had to spend three days with PCVs who were in the country for a year and saw for themselves what an ACV life au village is. We tried bikes and helmets. I began to sort out bronchitis and feel better.
The night before we went to our live shows, Mami had an evening reception for the siders at the reception. Johnny Young, the US ambassador to Togo, was there. I was impressed with his French. Some local Togolese government officials were also present. Kodjo Amesefe (KOE-joe Ameh-SEF-eh), who was supposed to be my boss at PC headquarters, said in his welcoming speech: “Welcome to Togo. Please stay, you need us. ” His request for us to stay was based on the number of volunteers who came and then asked for early termination within a few months of their arrival. Peace Corps does not look like an army. You can ask to leave at any time, and they will send you home. Finally, at the end of Kojo's speech, he said: "Africa will change you, whether you want it or not." It turned out very, very true.
After the reception, I went to Mandulu, the next Peace Corps volunteer chamber, for a beer. All the others returned to Mami reliably earlier, because we left early the next day for our performances. But since I spent the last few days, when I was sitting with a sore throat, and not parties, I was a little late in hearing that several PCVs were spilling dirt on all sorts of things. The biggest complaints concerned the speeches of the country's director and one of the assistant directors of the countries, none of whom, I soon realized, was too overworked.
The next morning we got up at 5 am to get ready for departure at 6:30. This was done easily and without alarm clocks. Sunrise around the equator takes place all year round from 5:00 am to 5:30 am, and the curtains in the rooms at the Mami post office have less than one star covered with nothing more than a sheet, if anything. He did nothing to block the light, so the light woke you up. But if you insist on sleeping at dawn, the next church with its ringing bells would make you rise for a moment.
Those of us who headed the north, piled into a PC van and headed to the office where we picked up bicycles, helmets and mattresses. The Peace Corps sent mattresses for live performances with us, because most of the volunteers who lived in the village had only one mattress for their own use. But the guy who had the helmets was not there until 8 am, and the helmets were not where they could be found, so we had to wait. Damase (dah-mahs), director of training, came and became angry when he heard about all this. We finally drove around 7:30.
I was tasked with conducting a three-day broadcast at Bitchabé (BEECH-ah-bay) with Sally, another intern. It was one of the distant northern posts, but not the most distant from Lome. However, we would be one of the last listeners to reach our destination.
Mensah was our driver. He was funny and funny, and he helped to make time on a long journey to the north. “Every time you want me to stop, just tell me,” he assured us. He meant urine. We walked up into the bushes. In Togo, there are no stops with toilets, as in America. In the bush, if you had to go, you had to go to the bushes.
We dropped off an intern in Atakpam (ah-tack-pah-may), a large city located on the hills in the southern part of Togo. I dined in Sokod (SOAK-oh-day), one of the major cities in the northern region, and fell another two. The further north we go, the more beautiful the land around the main road has become. We drive through beautiful teak forests and hills. Bassar (bah-SAR) was one of the smallest cities we went through, maybe with 5-10,000 people, and I liked it best.
We made a stop. Even in large cities, finding a place to use the toilet, if you could even find a toilet, was an impossible task. If you were lucky, the squat manor you found would not be too disgusting. Most of the female interns jumped out of the van and, without any particular problems, sat on six feet of tall grass on the side of the road. The grass was tall enough to provide perfect privacy. Most of us didn’t even care about toilet paper.
But there was one woman who was not going to urinate in the grass. It was the same intern who brought a dryer for a hairdryer to Togo. Firstly, it is Togo, not New York, and you will never find yourself in a situation where you look out of place, if your hair has not been well combed. Secondly, it is Togo, and there is no electricity anywhere except Lome and in a very limited way in large cities. Thirdly, it is Togo. Get over yourself.
I noticed that Angelica twisted her lip in disgust and, of course, did not drink much water, dehydrating herself to avoid having to urinate along the road, like everyone else. In the African heat, it was not only stupid, it was dangerous. If she succumbed to heat stroke, we were far, far away from any medical facility. Brings a damned dry dryer to a third world country and does not urinate in the bushes. These were certain troubles. Since then, she has been a complaint participant in Washington, DC. I wondered why she had ever appealed to the Peace Corps and how she managed to get a recruiting interview without twisting her lip. It was not a place for princesses.
The road to Bitchabé was blocked by a fallen tree, so we had to walk an hour and a half to get there via another road. We were now more than eight hours from Lome in the beautiful desert. The remoteness of this place was a little nervous. If anything happens and you need medical care away from Lome, there were no doctors or hospitals to which you could go. And there were a lot of things that could happen. People in Africa often die from causes for which it would be easy to deal with in the United States, where medical care is easily accessible.
Finally we reached the village of Bitchabé, a small village located not far from the hills. There were mud huts with thatched roofs, some collapsed. There were some cement shacks with rusty tin roofs. Garbage is usually strewn almost everywhere. Among all the beauty of the surrounding nature, Bitchabé had canker sores. We abruptly rolled into the space in front of one of the dilapidated houses, and Mensa turned off the engines. Angelica grinned: “This is for you!” She felt excellent because she was going to spend her life further north in a larger city with a volunteer who had a house with electricity. I gave her an evil eye, but resisted the desire to say: “Come on, bitch!”
After overcoming the initial shock of poverty and debris, I soon saw the beauty of plants, trees and the whole environment. I was not the one who twisted my lip at the thought of urinating outdoors, and I was not the one who often and loudly stuttered about what I did without what I was used to returning to the States, so I easily dismissed her snotty remark. This princess will not last here for ten minutes. Mensah helped Sally and me to carry in our bags, and we said goodbye to him and to the evil princess.
Everything in Bitchabé was in poor repair, but it was still great. People were very warm, friendly and friendly. Pam, the volunteer with whom we stayed, had a three-room house behind the concession of her African host family. Concession in Africa is a complex of buildings that form the living quarters of a family, often surrounded by a fence or wall.
Pam had a completely new restroom at home, only a few steps from her front door, which was for her exceptional use. This demanded the Peace Corps. Most families in Togol villages do not even have a restroom. If you have it, you must block it so that other people do not use it. It sounds terribly selfish and unfriendly, but there are reasons. In this country, people are very, very well trained. They do not know that you can not throw your garbage in the restroom. They will throw anything and everything that is, including batteries with a battery lantern. Not only that, but people in the village are often jealous of those who have something they don’t have. Vandalism is not unheard of. Pam also had an outdoor shower (bathing area: four cement walls with a cement floor and no roof), where I learned the art of a bath with a bucket.
The first night we just talked. Sally and I asked Pam for hundreds of questions that she was glad to answer. Due to the remoteness of her post, she did not have many visitors, and she was glad that we were there. Sally and I both were a bit nervous about being so far from a beat, but I was not in a panic from that. This, of course, made me think, however, that I did not want to spend two years in an area so remote that it was difficult to get to medical care if I needed it. Perhaps I didn’t think too much about it if I was in my 20s and recently left college like everyone else, but I was more than twice the average volunteer, so I had a different look. This turned out to be one of my considerations when I later chose the village where I was supposed to be located.
The next day we went around the village and met several people. Pam taught us a few words in Bassar. The greeting was something like “dom pa”, to which you answer “alafia” (alla FEE ya). Another great phrase was “nyan ga pa,” which means “this is good.” The villagers were always helped when they discovered that Sally and I even knew two of Bassar’s words.
Then we got to our first hub taxi, an old long truck of the 1940s with a hard surface over the cargo area, and headed for the march to Banjel (BAN-jell-lee), located 9 km away. The driver invited us all to sit down. The front seat of a makeshift taxi is usually more comfortable, and African hospitality is such that they will offer the most comfortable place for a yovo (white person) guest in their own country. Sally and Pam climbed forward, but I thought that the four in front would be too crowded. (I was so green!) Also, I really wanted to ride on my back with the Africans and see if this was too claustrophobic for me.
Even with 19 other people, tons of cargo and a few chickens that have historically been squeezed in were not that bad. The rear shock absorbers were completely shot, so it was like a walk to an amusement park when people were bouncing off of places when we ran across the bump. Everyone just laughed when it happened, and it happened often. The ceiling was low in the back of this truck, and when we hit one pothole, I bounced off the seat and hit my head on the ceiling. Everyone laughed, including me. No one takes such things too seriously. Africans a sense of humor was something that I always loved. No matter how terrifying the situation, it always seemed to them that they were laughing or even smiling, despite this.
The banjel marches were great. Big enough, but not too big. The marche was the local equivalent of a supermarket. Different villas had a market one day a week, every other day. So, if you missed the market in Banjel and needed something, there would be another village nearby with a market day the next day or so, where you could get your needs. You can get most of the things in the village marches that you will need. In addition to fresh local produce, there were plastic cups, tin dishes, boxes of soap, candles, matches, kerosene lights, clothes, even toilet paper, but there were no tourist bling. It was too far from the path, too far from Lome. It was a truly African market selling food and everyday items. For tourist souvenirs you need to go to Lome, Kvalime or one of the other major cities.
I was fascinated by beautiful African outfits. The fabrics were colorful, the patterns were large and bright. I have a lot of really great photos. Unfortunately, none of these gorgeous photos has been preserved. A few weeks later, when we were at a training camp in Pagala, I handed over a film roll to a friend in Los Angeles to get it. I read on the Internet, before leaving the States, that the processing of a film was almost impossible in Togo. This information was very outdated, but I did not know about it. We were also not told at any of the orientation meetings of the Peace Corps in Lomé how easy it was to create a film in Lomé and most of the major regional cities. Not only did I pay terribly for postage, but the film never arrived in Los Angeles
When we left the march, he began to pour rain. At first we did not think that we could return by taxi. If you wait too long, a taxi will not go in the direction of Bitchabé. In the end, as soon as the march is over, there will be no customers in this direction. One of the drivers said that we can ride on the roof. It would be quite dangerous in good weather, as the baggage was so high, so we passed. Finally found another bush taxi and filled up. By the time we got back to Pam, the torrential rain had stopped.
