Communication Problems
So a lot of you have probably figured out that communicating with me has been difficult lately. This is because 1) the wireless internet in the PC lounge has not been working ; 2) the electricity has been getting cut all day in Vogan so when I go there I can’t use the internet; AND 3) my cell phone service provider was shut down by the government due to tax evasion or something. I got a new cell phone service provider, but the reception is spottier in village. Anyway the new number is 9106403.….
Travel Plans
Beginning on August 22, I will be traveling with two COS-ing PCVs on the first part of their COS trip. Unfortunately, I must be back in Lome by September for my own COS conference, so I will have to cut much of the adventuring short. But I am still looking forward to it. First we are going to go to Benin, including back to Grand Popo and Ouidah, and then we will go to Cotonou, and then transit up to Niamey(Niger). From Niamey we will make our way to Burkina Faso; my friends will continue onto Mali, and I will somehow figure out how to get back to Lome in less than two days by myself.
The COS conference will run from Sept 1 to Sept 4 (return to village the 5th) and there is internet at the hotel so hopefully I’ll be able to share details from the trip at this time. The COS Conference is for everyone who became a PCV in December 2007. During this time we will decide what dates we are leaving Togo, begin discussing our accomplishments and comments about the past two years, and start to process that for most of us, we will soon be RPCVs. I can’t really even think about it right now.
And The Last Miracle…
In the last post I shared that Kokoutse and Akou passed their exams. On July 22nd the results of the BAC II were announced. I was in Pagala at Camp Espoir and was on pins and needles the whole day. At 11pmthat night my phone lit up. It was a missed call from Michel. I called him back, beginning to feel sick from nerves.
“Anna, today they announced the results.”
“Yes…. And?”
“And…. Ca va.”
It’s alright? What? One of the greatest accomplishments of your life so far and all you’re going to say is ‘It was ok’? Sometimes Togolese modesty about things I consider important makes me quite angry.
“What do you mean, ca va? What does that mean?” I demanded, wanting to make him say it out loud.
“It means we passed. I passed. So did Emmanuel. We have our BAC. We succeeded.”
There was a long silence. Finally I said, “I have no words. I can’t say anything right now.”
“What do you mean you can’t say anything? You talk too much all the time and for once you can’t say anything?” he mocked.
“I just can’t. Later. Just – congratulations. Bon travail. You know that I’m so proud of you guys. Bon travail. That’s all I can say.”
He laughed, and I could hear from his joy what a terrible strain they’d been living under for the last month, dreading and yet wanting to know the results of the exam. “Bonne nuit then. Merci.”
And when I hung up the truth finally sunk in and I was overwhelmed with so much happiness that I cried, tucked in under my mosquito net, and couldn’t even sleep well that night – excitement kept waking me up, because I knew that if they had failed they would have possibly abandoned their studies, and that now, no matter what happens, they have one of the most coveted diplomas in Togo. Granted, it’s high school, and sure, a bachelor’s is even more desirable, but with the BAC they now possess the minimum to get a sort-of good job, they have a minor qualification that will let them leave village, they won’t be stuck in the fields or driving taxi motos all their lives (if they’re lucky)…. And suddenly I thought : “This means I can go home, because now I know that everything will be okay.”
I am so proud of them, my friend-brothers, and wanted to share with you all their joy and their reward for over four years of struggling to survive in a school system that fails more easily than it lets people succeed.
Fika
Fika continues to do well even though I have not talked about him recently! Yes he is still alive and well. He has transformed into quite an endearing character, still totally different from Akoko but lovable in his own way. He has never curled up on my lap or snuggled during the day, but at night he is quite happy to stay in the house with me and always sleeps in the nest formed by my legs, purring madly; in the morning, no matter how hungry he is, he will not leave the bed until I put my feet on the floor. Once he is on the ground he quickly turns into his “daylight” personality: meowing even though he is quite a picky eater, refusing any public displays of affection, etc. At night he waits underneath the table while Justine and I eat , or plays with the shadows; the exact moment I rise to open my gate and go back to my own house next door, Fika dashes through the open gate to wait for me on the porch, swishing his tail bossily. He very rarely enters Justine’s house, and has never slept over there, unlike Koko. But he will hang out outside her house with us, and begs for table scraps. I am not sure how he will fare when I leave.
Akou and Lome
As promised, I took Akou to Lome for the day. I took her to the Peace Corps volunteer lounge, to the office to greet our directress, to the beach to see the ocean, and to the grand marche to browse and buy her shoes (her request). We had such a great day together, and when she came back to village she would not stop chattering away to her family about everything she had seen. I was so proud of her and kept telling Justine and her other sisters, “Listen – Akou will turn out just fine in this world. She was so polite to everyone but so confident – she would be so firm with sellers in the market who were hassling us!” And it was me who spent a lot of money (unfortunately the pagne sellers can always sucker me into buying some new fabric) – even though I had already openly promised to buy her shoes, it was Akou who was hesitant every time we stopped before a market stall, ducking her head even as her hands loving stroked the sandals, whispering, “But, Davi Anna, they’re expensive! Let’s just keep looking!” (If it was Adjo, the little imp, she would have been blatantly demanding everything in sight.) Now she proudly wears her new shoes – ugly black heels with a glittery fake diamond heart; I hate them but she’s in love with them and they’re “village chic” – every Sunday at church. It was a joy to see her excitement at seeing the “big city” of Lome or the huge waves on the beach or the bustle and craziness of the Grand Marche. Later I would overhear her giggling as she re-enacted for her family how “Davi Anna spoke Ewe to beggar kids who were bothering us and they didn’t know to react!”
Camp Espoir
Camp Espoir 2009 for the Maritime region was July 20 – 25. As you all may remember, I was one of the regional organizers. 2 regional organizers + 6 other PCVs + 10 Togolese counterparts (all staff or volunteers of 2 AIDS organizations in Lome) + 50 Orphans and Vulnerable Children (children eitheraffected by or infected by HIV ) = an exhausting week but still (along with last year’s Camp Espoir 2008) one of my favourite memories of Peace Corps Togo. This year went a lot more smoothly than last year, aside from the normal minor glitches that come with running a week long camp for fifty kids, and I am very proud of the work that Natasha and I have been doing since February, building up good relationships with the NGOs, etc. Camp Espoir almost didn’t happen because of lack of funding but in the end it all turned out ok. I hope to post photos soon; they are all organized on Picasa but the last time I was inLome my laptop was not connecting to the internet so couldn’t upload them.
Frustrations
Sometimes there are overwhelming frustrations that might seem so small if I try to describe them but when I’m in the moment they seem so big. Even now trying to put them down on paper I can’t seem to articulate well.
July 14 2009 : Requiem for a Husband // Anna, Ton Mari Est Mort
Simon was standing in the doorway playing with his phone thoughtfully. I tossed over a careless remark as I started to open my gate. Where had he been – visiting the President? Non. I was at the chief’s house. Il y avait un evenement malheureuse. An unhappy event.
The Togolese are masters of understatement.
Ah bon? I paused, looked at him expectantly. He sighed and put his phone away and told me the youngest of the chief’s two sons was dead, that there had been an motorcycle accident in Lome. That the chief had rushed off to Lome this morning.
The chief’s son was 22 years old. On Thursday he learned that he had passed all his final exams at the university and now possessed his license (bachelor’s degree). Most 22 year old boys in village haven’t finished high school yet. On Sunday night he was killed.
That night at dinner, as we made plans to all go together to the chief’s house in Lome to participate in the formal condolence calls (then I would leave and Simon and Justine would stay for the two or three days of funeral rites), I kept on thinking of a single, incredibly tactless and trivial detail. When I was in the States, it had become part of a joke to talk about how my chief wanted me to marry his son. That he had hinted , or perhaps it was my imagination, that perhaps if his son returned to village he would invite me over to meet him. We tossed around the joke throughout the month of my visit. And I couldn’t help thinking My expected husband is dead. We were just joking about him a few months ago. He is dead.
It ran through my head like a refrain all through the evening, and into the morning as well. And I kept kicking myself, scolding myself, for thinking something so odd, for fixating on something that was so trivial and above all so self-absorbed and so trite.
I was still thinking about it as we arrived at the chief’s house. And the first thing he said to me was: Anna, ton mari est mort. And I thought: He too remembered that he had once hinted to me. (He then proceeded to explain to Justine all he had had planned for me and his son.)
At the chief’s house there were dozens of plastic chairs set out in the courtyard to receive all the visitors who trickled in and out throughout the morning. We seated ourselves quietly and waited. Members of the household took turns greeting the guests and asking their names, presumably to inform the bereaved in case there was anyone they especially wanted to see. If not, it was our duty simply to support them with our presence while they grieved in the interior of the house. The chief came out and sat down before me and Simon and Justine. We went through the traditional salutations. He grasped my hand and said : I am grateful you have come.
And he began to recount, as he would a hundred times throughout the day, somewhat formally, the story of how his life had changed in an instant. How the son had taken the motorcycle out at night, after the rain, to deliver a request for a Mass of thanks to the priest, to give thanks for his success at university; how his father had called him on the telephone and how he had replied “I’m coming! I’ll be home soon!” And how after that, he was never heard from again. How the mother began to pray as it got later and later. How the car had rammed into the motorcycle, cleaving it into two; the son was not wearing a helmet. How the thieves came and took his son’s clothes, ID documents, phone, leaving him there on the road next to the lagoon. Was he already dead when the vultures that we call men stole even his shoes? Or did he only die later, when passers-by tarried too long to carry him to a hospital, fearful of a new law that says in case of accident no one should leave the scene until the police arrive? How the father went finally to a hospital and the doctors refused to tell him what happened; and by their refusal he knew what had happened; how he asked to see his son and they refused; and finally when they told him that his son was dead how they had to hold him up by his shoulders as he screamed and struggled and demanded to see his son. Je veux voir mon fils. Je veux voir mon fils.
And the chief leapt up from his chair and began to pace up and down the courtyard muttering in Ewe, every so often bursting into song, which made his comrades wince and his followers take his elbow soothingly, trying to calm him, and he began to cry out again : Je veux voir mon fils. I want to see my son. Finally he went out of sight behind the house but his cries could still be heard. Justine was by this time part of the group that was trying to console him. Simon and I stayed seated. Even I, who had never even met the young man, was overwhelmed by the awful sight of sorrow. Besides me, stoic sarcastic stubborn Simon dropped his head to his folded arms on his knees and discreetly wiped away tears.
The scene continued like this for some time. The chief would calm down and return to move his chair to in front of newly arrived callers, to accept their greetings and condolences. And then he would remember the death all over again and began to cry out and walk and try to leave the house or to sing and desperately try to call on God. I want to see my son.
Eventually I took my leave. Before being allowed to do so, we were summoned to enter the house, to meet the dead man’s mother, who just till now had been able to leave her room to greet the guests. We entered the room. There were one or two elderly lying on couch beds, as if the effort had finally overtaken them; Let me just rest here a moment, dear, and then I’ll be ready to face it all. Just let me rest, dear. Don’t try to wake me, for them I will know for sure this is no passing dream.
I had never met the chief’s wife who lives in Lome. I had only ever heard her described as “A very great lady”, a school teacher, the love of the chief’s wife (despite the rumored 20-something-year old mistress in village), an iron willed Catholic. And she once was, and will be again. But not today. Today she was sitting, leaning into the corner of her armchair, half draped over the arm, leaning into the sympathetic arms of a old French man, clinging to his hands between her two and staring at him as he murmured his condolences. She looked like Michaelangelo’s Pieta. Merci. Merci beaucoup, she nodded. At last she turned to us and began again to recant the story of her son’s death. An elderly woman roused herself and came up to her, whispering in Ewe that she must eat, she must keep strong, she should nourish herself to keep through the day…. The mother nodded wearily. The chief wandered brokenly into the room. Voila ma femme. C’est notre volontaire du Corps de la Paix.
This is my brother-in-law, he said, gesturing to the old French man. He is married to my sister. The Frenchman beamed at me as much as the occasion permitted and announced rather randomly, J’ai une petite metisse a la maison.
The chief suddenly leaned over the back of his wife’s chair, smothering her with his hands across her face, laying his head on her breast, whimpering and clinging to her. She put a hand up to his arm. But her eyes were vacant. There is a reason why it is the woman Mary’s grief that is portrayed and not Jesus’ male brothers. Simon and Justine looked at the ground. In the face of such tragedy there is always awkwardness; I wondered if they were also embarrassed at such blatant public shows of affection in a society where villages and rural environments are still quite modest and coy and hypocritically outwardly chaste.
Thank you for your visit, she said with dignity. There is evening prayer tonight, and then tomorrow is the funeral at our parish church. Thank you for your visit.
That night, returning, I knew that I would have to put it all down on paper, and soon, before I lost the details although for the moment I felt I could never forget. But not now. Not yet. And in the darkness of a cloudy starless sky I played through every piece of sheet music I had, and every note I played was my own personal eulogy ; sending my prayers up to God with music that up to now I’d always stumbled through. I slept badly ; everytime I woke it was to stare at the ceiling and hear again and again those terrible words : Je veux voir mon fils!
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