Do It Yourself

“Do it yourself” a concept that seems foreign here in Togo.  As you know, when it rains my roof has been leaking and my windows have been flooding my kitchen.  If I was in the States I would easily pop over to my local Home Depot to pick up a few supplies and voila my leaks would be fixed (OK I’m no roofer… my windows would at least be no problem).  But here, it’s another story.

I consider myself somewhat of a do-it-yourselfer, and when I can I do a project myself.  If there is a project to do, I can figure out what tools to use and find them easily.  Here, not only is the tool I’m looking for possibly not available, but it’s also possible I don’t know the name of the tool in French and neither does the salesman. 

In order to fix my windows my answer was caulk.  I found the French translation and sought out caulk at the local store.  No one knew what I was talking about.  I resorted to describing the product…my problem…my ideas on how to fix it…I was offered paint and when I turned that down, motorcycle sealant.

With my failed attempt to buy my preferred product I resorted to trying to seal up the cracks with aluminum foil I harvested from chocolate bars.  The first big rainstorm though proved that my candy wrappers and scotch tape were not sufficient to keep out the rains.  I made a second attempt to explain my problem and this time with some success the salesman suggested a new product that I don’t know the name of in French, Ewe, or English.  It’s a foil like tape with tar-like glue on the back.  It has yet to be tested by a torrential rain but I’m hopeful all the cracks have been sealed.

After finding the product, convincing everyone that I can do it myself was another obstacle.  The salesman was very confused when I explained I wanted to fix it myself.  He repeatedly told me to hire a carpenter to tape my window and when I said I’d do it myself he said he’d find a carpenter for me.  When I showed my landlord that I have found something to solve my problem, too, he also said a carpenter could come and install it.  He showed his doubt, but I let him know “I’m American I can do many things.”  He was doubtful and decided he had to come and survey my work after which he said he might need to do the same with the other apartments.  This isn’t the first time I’ve wowed the Togolese with my handy-man skills.  When I first moved in I wanted to change my locks and I did it myself.  When my homologue stopped in and saw I did it myself he gave me a high-five. 

It’s not just because I am female that I am not expected to do construction-type projects myself, but in general people do not do any specialized tasks for themselves.  Everyone has their specific jobs and if you have something you need done—a construction project, or something to be sewn—you go to the person who has that profession.  When you want a quick fix this can be tough for a do it yourself person like me.

The Rains Down in Africa

We are currently finishing up the rainy season here in Togo.  Unlike in the States where we have four seasons, in Togo we only have two seasons wet and dry.  The wet season of course means rain and a bit cooler weather.  The rains can be both a curse and a blessing.  With each rainstorm my roof leaks and my floor floods (two issues I am currently trying to resolve—but fixing a roof in the rain isn’t always so simple).  But the rains also cool off a hot day and an early morning rain keeps neighbors inside creating a peace that lets me sleep past six am.

When it rains the whole world stops.  With the first drops everyone flees like cats facing a bath to the nearest shelter and no one budges until the rain stops.  Rain or shine in the US you are expected to get to your appointments on time, but here rain halts all business.  If you have a meeting it’s cancelled, or at least won’t start until a good while after the rain stops.

I’ve been given the excuses that umbrellas and rain jackets aren’t available here so no one could be expected to walk in the rain, but I don’t buy it—those things are available here if you choose to buy them.  There are good excuses though why the rainy season is known for its lack of productivity.  When it rains transportation is very limited.  Motos are absolutely miserable and unsafe in the heavy downpours and of the cars available they rarely have windshield wipers that work and the windows are perpetually stuck down.  Being in a taxi where the driver is reaching out his window to wipe the muddy cracked windshield with rag in the rain is an experience that can leave you fearing for your own life and especially for those poor souls who happen to sharing the road.

The roads themselves also suffer.  After a rainstorm roads and bridges are washed away and the unpaved roads are turned into mud.  The flooding after the rains can also impede travel making roads completely impassable.  In training we were warned about this and told to work our project schedules around the rainy season, because, while the rains can be beautiful and provide a well appreciated reprieve, in a flash all the big plans of construction or those meetings you had can be washed away thanks to a bit of precipitation.

A Glowing Family

This past weekend we Maritimers got together to send off a few volunteers who will be completing their service this month.  It was a fete of pizza, birthday cake, and glow sticks.  I can’t speak for all of the regions of Togo, but in Maritime glow sticks appear to be a party staple.  A seemingly random gift that keeps reappearing in care packages from home, glow sticks make an appearance at many of our get-togethers.

Glow sticks manage to provide us with endless entertainment.  Dancing with bodies adorned with glowing jewelry, having mock roller-skating competitions, wearing togas, and playing games in the dark, the locals think that we are quite an oddity.  Questions are asked about what ceremony we are performing and people lurk off to the side watching the strange ways of the Americans.  The Togolese must have extraordinary ideas about what American culture is from the brief glimpses our glowing celebrations.

One of the objectives of the Peace Corps is for volunteers to be ambassadors teaching our host countries about our culture and bringing their culture home with us.  When we come together we are a family, we work, gossip, and play together.  In a strange land we support each other and do our best to show the Togolese our most bizarre American habits.  I can only imagine what the average Togolese person thinks about American culture and how the small glimpses of Togolese life that we get while living here cannot really encapsulate the entire peoples of Togo.

Hello, My Name is Not Yovo

As a foreigner one of the first things you’ll notice is that many people, particularly children call you “yovo”.  This word literally means “white” in local language and it is frequently shouted whenever I or any other white person passes by.

Having “yovo” shouted at you from across the street, in the market, and well everywhere you go can be very tiring.  Some people are making an attempt to actually speak to me, but others seem to be shouting just to shout at me.  Not being able to blend in and being noticed and pointed out all the time is really what gets to me, not the word yovo in particular.

The Peace Corps makes efforts to decrease the amount of yovoing that occurs by sensitizing our Togolese trainers, host families, and counterparts to the impoliteness of calling us yovos.  Many people here, however, do not understand what could be wrong with calling someone what they are. 

In the US, not pointing out peoples’ differences and not labeling people is one of those things that is emphasized to American children.  A two-headed man can walk down the streets and it’s true that people will take a second look, but if a child points out that person they would be scolded.  Thanks to our history skin color or race can be a particularly touchy topic, but in a place that doesn’t have the same tumultuous past of racial issues, the idea of labeling someone by the color of their skin doesn’t register as offensive.

One of my fellow volunteers provided me with a hypothesis about yovo that I rather liked.  The Togolese are very accustomed to labels in general.  An individual in this culture is known by their profession or other notable characteristic: A doctor is “doctor” and a teacher is “teacher.” Labels create an understandable place for an individual in the community and it is not rude and even needed in this culture.  Extending a custom of labeling people to the rarity that is a white person finds a place for this new person.  This stranger is the “white man” with a label and a place.  Even with a possible way of understanding the behavior I can’t help but still be annoyed by being shouted at all the time.

When I came for my post visit to Vogan during stage I was greeted by a welcome committee made up of a number of individuals who I may end up working with.  My homologue explained to the committee about not calling me “yovo” and one teacher in response told me not to get angry with the children who call me “yovo” because children are taught to call white people yoyo from a young age with a little song of “yovo yovo bonsoir…”  I found myself giving a speech that sounded so much like something from the era of civil rights I almost had to laugh at myself.  I told them that I understood, but that I wanted to be known for the work I do and who I am, not by the color of my skin.

However, it is not only children who call me “yovo” but also many adults and not all of them with the innocent please the children get by singing a song.  I do my best not to get angry at these people and to explain that it is impolite to address me as “yovo.”  For those who shout “yovo” at me I tell them that if they want to speak with me they can call me madam or by my name that I do not respond to “yovo.”  There are a few people who have latched onto the idea and there are even a number of Togolese community members who will correct others that call me “yovo.” 

There is no stopping everyone from calling me “yovo,” but it I can’t help being affected by it.  I suppose I just want to be treated like anyone else.  Every other woman is addressed as “madame” if someone wishes to speak with them.  I want to receive the same treatment as every other person and not be singled out.  Being me, but still part of the crowd is definitely something I miss about America, a country built on diversity.