I’ll Beet It Out of You

I love beets.  Maybe it’s because I wasn’t introduced to beets until I was a senior at university, or maybe I’ve watched too much of The Office and fallen in love with the idea of a somehow adorably creepy man such as Dwight taking so much passion in growing this delicious food of purple-red goodness, but I really really like beets.

I first had beets in a delicious goat cheese and balsamic salad.  I don’t know what, after twenty-two odd years of never eating a beet, convinced me to take the plunge and order beets.  I think it was the goat cheese, chèvre, and I don’t regret my decision.

Oh chèvre, something sorely lacking here in Togo.  For the number of goats running around you’d expect goat cheese to be a staple, but when I had asked my family if they ever milked their goats I got a response of “…no” with a tone and long enough pause to say “who in their right mind would milk a goat??”  Hello, I would.

Well anyway, since then I have gotten beet salad at nearly every opportunity.  Many people will tell horror stories of being force fed beets as a child; I never had such luck.  I probably appreciate them all the more for it.  When I discovered that I could buy beets in my marché, a nice big one for roughly twenty-five cents, I couldn’t resist.  I now make myself beets at least once a week.  Sadly without my goat cheese or balsamic vinaigrette I can’t make my ideal salad, but sweet and sour beets are pretty good.

Every time I prep my beets I stain my fingers and cutting board a deep purple-red.  I’ve heard people complain that it is this intrusive color that turns them off from beets, personally I love it.  Maybe I’m starved for the artificially bright colors of the food products you find in the US, but its outrageous color makes me happy.  I remember being a little put off when once looking at the ingredients in an organic strawberry yogurt and seeing beet juice as an ingredient to give it more color, I completely understand now.  FUN FACT: Did you know that if you eat a lot of beets it can turn your urine pink too?  Maybe a little unsettling if it happens, but harmless and very true.

Beets have very little to do with Togo except the fact that I can get them here.  I suppose I’m just glad I tried something new even though I had a bit of a bias against it.  Beets:  a food that so many turned a face at when they were kids.  Beets:  a food that makes me happy (or maybe I just like unhappy children?).  Definitely worth a second try.

Per Diem

The past few days I have been in Lomé for a conference with the World Health Organization (WHO) about their campaign to eradicate Polio in Togo and West Africa.  WHO was kind enough to pay for our transportation to their office, but also laid upon us a “per diem” of no insubstantial sum that made a few of us volunteers a bit uncomfortable to accept.  The sum they gave to us is the typical amount for an average person who in invited to attend a WHO event and for the number of people who participate annually, WHO hands out a huge amount of money.  The idea that the money they were giving us to come and participate in a meeting could have very well been spent in a better way, such as buying these vaccinations they need to distribute, haunted some of us as we took the superfluous sum. 

A per diem is intended to cover incidental costs, such as meals and lodging, you have while participating in an event.  The idea of providing for someone to come to your event is not a unique one, but here in Togo the idea of a per diem is taken to excess. 

In the States it is typical to personally pay for training.  If you want to be certified in CPR you pay, but here everyone expects to be paid.  It can be extremely difficult to get participants in any sort of training or project without paying them and a guest speaker (such as a local doctor) can cost you even more.  You can waste a substantial part of a budget on per diem and with very limited funds this can be extremely frustrating.  Often the majority of a budget for a project such as educating a population on an issue has been the per diem.  A substantial amount is expected by participants in the form of a per diem, but the Peace Corps is attempting to discourage the giving of per diem by decreasing the amount we are allowed to allocate for that purpose in our funding applications.

I am not about to say that there are not true volunteers here in Togo, but nearly everyone expects payment for participation.  Even if they are local with no transportation or lodging costs, people want to be paid.  I don’t know if it’s a result of previous institutions being here and creating the expectation of pay for nearly everything or what, but I can’t help but think of the resources that are wasted in the per diem system.  If people would be willing to give their time for free or minimal costs, the money saved could be used to support the aspects of projects and development that actually require funding rather than going towards paying someone for coming to a meeting for a few hours one afternoon. 

A Wraparound

This topic may seem a little risqué, but being here in Togo—particularly when working with mothers—you can’t help noticing and I might as well voice what we’ve all seen, breasts. 

Unlike in the US, breast feeding in Togo is considered completely normal and acceptable in public.  There is no covering up with a blanket or retreating to a private location, no matter who is around or where they are a breast is whipped out to feed a fussy babe.  While sitting and having a conversation with a man a woman will have no qualms about pulling down her shirt. 

While my American sensibilities ask why they don’t show some restraint in when and where, the acceptance of breast feeding here is something one would hope to see in the States.  Breastfeeding is by far one of the best choices you can make for an infant’s health and it’s really a shame that baby formulas have replaced breast milk as the popular choice. 

It is not, however, advocacy for breast feeding that I want to write about.  It’s really the breasts themselves I wish to mention.  Looking at National Geographics of old you make note some of the stereotyped African tribal women with long sagging breasts.  Those old issues showing these women have been the butt of many jokes in TV shows, but my oh my are they real. 

Some of the volunteers have nicknamed them “wraparound boob” thanks to the way they are used.  There have been reported sightings of women feeding their children while they are still on their back.  They just wrap their breast around their side and voila a meal on the go.

I don’t doubt these rumors.  I have seen women snake their breasts out from under their clothes in the most unimaginable ways.  And I have seen a breast released from a bra drop down to a woman’s waist.

These are not the afflictions of old women but those of all ages.  I’ve seen young mothers of twenty with the breasts you only expect to see on a woman of seventy.  The widespread nature of this is surprising but when you think about it you can see how it could happen.

For one, fewer women wear bras here, but that doesn't really explain it seeing as how some of the saggiest I have seen wear a bra.  Second, women have more children and breast feed for longer than in the States.  And thirdly, the factor I think is most important is the fact that the way women carry children is a sling supported almost entirely by their chest (See picture).  While very efficient, wrapping a piece of cloth around your chest to support a child on your back will surely tend to drag things down.  And girls start carrying children this way at a very young age. 

Maybe this explains it, maybe not.  Just observation…

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.