I thought that Nighan was pregnant again.
I was wrong. She’s in heat right
now. She’s been crawling around my house
on her stomach with her butt stuck up in the air. Poor Tadji watches her bemusedly and develops
stunted Oedipus complexes. Then he jumps on her and she freaks out and they
fight. Its wonderful. At night she goes out and wanders
around. I came back the other evening
and Adji was making fun of her yowling in the bushes.
My clothes are disintegrating. My
briefs are falling to pieces. My shirts
are sprouting holes in already faded fabric.
The armpits are well ventilated now.
It is no longer a question of whether most of my pants are patched, but
rather how much. My Chacos are sticked back together and run-down at the heels.
My tailor in Kouka is, at this point, as well acquainted with my clothes as I
am.
I sliced my foot on a bit of rusty wire in Kouka last Sunday. How I did it is a long story. I thought it was fine, but I got to D’s house
last night, looked at the cut, and saw that it was getting red and juicy. I have
become somewhat versed in foot infections since I’ve been here. And I have become painfully aware of the
limits of the antibiotic cream that one smears on every minor laceration in the
States. It is kind of amazing here how fast an infection can dive under your
skin and thumb its gooey nose at every topical ointment to which it is
subjected. Volunteers walking around
with suppurating sores, especially on their feet, from minor blisters and
scrapes is not an uncommon sight. Flies
regard these as fine dining. This is more annoying that anything. I can buy antibiotics here easier than I can
a soda in the States.
Togo has long had the reputation for having the best beer in West Africa—a
legacy of its German colonial heritage.
Personally, I think that Ghanian beers are on par with Togo’s now, but
that is beside the point. Anyway, there
are two breweries in Togo, one in Lomé, the other in Kara. The one in Lomé has apparently broken, thus
nearly halving the country’s beer selection.
Sadly, the half that is no longer in production—Flag, 33 Export, and
Castle—are my favorite three.
Bulldozers and graders are creeping up the Kouka/Katchamba road, almost to
the Nampoch intersection. Now, when I
take that road to Kouka, I can see the mountains of Bapuré silhouetted on the
skyline.
My friend Karim, who is a saint, sent me a box full of salty crunchy
stuff. I am happily crunching on wasabi
peanuts as I write this. The box
apparently went from London to Burundi, at which point no one could find Togo,
and back to London. Karim explained the
realities of geography to the post and re-sent the box. It arrived swathed in Togolese Poste tape and
slightly smashed, but its contents were still salty and crunchy. D and I promptly ate this box of stuff called
“Cheese Straws.” I shared with her
because I am a nice person too. Heaven,
for 10 minutes, descended on Binaparba.
The most annoying thing about going home after being anywhere else in Togo,
aside from having to sweep out my house immediately, is that I have to feed
myself. I go from eating 3 meals a day
in Kara, or Lomé, or at D’s house to having tchakpa for breakfast, popcorn for
lunch, and bread with BBQ or hot sauce for dinner. I just cant be bothered to feed myself. Sometimes Ntido takes pity on me and feeds me
pate, or Petite brings yams back to make fufu, or I send Ntido to the store
with 2 mille and instructions that everyone is eating rice that night.
D makes this amazing peanut sauce tofu stir fry. I dream about it when I am sitting on my
porch sourly wishing my stomach had an off switch.
The other day, Kevin asked me how many books I have read since I’ve been
here. The last time I counted, I had
been here like 6 months and I was sitting in Alisha’s house at the time. I counted something like 40 books on her
shelves that I’d read, not counting the ones at my house or elsewhere in
country. In short, I’ve read many.
Petite took me out for a beer the other night in celebration for him
getting his cotton money. We spent most
of the time talking about how its not raining in Nampoch right now.
I have reached the point in my service where, every time I see another
Volunteer now, I have to ask myself if I will see that person again here.
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