Friday, March 23, 2012

climate changes happens in Africa too

Bry is sitting on her couch eating mini chocolate eggs out of the package with a spoon.

One thing I miss the most about Spain is sleeping under sheets and a blanket. There is something nice about crawling under a bunch of blankets, getting warm, curling up, and
going to sleep. Here, I worry about getting tangled up in my sweat soaked sheet and drowning.

Ningya is my new cat. She is Nigarmi’s mother. She was Karen’s cat but Karen’s plan for bringing her back to the States fell through. Ningya showed her appreciation for me by leaving a mouse head on the floor where I could step on it this morning.

I just finished that latest book by George RR Martin. Seriously, if he’s going to kill off so many characters, he needs to crank out books faster so I can keep track of all the new people he comes up with. Speaking of which, the novelty of killing people has worn off. Now its just tedious.

The weather is weird. Even the Togolese say so. Its like harmattan—there is this perpetual haze and, if I tilt my head just right and squint, it sometimes looks like there is snow blowing past the trees. The dust is there, but the harmattan chill is not. It cools down at night, but the air just stops. There is no breeze.

Walk with me outside, dear reader, at about 1 pm (1300). The sun is shining, the birds are singing. Then a breeze kicks up over a patch of open ground and you feel the heat on your eyeballs—a dry heat that sucks the water out of you so fast that you do not have time to sweat much. This is nice because then not so much dust cakes to your face. People ask you, if you dear reader, are me, how you can stand to wear jeans/khakis, and a long sleeved dress shirt that looks like a Goodwill reject. You reply that you want as much light weight cotton between your pearly white skin and the sun as possible. Hot cotton feels better than sunburn. Bedouin have the right idea. Another breeze skitters along like the heat burns its feet. This particular taste of dust is laced with this elusive hint of lilacs. A smell that brings to mind cool, dew-kissed mornings or deep gardens hung with shadows. Some bush enjoying brief renaissance offered by the two rainstorms of last month perhaps? Some shrub giving the sun the proverbial bird while spewing forth tender green leaves and blossoms? Some sun-inspired hallucination in one American’s head? It is, gentle reader, one of life’s many, fleeting mysteries as you trudge up the hill, through a gauntlet of children gleefully shrieking “yovo yovo Anasara bon soir” in their own midday revelry, and into another dusty afternoon.

I had a new window installed in my bedroom while I was in Spain. I have airflow now! It feels like a whole new house.

That was the nice thing about getting back from Spain. Actually, all of it was nice, up until I noticed that mice apparently held a laxative-laced orgy inside my gaurde-mange (cupboard-esque thing). One mouse apparently got really excited when he found himself in my clothes too. I hope I stepped on his head this morning.

There was a death in my neighbor’s house last week. This old guy got up one day, and did his usual thing. He hung out with people, ate, went to the field, came back, hung out with people, showered, ate, and went to sleep. And 16 hours later they were shoveling dirt in his grave. No one thought they’d be digging a grave that day.

On a more trivial note, I come to Africa and Peyton Manning is a Bronco. That’s the nice thing about life. Its full of surprises.

The thing, I remembered, that I dislike the most about hot season is that you can’t sleep. I am a sound sleeper, I usually do not wake up to dishes clanking, babies/goats screaming, chickens crowing, staticy radios blasting, people yelling, fufu bats pounding, moto horns bleating, or my host sisters arguing. Unless its hot season. I wake up probably three times a night to find a dry spot in my bed that I can move to. My pillow is always soaked in the morning—on both sides. The only way I can get a full night’s sleep is to drug myself with benedryl and chug coffee the next day.

Hey Karen—as I write this Barchisou is yelling at Bahrara “are you mad?!”

One thing that I still miss about the US is the ease of feeding myself. Cooking is tiring, hot, and requires too much thinking sometimes. I do not say that I would do this every day here, but there definitely times where a stack of Clif Bars and a bag of beef jerky would be like a taste of paradise (feel free to read this is a shameless plug if you want to).

I think that I have, on average, eaten 2 eggs a day for the past 365 days. Thats 730 eggs.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

notes on the return from "civilization"

I am back in Togo. My backpack, however, is still in Paris (i think) compliments of AirFrance. I am thus conducting a test to see how many consecutive days one can wear the same pair of daily disposable contacts.

Its sort of a relief being back in Togo, aside from the fact that most of my earthly possessions are in limbo. Its less stressful. I do not have to worry about whether I can drink water from the tap. Or if fruits/vegetables have been bleached. Menu choices at restaurants stressed me out. So did the prices. Operating in a constant state of near fiscal insolvency is infinitely easier when one can argue about the cost of everything. I can cross the street where ever I want to and not worry about being splattered by someone going 140 kph in a Maserati. My favorite sports teams win and lose games without my near-fanatic insistence on watching the box score. I am now almost guaranteed the little-boy-on-christmas morning feeling when I check my email/facebook because i know that someone is likely to have emailed me this week . . . instead of in the 5 minutes since i checked it last. I can take showers without being guilty about how many gallons of hot water I am using. I have meaning, purpose, and direction in my life again. I no longer wonder why I am here (not that I spent any amount of time doing that in Spain anyway). I do not have to worry about whether I am conforming to Western social norms anymore, like standing in lines and not having a beer at 9 am. I am not bombarded by the US political situation. Or the Greek bailout. Or much news in general. Life is much less chaotic that way.

Seriously, I am glad to be back.

I really like Andalusia. Great food, good wine, great scenery, nice people, but not to many of them. Andalusia is interesting because it is, in a lot of ways, a real fusion of east and west. the moors left their mark on the place. its not only evident in the architecture, but also in the food and the lifestyle.

I confess that my vision of Spain was partially colored by the fact that I had just read "for whom the bell tolls" last month. I made sure that i went to one of Hemingway's favorite bull rinks. His visceral description of the spainish mountains in "for whom the bells tolls" colored how I saw them. One of my favorite places that I visited in Spain was Ronda. I might have mentioned it in my last post. Its this city in the mountains that straddles a deep gorge. One of the most beautiful cities I've seen. I found out, after the fact, that the scene in "for whom the bell tolls" where the mob executes fascist sympathizers was likely based on a real event in Ronda where alleged fascists were thrown in the gorge. How civilized is civilization.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Spain. Or, notes from "civilization"

I am going to live in Andalusia someday. Just to get that out of the way.

Today, for lunch, I had sushi and a Whopper. Some itches you just have to scratch. I really missed sushi. I would have preferred a Double Cheeseburger from McDonalds, but oh well.

So I flew to the southern coast of Spain to meet up with my family for a week, minus 2 siblings. We've been seeing stuff in southern Spain, like Gibraltar and Granada. Its been really fun. I like the wine. And the food. But its been really weird in some other ways.

The day I left Lome, I walked to the marche at about 12 pm. it was something like 50 degrees out. When I got off the plane in Paris, they said it was like 6 degrees out. I seriously didn't stop shivering for 8 hours. I never realized how used to the heat I became.

When I got off the plane in Paris, I marveled at the differences in the way people travel. Africans dress up and bring piles of overstuffed suitcases. Americans dress like they are going to a slumber party and bring piles of overstuffed bags. The difference being that west Africans are bringing presents for whomever they are visiting.

I was hungry, so I bought a smoked salmon bagel sandwich. I paid with my credit card. . . and stared at the offered receipt and pen for a good long time before I remembered that I had to sign something. Has it always been like that? The sandwich was amazing.

At the Malaga airport, I got a taxi to the condo. I was the only passenger in the car. I felt naked.

I've been eating a lot of cheese. Now I can't eat cheese anymore.

When I got to the condo/resort, and after the talking, I realized that I didn't have any clean clothes to change into. So I went to the bathroom, filled up the sink (running water! sparkling bathroom!), got a bar of soap, started scrubbing . . . and my dad comes in and is like 'there's a washing machine in the kitchen.' . . . oh.

I can't begin to describe the wonder of a washing machine. Dryers are useless, but washers are amazing.

We've been taking tours places. With guides. And buses. And someone to tell me where to stand to take a picture. Tourists are like well-trained sheep. They even bleat on cue. If you like tours, do not be offended. If you read this blog, I doubt you clap and cheer when the tour guide gives you the right cue.

I think of myself as a neo-tourist. I like to wander and linger. I found the office of the Social Democrats of Gibraltar. One of my favorite parts of the trip was drinking Malaga sweet wine with my brother and sister in this little sidewalk cafe in the shadow of a cathedral.

Concerning the Christian 'reconquista' of Spain, I think my brother summed it up best in Al-Hambra palace when he was like "the moors built all kinds of pretty "stuff" then the christians came and covered it up with ugly "stuff."'

I feel fundamentally out of place. I can't figure out why. Its not the language barrier. I am used to that. I really enjoy the food. I missed my family a lot. I love seeing new places. The scenery here is amazing. But I'm surrounded by excess when I came from not enough. Its really weird.

I am sitting in reception, surrounded by people on iPads, or smartphones. I am embarrassed to even take my phone out of my pocket here.

When I got to Europe, I didn't stop shivering until I took a hot shower. My first one since I left the States (unless you count the lukewarm showers at this one hotel in Lome). I really love it if I don't think about how much water I am using . . .