Im currently in Bina. To see why,
read further.
D’s house is in the
shadow, literally, of the mountain peaks. Storms coming up from the southeast pop over
and wash grey curtains of rain down the northern slopes.
I was walking down to look for soja (deep fried tofu?) this afternoon when
a storm like that passed over in front of me.
it was a little storm, more like one of those rain clouds that followed
Eeyore around in Winnie the Pooh shows than anything else. As I walked, the sun was shining at my back
but I could see it raining just down the mountain from me. The downpour on distant tin roofs sounded
like the roar of a water fall in the near distance.
I have 5 big bites on my abdomen of undeterminable origin. They’ve itched for like 3 days. A couple of them have felt so bad that they
have started weeping. I do not feel for
them.
D and I left my house last Saturday morning about 800. She to return to Bina, me to go to Kara to
work on some stuff. Petit called me
about 1700—“I just called to tell you that N’tido had her baby. It’s a boy.” I told D about it and she was like “what, she
couldn’t have had it the day before?”
I went in to see the baby when I got home.
he was laying on a pile of pagne, sleeping. which I guess is what new
born babies tend to do. I got sort of
teary eyed and proud of N’tido. I asked
her what its name was and she was like “I don’t know, pick something.”
So, the other day, after a couple calabashes and much deliberation, I told her
that its name was Alexandre, but the shortened version was Alix. She was like “hmm, c’est bon” . . . then she went in a drug out an old
calendar to see what I was talking about.
Togolese often name their children after the day they were born. With the advent of christianity, or at least
western names, a lot of Togolese have taken to naming their children after the
saint of the day they were born. there
are calendars everywhere that list the saint’s name with the date. I had to
point out to N’tido that my name doesn’t correspond to the saint for my
birthday. plus, who wants to see a baby
named Bruno? she might have listened to
me.
This new baby has brought out some interesting traditions that I,
heretofore, havent seen yet. Most of
them revolve around this old lady who lives next door. I think she is like a midwife. she came over one evening and disappeared in
the shower with N’tido, to check up on things I assume. Then she’s come over for the past week to
wash the baby. I asked N’tido why she
doesn’t wash the baby herself and she was like “how am I supposed to know how
to do that?”
There is a tree in Togo called a Neem tree. At some point in west Africa’s
misty colonial past, neem trees made their way over from India. They are somewhat analogous in size and shape
to a maple tree, although their leaves are much smaller. I love Neem trees.
They grow quickly—in India there are societies dedicated to removing their
status as “weed” trees—and they give great shade. Another one of Neem’s redeeming
characteristics is that its leaves, and stems/seeds/etc, contain a chemical
compound that insects find noxious. It
smells vaguely like onions to me, but oh well. products with Neem extract in them can be used as insect
repellent. This is good in an area with
endemic malaria.
Last week D and I whipped up a batch of Neem lotion—juice from the leaves,
soap, and oil—for people in Nampoch. The
lotion works as a mosquito repellent as long as the chemical holds up. We had a decent crowd, although I think some
people were more interested in the soap grater I’d made out of a sardine
can. The lotion turned out well, so the other day, in Bikotiba, Saye’s village, we did a Neem lotion sensiblization. D and Saye did all the talking because the
sensiblization was their idea. I just
did stuff like grate soap and fan the charcoal burner so we could boil the
leaves. Our audience was mainly women; they
got a big kick out of me “making the sauce.” But it went pretty well. Powers, the new EAFS Volunteer out in
Bitchabe, was in town shadowing Saye so he helped out a bit too.
I have taken, roughly, 756 tablets of doxycycline since I have been in Togo
the other day I went to the funeral for the oldest man in Dankpen. I didn’t know this at the time, I just knew
that he was an important, old (these are roughly synonymous terms) guy in my
family. And in a lot of others I found
when I got to the funeral. It was in
this little village out in the sticks in the Nampoch canton. Important people, when they die in my area,
rate the presence of a chef du canton. This guy rated 3. I’d never seen so many well-dressed people so
far out in the bush. N’tifoni told me that the guy was like 100 when he died,
which means he was probably in his 80s.
He had an ornate coffin and an actual concrete tomb. A lot of the dancers brought their
traditional Konkumba gear—bows and arrows—and village hunters brought their
shotguns. They started shooting them off into the trees under which people,
like me, were sitting. Kodjo flipped out
and said he saw a woman get killed once from a shotgun that misfired like
that. Other funeral highlights included
a guy wearing a Saddam Hussein shirt and kids who’d obviously never seen a
white person before.
Groups of dancers from a certain cartier, or village, wait on the outskirts
of the dance circle. When there is a
break between songs in the big dance circle, the group enters and dances around
it to their own drums. A group from my
cartier got together and did that, so I joined them. First time ever.
I like Togolese funerals a lot. They
are nothing like funerals in the US. A
fact that I explain to at least one person per funeral. The big counter-rhythmic drumbeats get in
your blood. Dust curling from dancing
feet spirals into the air like laughing spirits.
the songs the dancers sing have this haunting refrain that echoes long after the dance is over. I never feel as in, or as a part of, Africa
as when Im at a funeral.
Going to the latrine at night is a dicey proposition. I’m good for at least one cockroach sitting
on my latrine looking scandalized. Even
Albert, the albino gecko that lives around my toilet seat, doesn’t faze
them. So, the other night, when Tadji
followed me out to the latrine, I kicked the cockroach on the ground for
him. Then laughed my butt off as he
chased it around the compound.
update. i woke up this morning and the red bites on my torso are changing location. sometimes i want to scream.
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