Monday, I was in Binaparba, D's village, on my way home from Atakpame. The trip on Sunday up to Bassar from Atakpame was hell-ish. The bush taxi from Atakpame to Sokode was ok. But we had to wait for like 3 hours in Sokode for the Bassar car to leave. When it did, at like 1900, I was sitting next to a drunk guy who kept passing out on me. And the driver went extra slow through the mountains, but I digress . . .
So, Monday morning I called my regular zed-man from Kouka, Richard, to come get me. Richard and I are good friends, so I call him whenever I can. Anyway, later on, D and I decided to walk the 4k into Bassar from Bina to meet up with Saye. I texted Richard to just pick me up in Bassar. He called me about an hour later, said that his moto was broken, so he'd sent another guy who did not have a cellphone, so I needed to go back to Bina to meet him. Back in Bina, the zedman showed up at like 1330, no problem, and we left.
The road from Bassar to Kabou is new and paved. I was spacing out on the moto, listening to music and watching mountains and brooding thunderstorms pass when the back end of the moto started wobbling. Flat tire. The zedman looked at it, and saw that the valve stem had blown off the inner tube. He left me along the road while he went back to Bassar to fix it. I sat there and watched thunderheads build over the mountains to the south. Then I went and kicked a termite mound for fun. It hurt my foot.
The zedman came back and we continued. We were about 8k out of Kabou, going through the new road construction, when the back of the moto wobbled again. Same thing. Only in the middle of nowhere between Kabou and Manga. The only things in sight were a bridge construction crew and this line of dark clouds. I had just been ruminating on how it looked like we could outrun this storm to Kouka . . .
I was all for finding the nearest tree and waiting out the storm, but the zedman was like, "we gotta walk to Manga to find a mechanic." Ok. Then the rain hit. I, for once, was really glad I had my Peace Corps-issued moto helmet. Cause the rain was coming sideways. Then I realized that rain shouldn't be making a "tink" sound when it bounced off my helmet. This was just after the back of my neck really started stinging. Pea-sized hail. As shitty as I felt, I was glad I wasn't my zedman-- I at least had a helmet and a huge pack to protect part of me. He had nothing.
So we trudged down the road in the rain, him pushing his moto. Then the rain stopped, eventually. And the prefet came up behind us in his Toyota pickup. He's a nice guy. He had his driver stop, and I got in the back seat, and got a free ride back to Kouka. This is roughly analogous to a state governor picking me up in the US. If the US was the size of West Virginia . . .
Back in Kouka, I dried off, ran errands, and ate lunch/dinner. The zedman eventually made it back, and came to pick me up at Bry's. He was like "I just bought a new inner tube and a new tire. We're good now." So, about 1600 we left for Nampoch. Just over the bridge, the rear of the moto wobbled . . . we slide and spun around for a bit. The inner tube blew. Again. I was like "ok, I'm walking home." Fortunately, a friend of the zedman passed and took me the rest of the way to Nampoch.
I usually pay 5 mille for a trip that should take about 1.5 hours. That day, I left at 1330, got home about 1830, and paid 8 mille cause I felt bad about the zedman blowing 3 inner tubes.
I slept all day the next day.
The kittens are getting big. I got home and I couldn't figure out why my house smelled bad. Then I discovered that the kittens figured out the concept of the litter box, they are just too small to get into it . . .
Flies bite. They are more annoying than mosquitoes.
So our term as the editing team of Farm to Market is finished. It was fun. We just finished the last issue in Atakpame this past weekend. It was kind of a mess cause the Malaria Action Committee was meeting at the transit house at the same time we were so the place was crawling with Volunteers. But it was good. Read issues of Farm to Market here.
Seeing people is always nice. After I am around a lot of Americans, though, I find myself wanting to go hide in village for awhile.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
some pics
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| . . . and dust to dust . . . |
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| working dredging the barrage |
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| girl taking care of a baby at the barrage |
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| kittens - - just for you Manoba |
here comes the rain
This time last year I sat on my porch and watched thunderstorms march across the southern horizon and wept.
Now its been raining for about 2 weeks. Not steadily, but rainy season is definitely here. A couple weeks ago this big storm blew through Kouka (it missed Nampoch). The marche looked like a tornado hit it. There was this unfinished church (block walls, no roof) that was completely demolished. Trees down everywhere.
The rain isnt good for the dam dredging project. Shoveling/carrying mud is harder than shoveling/carrying dry dirt.
The funeral that i mention in my last post was a lot of fun. my cartier and a couple other villages all did theirs at the same time. My cartier killed 6 cows (which never happens), and a lot of other stuff. Slitting a cow's throat is kind of intense. Bry came out for 2 days of it. We went to a neighboring village and watched charlatan stuff for awhile (in which they tried to figure out why certain dead people had died). The next day we went from house to house, drank tchakpa and collected hunks of pig. It was a lot of fun.
I'm glad its started raining. The haze has been, mostly, washed out of the sky and the landscape looks greener.
The setting sun still looks like a vanilla wafer
I saw like 4 dead snakes on the road when i was biking into town today. they come out in rainy season cause their holes flood. The bad thing is that there is too much vegetation to see them . . .
So Ningan dropped 4 little bundles of joy on my bedroom floor one night a couple weeks ago. I got back from training in Pagala and discovered that they are now mobile-ish. Now my house is swarming with cats again. Two of them apparently cant tell the difference between my foot and mommy . . . .
People talk about guard dogs and stuff, but what about guard cats? Its so much more comforting to go to sleep at night with the knowledge that any creepy crawlies in my house will be a snack for Nighan.
Speaking of creepy crawlies, I am cursed with a screwed up curiosity . . . the kind that leads me to shine my flashlight down my latrine at night to see whats there. This resulted in me spraying enough insecticide (the active ingredients of which, im sure, are banned in the US) down there to turn my latrine into a toxic hell. Ants love immobile cockroaches.
One thing I love about it here is that there is always something new and cool to discover. Like yesterday, I went up into the northern part of Dankpen prefecture to talk to a couple cantons about this gender equality thing we're going to do in a couple of months. The last village i went to was up on this ridge overlooking two river valleys. It was pretty amazing. I could see Ghana on one side and a large chunk of northern Togo on the other.
Does time exist where there are no clocks? Yeah, seasons changes, stuff grows and dies, rains come and go, but does this require "time"-- the minutes and hours that constantly slip by like water droplets in a cosmically infinite ocean? the more i think about it, the more i find that looking at my phone is a way to measure the passage of my own mortality rather than to see how long ive been sitting in a meeting. In the broad scheme of things, i really dont have much better to do than to talk to people about how to reduce child trafficking or repairing their pump.
My host dad got a cellphone. Whenever it rings, its a big deal in my compound. In Togolese culture (i think west african in general), there is this idea of "saluating" people. That's franglais. It means that when you see someone you say hi, ask how he or she is doing, ask how the kids are, etc. its a sort of a ritualistic, formulaic process that has deep social connotations. If you dont saluate someone, its disrespectful, especially an older person. Conversely, Togolese love it when you can say hi in local language. No meeting starts without saluating-- late arrivals saluate everyone, and vice versa, no matter who is talking. Anyway, basically, now that Petit has a cellphone, he calls me like twice a day when Im gone to say hi and see if i'm still alive.
So i decided to extend for a 3rd year. in case i havent mentioned this yet
Watching my host mom with my little host brother, david, is interesting. She's tall, taller than Petit, has a gruff voice, and kind of an intimidating presence. When I first got to post, I was kind of scared of her. But watching her one on one with david is really cute. He's a year and a half now, he's walking, sort of speaking, and not as scared of me as he used to be. The other day he tried to help her lift a basin full of stuff up on her head. He had this big grin on his face. I cant really describe her reaction except to say that its probably in the dictionary next to "a mother's loving smile/laugh at her child." Ive been meaning to blog about it for awhile, but i find it hard to describe. Its just this example of unadulterated maternal affection that I dont see often.
Yesterday we stopped in a village to fix one of the motos and like 20 kids came up to shake my hand and say hi. then it started being a dare for the kids who were scared of me. Just one of those things that makes me laugh on a daily basis.
Now its been raining for about 2 weeks. Not steadily, but rainy season is definitely here. A couple weeks ago this big storm blew through Kouka (it missed Nampoch). The marche looked like a tornado hit it. There was this unfinished church (block walls, no roof) that was completely demolished. Trees down everywhere.
The rain isnt good for the dam dredging project. Shoveling/carrying mud is harder than shoveling/carrying dry dirt.
The funeral that i mention in my last post was a lot of fun. my cartier and a couple other villages all did theirs at the same time. My cartier killed 6 cows (which never happens), and a lot of other stuff. Slitting a cow's throat is kind of intense. Bry came out for 2 days of it. We went to a neighboring village and watched charlatan stuff for awhile (in which they tried to figure out why certain dead people had died). The next day we went from house to house, drank tchakpa and collected hunks of pig. It was a lot of fun.
I'm glad its started raining. The haze has been, mostly, washed out of the sky and the landscape looks greener.
The setting sun still looks like a vanilla wafer
I saw like 4 dead snakes on the road when i was biking into town today. they come out in rainy season cause their holes flood. The bad thing is that there is too much vegetation to see them . . .
So Ningan dropped 4 little bundles of joy on my bedroom floor one night a couple weeks ago. I got back from training in Pagala and discovered that they are now mobile-ish. Now my house is swarming with cats again. Two of them apparently cant tell the difference between my foot and mommy . . . .
People talk about guard dogs and stuff, but what about guard cats? Its so much more comforting to go to sleep at night with the knowledge that any creepy crawlies in my house will be a snack for Nighan.
Speaking of creepy crawlies, I am cursed with a screwed up curiosity . . . the kind that leads me to shine my flashlight down my latrine at night to see whats there. This resulted in me spraying enough insecticide (the active ingredients of which, im sure, are banned in the US) down there to turn my latrine into a toxic hell. Ants love immobile cockroaches.
One thing I love about it here is that there is always something new and cool to discover. Like yesterday, I went up into the northern part of Dankpen prefecture to talk to a couple cantons about this gender equality thing we're going to do in a couple of months. The last village i went to was up on this ridge overlooking two river valleys. It was pretty amazing. I could see Ghana on one side and a large chunk of northern Togo on the other.
Does time exist where there are no clocks? Yeah, seasons changes, stuff grows and dies, rains come and go, but does this require "time"-- the minutes and hours that constantly slip by like water droplets in a cosmically infinite ocean? the more i think about it, the more i find that looking at my phone is a way to measure the passage of my own mortality rather than to see how long ive been sitting in a meeting. In the broad scheme of things, i really dont have much better to do than to talk to people about how to reduce child trafficking or repairing their pump.
My host dad got a cellphone. Whenever it rings, its a big deal in my compound. In Togolese culture (i think west african in general), there is this idea of "saluating" people. That's franglais. It means that when you see someone you say hi, ask how he or she is doing, ask how the kids are, etc. its a sort of a ritualistic, formulaic process that has deep social connotations. If you dont saluate someone, its disrespectful, especially an older person. Conversely, Togolese love it when you can say hi in local language. No meeting starts without saluating-- late arrivals saluate everyone, and vice versa, no matter who is talking. Anyway, basically, now that Petit has a cellphone, he calls me like twice a day when Im gone to say hi and see if i'm still alive.
So i decided to extend for a 3rd year. in case i havent mentioned this yet
Watching my host mom with my little host brother, david, is interesting. She's tall, taller than Petit, has a gruff voice, and kind of an intimidating presence. When I first got to post, I was kind of scared of her. But watching her one on one with david is really cute. He's a year and a half now, he's walking, sort of speaking, and not as scared of me as he used to be. The other day he tried to help her lift a basin full of stuff up on her head. He had this big grin on his face. I cant really describe her reaction except to say that its probably in the dictionary next to "a mother's loving smile/laugh at her child." Ive been meaning to blog about it for awhile, but i find it hard to describe. Its just this example of unadulterated maternal affection that I dont see often.
Yesterday we stopped in a village to fix one of the motos and like 20 kids came up to shake my hand and say hi. then it started being a dare for the kids who were scared of me. Just one of those things that makes me laugh on a daily basis.
I wrote this several weeks ago . . .
. . . and i dont really remember what it was about, so happy reading
There are a couple of things I miss about the US:
~1. The ability to buy a $1 candy bar with a $50 bill. Do candy bars still cost $1? Here, breaking a 10 mille note (what usually comes out of my bank’s ATM machine, when it works) requires foresight and planning. Like knowing which store is likely to have enough small bills to give you change without sending a kid on a 10 minute search for more. You have to plan your shopping trips in order of the denomination of bills you can use.
~2. Fans
~3. Decent haircuts. Seriously, I’d come back just for a good haircut. Here, haircuts for me are like Christmas—I never know what I’m going to get. Like today for example. My barber sort of knows how to cut caucasian hair, although he shares the Togolese dislike of anything resembling bangs. Hence why I look like I have a huge forehead in all my photos. His clippers sort of cut my hair, after several passes. He plays catch with the guards because they fall off constantly. I sweat under the sheet. I usually go home and use scissors to even out the random clumps he didn’t get. Today, though, was especially special. My barber shares his power line with a welder. Every time the welder welded, the power went out. And he must have been building something big today. For every 10 seconds of cutting, there was 30 seconds of waiting. Oh well, I have short hair now, that’s all that matters.
There is this little lake near Nampoch that was built sometime in the misty past by someone with a bulldozer for the purpose of watering cattle during the dry season. Over the years, the lake filled up with mud, thus reducing its storage capacity. A local NGO organized, and found funding for, a project to dredge the lake. A lot of my friends are working on this. I go down there some days to drink tchackpa, an essential part of a gathering of any type, and hang out with them. Basically, people are paid a certain amount of money (1 mille 350 CFA) per day for a certain number of days (40) to work on this project. Men shovel mud into piles, then into basins that women carry to the edges of the dam and dump. There are like 5 wheelbarrows, but they are used more for lounging than for hauling dirt. Its not easy work. Yesterday I shoveled an amount of lake bed in about an hour that I could have moved with a Bobcat in 5 minutes. Or less. Paying 100 people for 40 days of work in the dry season is better, and probably cheaper, than hiring a bulldozer or something like that to come do the same work in a fraction of the time.
The next time you are unhappy with life in the US, google images “noma”
I just worked out how about 1,350 CFA is in dollars. About $3.
Tomorrow is the start of a funeral fete in my cartier. The simplest way to describe funerals is like this—the funeral doesn’t end after the burial. There is a certain period of dancing/feasting/drinking etc that I’ve talked about before. Then, after that, there is another period of the same thing. This second period can happen a year later, or several years later. Usually is what seems to happen is a group of households who have outstanding funerals get together and have a huge party every couple of years. March is the month for this in the north. Last year I went to one of these parties in a small village near Nampoch. One of the traditions is that each household butchers pigs and gives chunks of meat to visitors. I’d never seen so many dead animals in one place before.
There are a couple of things I miss about the US:
~1. The ability to buy a $1 candy bar with a $50 bill. Do candy bars still cost $1? Here, breaking a 10 mille note (what usually comes out of my bank’s ATM machine, when it works) requires foresight and planning. Like knowing which store is likely to have enough small bills to give you change without sending a kid on a 10 minute search for more. You have to plan your shopping trips in order of the denomination of bills you can use.
~2. Fans
~3. Decent haircuts. Seriously, I’d come back just for a good haircut. Here, haircuts for me are like Christmas—I never know what I’m going to get. Like today for example. My barber sort of knows how to cut caucasian hair, although he shares the Togolese dislike of anything resembling bangs. Hence why I look like I have a huge forehead in all my photos. His clippers sort of cut my hair, after several passes. He plays catch with the guards because they fall off constantly. I sweat under the sheet. I usually go home and use scissors to even out the random clumps he didn’t get. Today, though, was especially special. My barber shares his power line with a welder. Every time the welder welded, the power went out. And he must have been building something big today. For every 10 seconds of cutting, there was 30 seconds of waiting. Oh well, I have short hair now, that’s all that matters.
There is this little lake near Nampoch that was built sometime in the misty past by someone with a bulldozer for the purpose of watering cattle during the dry season. Over the years, the lake filled up with mud, thus reducing its storage capacity. A local NGO organized, and found funding for, a project to dredge the lake. A lot of my friends are working on this. I go down there some days to drink tchackpa, an essential part of a gathering of any type, and hang out with them. Basically, people are paid a certain amount of money (1 mille 350 CFA) per day for a certain number of days (40) to work on this project. Men shovel mud into piles, then into basins that women carry to the edges of the dam and dump. There are like 5 wheelbarrows, but they are used more for lounging than for hauling dirt. Its not easy work. Yesterday I shoveled an amount of lake bed in about an hour that I could have moved with a Bobcat in 5 minutes. Or less. Paying 100 people for 40 days of work in the dry season is better, and probably cheaper, than hiring a bulldozer or something like that to come do the same work in a fraction of the time.
The next time you are unhappy with life in the US, google images “noma”
I just worked out how about 1,350 CFA is in dollars. About $3.
Tomorrow is the start of a funeral fete in my cartier. The simplest way to describe funerals is like this—the funeral doesn’t end after the burial. There is a certain period of dancing/feasting/drinking etc that I’ve talked about before. Then, after that, there is another period of the same thing. This second period can happen a year later, or several years later. Usually is what seems to happen is a group of households who have outstanding funerals get together and have a huge party every couple of years. March is the month for this in the north. Last year I went to one of these parties in a small village near Nampoch. One of the traditions is that each household butchers pigs and gives chunks of meat to visitors. I’d never seen so many dead animals in one place before.
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.
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.
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 . . .
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 . . .
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