Togo Taxi ridin

The "taxis" we take from Farendé/Kuwdé to Ketao to Kara are, how should I put it.... unique and somehow still alive. Many of these cars are the rejects of the states - small, stickshifts that were unable to pass the emissions tests in the US, so what do we do with them? Dump them in western Africa to destroy the ozone in a region already on the equator. So a quick run down of some of the taxi adventures I have had thus far

The white van to Ketao
This van is ridiculous - the windows are cracked and stitched back up, it is pretty much just a shell, you can see the ground through the floor by the front seats, you need to wear a helmet because when it hits a pot hole you could get a concussion, and it breaks down every 10 minutes and then a kid has to get out and push start it to get going again. One time, we had the misfortune of having to take this taxi again, and it broke down 2 minutes into the trip on a hill. A kid had to run the 2 km to Tchikawa, grab gas in a water bottle and run back. The driver then opened up the engine, took a huge gulp of gasoline IN HIS MOUTH and then spit it into a tube for the oil in the engine. GROSS! He didnt even gurgle some water - I wanted to throw up...

The Ghana flag car
So one Wednesday on our way from Ketao to Kara, Alex and I rode in a car with a Ghanian flag. We were just driving along when the driver pulls over. He grabs his papers and a 1000CFA bill, gets out of the car, and walks over to the policeman who apparently had pulled us over. He walks back to the car 2 minutes later and Alex asked what happened - it didnt seem like he had done anything illegal (not like there are rules on these roads anyways...). He said that he didnt do anything - the policeman just wanted some money so he pulled him over and took it. Alex asked him how he felt about being shook-down, isnt it unfair, etc. His response was C`est comme ça, That`s just how it is. Hmm a little eye opening.

Anyways, those are just some examples of what is typical of the taxis here.

This week, I am preparing Kabyé beer to sell at market. Its going to be hilarious, and everyone is ridiculously excited to try the nsara`s attempt at a boisson. I cannot believe I leave the north in 4 days, and Togo in a week.

Cultivating

Monday morning, I joined Tikenawe in one of her fields and planted bean seeds. She started around 6AM and I at 7AM. The field is in the mountains a minute away from the homestead. Because of the rocky and inclined terrain, the fields here are terraced and contoured around the natural obstacles. Sometimes when working in the fields, workers get bitten by agtenna (these horrible pinching ants), scorpions, and snakes. When I was out there, there were agtenna but I only had to deal with the flying insects (eg flies and kapupudu). Its a good thing too since I was only wearing flip flops - though the other 3 women, whom Tikenawe has to pay, were barefoot.

So - how to plant beans
The fields, as said earlier, are terraced but within each terrace plane, there are mounds and ditches. Bending at the waist, you shove the knife with your right hand next to a mound at a 45 degree angle. Holding up the thin layer of soil with the knife, you put in 2 seends with your left hand, then pat the soil down. Additionally, there is a pattern for how to plant the seeds - in each ditch between 2 mounds, one side gets 1 set of seeds while the other side gets 2 sets (2-1-2).

After an hour, I realiwed the sun had really come out and I was startign to burn so I went in to grab some water, my cookie monster hat, sunscreen, and camera. I returned "au champ" for about an hour, then Tikenawe and I left around 930AM while the other women continued. Although this seemed like one of the less strenuous tasks, you are bent over for hours with the sun beating down, then there are the hazards of the field and nature. To top it off, the wet season is like winter here - 80 degrees F - and the women were wearing sweaters. I cannot imagine what the dry season is like...

Initiation Dances

It is initiation time in the ritual heart of Kaybé culture in northern Togo. On Friday morning, Alex, Rui, Geff, Jesper, Gros and I woke up before sunrise to go to the Evalaa luttes, or wrestling matches, in Koumea. Although I could not really see the matches themselves, the atmosphere was really fun. Faure, the president of Togo, made an appearance, and the women of each village/quartier self-taxed to buy matching pagnes to show pride.

Farendé and Kuwdé do not have the luttes for Evalaa but there is a very symbolic ritual instead. There are also lots of dances in the market, each village with its own circle, celebrating the initiates. Saturday evening while I was watching the Kuwdé dance, Kouwenam pulled me into the circle where I learned how to dance the saissa (?). The dance is simple - tap twice with each foot, turn a bit each time, while swirling a silver plate, but the rhythm is really difficult. Everyone was so excited (or amused) by my dancing that people started sticking coins to my forehead - I made 90CFA!

interviews

This past week several important « events » have occurred. First, I had an interview zith the son of the past Chef de Village of Koukoudé. He had cultivated for 4 years in Nigeria before returning to Kuwdé two months ago with a moto. The interview was incredibly informative, but seemed rehearsed. His uncle, André, was there to translate, but as the aspiring Chef de Village he seemed to also be playing politics. The boy (24 years old) would simply parrot what André would say. For example, Me: For how many hours would you work each day – when to when? André: ooooohhh work hard ALL day! Boy: Work all day!. Once I broke down the answers into details (eg: 6H-12H, 13H-18H) did they become really helpful in understanding the basic mechanics of the work abroad.

Towards the end when I began asking questions about motivations for youth to leave and solutions, the answers seemed more about getting me to get money and aid – I began to feel like the interview was an act to push forth an agenda, to get something tangibly beneficial from my time here. Although I am sure the answers were honest, it did not seem like I was getting the full truth. The duo repeatedly remarked “We are so poor – that is why I left to get a motorcycle” then “when you leave you need to get people and NGOs to help us.” The first statement interested me – this kid might come from a poor family relative to the world, but not for this community. He had food to eat, shelter, his education paid for, and his father was the chief of the village. He did not leave because of abuse, neglect, starvation, orphan-status, or for school fees – he left (and he said it) because he saw some guy with a moto, wanted one, and knew that his parents would not buy one for him and his amusement.

This raises some questions I have been struggling with – What is poverty? And how has globalization impacted people’s perceptions of their own circumstances and of those around them? Kids might still leave during school vacations to make money in the South, but if transportation and exposure to the consumer-base mania of the US and Europe were not as present (with me there too?) or coveted, would youth leave to work in other countries for the momentary satisfaction of motorcycles and videotapes? Isolation is not the answer, so what, increased globalization and access to tastes of things that make the US idolized? At this pace, these objects might never make it into the hands of these people and youth.

"Bar" hopping

Every Saturday is market day in Farendé. I wake up late (around 8am if I can stay in bed that long) then eat some Quaker Oats with powdered milk, a little sugar, and hot water. After breakfast, I hike into town for a pre-marché meeting with Rui, Alex, and Jesper to discuss any cultural questions we might have (eg: sorcery, funerals, ceremonies). After, we head to the market. The market is incredibly lively and has many differnet sections and vendors - grain, pagnes, an infinite array of flip flops and Obama paraphenalia, bread, fruit, locust bean stuff for sauces (smells like dog poop), and fufu. Set back from this main area is the dog meat stand, which only men are allowed to eat, and the twenty or so beer ("sulum") stations.

Kabyé beer is not like the beer in the States - I would hesitate to even say it is beer... It is made from sorghum and tastes like slightly carbonated apple juice when it hasnt been fermented. Wehn fermented, it is less red, less sweet, and more alcoholic depending on how many times it has been filtered. The sulum is made by the Kabyé women, and each woman`s beer has its own style and taste. Market days (for men and Americans) are spent hopping from sulum hut to sulum hut socializing and drinking 50CFA (aournd 10 cents) calabashes of beer. Two drinks later, I am exhausted - I hike back up the mountain, take a bucket shower, and nap. I probably go to bed around 930pm - with no electricity and limited battery power, there is not much to do after sunset.

village life

My host this summer is a family of subsistence farmers. Kouwenam (the dad) and Tikenawe (the mom) have 7 kids - 2 are married and live elsewhere, and a middle child is living in nearby Pagoudah where she goes to school (she works for a family - domestic chores and tending their bar- and in exchange she gets to stay there and her school fees are paid for). The other four kids are Esocholo (19 and rebellious), Gros (~15 and the only boy among 6 other girls), Bienvenue (~10) and Eli (7, she is really timid and is only now starting to talk to me... or shes scared of me).

Its ironic living here - my project is on child trafficking yet I have so many kids doing free labor for me. Bien and Eli sweep my room at least once a day, Gros carries my backpack and boils water for my morning oatmeal, and Esocholo cooks dinner. Since they discovered I dont really like the traditional pate, I now eat spaghetti nearly every night, its a double edged sword I guess.

With 99% of the day`s work done for me, it is still really difficult to understand what life living in poverty, off the land, in a mud and tin compound on a mountain is really like. There are hints - men bent over working the fields, little kids with swollen bellies and inflated bellybuttons, and empty Coartem (malaria meds) packets on the ground - but it is mostly hidden by the friendly, generous, and vibrant personalities.

Although many people speak some French, I am still working on learning a little Kabyé. Right now I knoz the 4 time of day salutations (eg good day night etc) and a couple of other phrases and words.

Happy almost 4th of July!!