What follows is a transcription of the journal I kept during the trip. I flew from Washington, DC, to Amsterdam to spend a few days adjusting to the time zone and a 'foriegn' culture. From there I flew south on one of the twice-weekly flights to Lome. A few people have pointed out that it sounds like I didn't have a very good time. I won't lie and say that it was always fun. Occasionally, it was very definitely not fun. But it was ALWAYS facinating and definitely rates as one of the most incredible adventures of my life.... Special thanks to everyone who helped make the trip possible and enjoyable.
Contents |
7-23-98 - Thurs
Well, the hardest step is getting out the door. Up till that point, you aren't committed. But when I shouldered the very over-full and over-dense purple peril, THEN the trip had started and there was no turning back.
7-24-98 - Fri
Well THAT was an adventure. After a battery of airplane misadventures I arrived at Schiopol and wandered around in a leaden, laden stupor. The culture shock was mostly due to the fact that everything was so normal and EVERYone speaks excellant, slightly accented English.
Some observations: Bikes--they are everywhere and usually locked to the railings. On the boat tour, I saw a barge loaded with cycles that had been pulled from the water. Despite their prevalence, nearly all are 1-speed, coasterbrake beaters and nobody ever wears a helmet. To make matters more exciting, passengers often ride side-saddle on the baggage rack. And they go like hell!
7-25-98 - Saturday
Woke at the crack of 8:30 (long after dawn in this summer high-latitude town) feeling a great deal the worse for wear from last night. Nevertheless, I was the first person at breakfast and soon set off using my strippenkart to ply the trolly lines. Beautiful weather made the walk and wait through the Leidesplein and Museumplein a pleasure. Around 30 people--most or all of them Amerikinskis--arrived at 11:30 for Mike's Bike Tours. 20 of us (17 Americans, 2 Canadians and an Australian) walked down to Waterlooplien under the guidance of our intrepid and friendly dutch guide Ilsa and, after seeing the sights along the way, picked up our bikes at MacBike.
It's strange to think of going to Africa to escape the heat--hell, it's strange to think of going to Africa at all--but at least I get a respite of lots of air conditioned modes of transit. And Holland is supposed to be cold and rainy...
The trip to Dulles has pased without major incident. Met a young Englishwoman with the most startlinly green eyes and chatted for a bit then went our separate ways; she to Florida.
Timezones being what they are, this will be a short, strange day. I'm counting on sleep on the plane. And lots of sunlight on the back of the knees at 2am biological...
The word for the day is lines. After an hour in the VVV line, I was set up with the last remaining single room in the Hotel Regal, which, despite the name is a shotgun affair with stairs steep enough to rate as a technical climb (5.2 perhaps?). The room is similarly tiny having room for me and my luggage simultaneously only if one of us is on the bed. Oh, and the lights don't work in my room or in the shower down the hall. Feeling marvelously chipper after a (dark) shower, I set out and bought lunch at a local grocery and sat by a lock realizing that Damn! I'm in a foriegn country here! This is IT! World Adventure.
After a little orientation and a wander down a set of very immodest streets crammed with European tourists, I jumped onto a canalboat and fought lack of sleep for an hour while we saw the lovely canals crowded with other boats much like our Albert Schwitzer. Then I dragged home to my closet to reawake at local 6pm feeling rested and hungry.
Wandered out to find money and food. At a Thai place, I ran into my neighbors Gregor and Iorge, a pair of Germans roughly my age in the city for the weekend. At 9 we teamed up and wandered to Leidesplein along the Prinsengracht. Hit a bar and the Paradisio where Moondive, a loud drum and bass group was rocking the walls. Good fun. Excellant music. Danced like crazy. Lost the Germans somewhere and dragged home alone feeling pretty sore.
We tottered and crashed and tried to hearken back to our first bike-riding days; the coaster brakes causing most of the trouble. These apparently are stupendous bikes for this town, but it took me a while to get used to it. Still, on the ride out of the city it became apparent that the upright posture allowed one to see and be seen and not waste much-needed attention on things like shifting gears.
We cycled out in a big pack along the Amstel past houseboats and trees to the countryside and the very posh Togolese Consulate (a small brick manse with wrought-iron gate and well-tended gardens). In an amazingly gquick time, we were amonst very rural farm fields and very Thames-like river. We continued to the village of Ouderkerk aan de Amstel where we shopped for lunch (old cheese and turkey, fruit and various juice) and sunned in a small park. Then back to the city via the requisite windmill and Rembrandt statue.
Gouda cheese aging on the shelves at Rembrandtenhoeven. |
7-26-98 - Sunday
Again got an early start. The proprieter at my hotel likely thinks me antisocial and strange for a young guy in this city of nightlife, but nightlife for one is a depressing prospect.
7-27-98 - Monday
...except somehow I rocketted awake at 8:30 am very much behind schedule for my planned morning of packing and bidding adieu to creature comforts. Baggage was thrown together and I hastily bolted out the door, to the train, plane and here I am flying south approaching the Mediteranean.
Saw the Anne Franck Huis which was succinct and moving, as anticipated. Very well done with no sensationalism to it. All the while, the bells of Westerkerk--the nearby cathedral in which Rembrandt is buried in a pauper's mass grave--were booming along for 11:00 mass. Then a sunny walk along the Prinsengracht to the Wootenboot Museum--a former sand and gravel freighter converted to a houseboat--very spacious and airy, though a pretty minimal museum.
Next up to Liedesplein for lunch at an outdoor cafe--uitmeijter (out-smay-ters) and Guiness.
After lunch I walk to Museumplein and pay my 15 bits for entrance to the Rijksmuseum, home of a LOT of Renassaince Dutch art. And there is a lot of art that got created. The whole museum rotates around Rembrandt's Night Watch as it is incorrectly called. The proper name is "The Shooting Party of Captain Somebodyorother" and it's important mainly because it was the first group portrait to show people _doing_ something.
After three hours of Rembrandt, Jan Steen, ver Meer and so forth, and after running into an old college aquaintance amidst the Bruegals, I'd had enough and fled to concider my options. Wandered through the Muntsplein flower market and the Spui art market. Then the shopping hell that is Kalvertstraat. Breif rest at the hotel and then out to The Pancake Bakery on Prinsengracht for a large, filling concoction of apples, bananas and cinnamon ice cream on top of a huge, sugary crepe. Feeling fat and sassy, I wandered the rest of the way to Leidesplein and Vondeled in the Vondelpark before heading for home. But on this of all nights that I ought to sleep, I got caught up in the tragedy of "Into Thin Air" and by 4am couldn't sleep a wink...
So what is it I expect from Togo? I'm already surprised that the twice-weekly flight is overbooked. Undoubtedly true to form, my assumptions are based on bravado and naievity of other cultures. Lome is, after all a city of a couple hundred thousand people, and, while apparently not the center of creature comforts Amsterdam is, is not a medieval village or something from the movies. More likely a city based on CNN reports and the uncomfortable fusion of native and western ideas. Isn't that a byproduct of colonialism?
Now we're flying over Majorca and the sea is the exact same color as the sky. There's just a layer of assorted morphologies of clouds and a universe of air.
It seems very surreal; Togo has been this mythical place for many months and in a few short hours, I will be kissing the soil or whatever it is that you do upon arriving in a foriegn land. (I suppose a precedent was set when I went and stood out under the glowering sky in Amsterdam.) Right now the Sahara is passing below in an unending study in earthtones. From 33,000 it looks a lot like any other desert I've flown over--New Mexico/Utah/Arizona?--but there is a sense of this being Bigger! Lots of wadis and dunes. Occasional roads and even less often a settlement of some sort. There is a 2-runway airstrip down there. I have no experience from which to draw to help identify these features...but the map says we're bearing SSW a few hundred miles north of the dead center of Algeria over Ghardaia.
There are some beautiful water drainage patterns down there with tan washland tending to rusty red and greyish uplands. They're almost blue on top. Ah, and there are some actual dunes. Dunes must be one of those things which scale perfectly from river-bottom to beach to deep desert.
After a couple hours of hazy tan ground haze and huge thunderheads, we have emerged into the clear above the western corner of Niger near Niamey. The pilot says we are in the intertropical convergence zone and indeed our 767 seems almost stationary next to these gargantuan clouds. I see Niamey and the Niger river out the left window--very brown.
Over Togo now and I've identified Sawa-Kara and the nearby mountains. Lots of trees and small fires here and there.
Landing. Much like I expected. Palm trees. Setting sun, warm end-of-afternoon humidity. Down the ramp, out on the tarmac and following a stream of people to the terminal such as it is. Getting past visa and passport control was harrowing and very scary. EFD soon rescued me and we left, and none too soon. I am on the verge of Not Dealing Well. Taxi to the old Mamie's.
After sitting around for a while, we went off to an Italian place in an effort to cushion the culture shock. Dude, I'm in Africa!!
The waterfront in Aneho. Note the undertow and the trash. |
7-28-98 - Tuesday
My first day in Lome. Actually only day. We went off to the grande Marche, changed money, visitted the yovo-mart, and shopped till we dropped. The marche was mobbed and I lampreyed to EFD's back and ignored the people trying to sell me everything from belts to wooden things to belts to Celine Dion's latest to belts. It is the men and older children who are aggressive about it. The "Marche Mammas" are usually much better. We went to the indoor market to the inner sanctum presided over by the Nana Benze, women of impressive demeanor and attitude, where we pagne shopped. There were usually apprentice-benzes and each nana was running perhaps 20' of shop front. After haggling in Ewe down from 5000 to 2500cfa, I posess a very loud pagne. Flipflops were also procured. I seem to have larger feet than the natives judging by the sizes available.
Then we headed by taxi (a toyota packed with 10 people travelling 70mph over potholed roads at breakneck speed on either side) to Aneho on the other end of the coast. Saw the water which looks transparent and lovely and very very rough--kick-your-ass surf for sure. The wave quality is apparently due to Togo's complete lack of continental shelf and the ocean winds. Lots of photos were taken and then we travelled to the Aneho marche which happens to be on Tuesday. Much easier to deal with and utilitarian than the Lome version. Much of the time was spent pointing out what things were and being very concious of being one of the only two white people in sight.
Finally back to Lome, a short nap and out for dinner at a Senegalese place downtown. Spicy and tasty and very filling.
Reactions and impression: At first things were very confusing and daunting because of the newness of everything. It's still a bit strange, no, really strange, but I've sort of learned how to react. After only one day even! Give me a few more days and I'll be better.
7-29-98 - Wednesday
Today was the Lome to Kpalime day. We taxied to the appropriate bush taxi stand and waited around for a while--maybe an hour--while enough people and baggage showed up to fill the thing. We watched, I in amusement, as a hoard of roustabouts argued and moved large baskets about. All the time a stately Marche Mama and her several younger, slightly less stately assistants looked on and disciplined. It's quite clear here that gender roles are almost rigid here. Women RULE the marche despite what the men may think. Girls apparently do a lot of singing/dancing/clapping games. Boys roll tires or play soccer or drive these poles with a pair of wheels around. When not harvesting something, men whack on metal with the pretense of fixing things. Women sit and watch and carry and care and suckle. I'm increasingly impressed by the power, strength and beauty of these matrons.
Some observations: Togolese at least in this area don't mind you ignoring them or being rude. Mali is the place to be. Everyone seems to be going there. It is perfectly acceptable to pee in the middle of a major intersection. Goats are small, sheep are goat-like, lizards come in all colors and sizes and are very fast, and I think I saw and agouti. People will rarely have change.
On being white: boy do I stick out! I guess there's nothing I can do about it, but I'm always gonna be obvious in a crowd. Yovos get prefferential treatment in taxis getting to sit in the relatively spacious front seat while the locals get crammed into the back. It's very strange to be sitting there chatting in English and realize there are a dozen silent people staring at the back of your head. While walking west from Aneho to the Marche, some children would say Bonsior very respectfully with a little curtsey. Though I always tried to respond pleasently with a nod of the head and smile, it still felt very much like Gone With the Wind. Perhaps I agree with certains people I've talked to about the influence of rich white people living among poor black people and the Yovosation that ensues. We shall see...
There are lots of other little thoughts going on, but everything is much too vivid for coherent contemplation right now.
Anyway... the taxi was finally loaded with the Yovos in the front, the dozen other passengers in the back, a trio of hog-tied goats and the driver. All long distance drivers apparently are Kotokoli. We headed out on the glass-like Lome-Kpalime road. Newly paved, well signed and completely atypical. There were many gendarme stops where papers were checked and money changed hands. The driver was unpleased. And two stops where everybody had to pile out and walk a few hundred yards before piling back in.
The countryside was flat and pleasent and very agricultural. Many flavors of palm trees. Short, symmetrical papyas. Large-leaved, dense teaks. Tall, stately capok trees. Lots of corn. I constantly asked questions about what things were.
Upon arrival at Kpalime, we trekked the mile to Chez Therese, a SBD volunteer who was not home, then out to the marche to browse. I was introduced to fufu of the manioc variety. Very sticky and a little daunting. The sauce is tasty but the fufu itself will take some getting used to. I bought more pagnes and a scrubby. Also various food.
This marche is bustling, but very different in character. Much more pleasent. Went back, met Theresse, borrowed bikes and cycled out on the road to Kuma. Beautiful jungle and interesting scenery.
Young girls navigating the mountain paths of Djigbe carrying water. They never spilled a drop. |
Thursday, July 30, 1998
Arose and headed out with EFD and Elli bound for Mont Agou. At 986 meters, it is the high point of Togo. Strangely it stands alone apart from the plateau and is quite imposing, despite its relatively small stature. After a slow start with breakfast and whatnot, we finally hit the trail at around 10:30 in Agou Tomegbe and were trailed by half a dozen locals with a penchant for sherpa-ing. One was especially tenacious and finally accompanied us all the way to the top and back.
The trail was steep and muddy and wound through demi-jungle cutting off the switchbacks of a freshly graded red cocoa road. Banana trees, creepers, 2 meter tall grass, insect sounds. The weather was hot and oppressive and would cause numerous problems later.
The village of Djigbe high on the slopes of Mont Agou. |
Friday July 31, 1998
I was awoken at an uknown hour with a startling case of vomitting, or more precisely, four of them, and a raging fever of 102-104. Through the night EFD towelled me down and, when it looked like I might be able to keep it down, administered tylenol and water. It was a very long night!
Saturday, August 1, 1998
Feeling MUCH better though still a bit questionable, I carried out personal hygiene tasks and was packed and mobile by noon. We got the middle seat of a taxi headed directly for Dzogbegan and, after sitting for over an hour and a half, got underway. The road is much less well maintained and I whacked my head on the window frame repeatedly as we made our way north. Given the already fragile state of my health, this made for an interesting ride. On the bright side, there was only one checkpoint so the ride went smoothly on that count.
Most of the day passed in a blur. I slept for most of it, sometimes on the porch, sometimes in the spare room. Not pleasent at all. If faced with this kind of malady as an arriving stagier (novice PCV) I would definitely have my doubts.
The final diagnosis was heat exhaustion from the climb and clime compounded by something funny in the brochettes.
Rising up the plateau was precipitous and hair-raising but provided excellant views. The air became cooler and E definitely seemed more at home. At length we suddenly arrived and were unloaded. My pack was whisked off on an old woman's head and we arrived at Chez Emily.
Most of the 'cherubs' in Dzogbegan. |
Day Girls Boys ------------------------------ Sun Kosiwa/Essi Kossi Mon Adzo Kodjo Tues Abla Komla Wed Aku Kokou Thurs Ayawa Yao Fri Afi Koffi Sat Ami KomiThese can be modified by adding "vi" (little) or "ga(n)" (big) at the end (being big is concidered good) and by "Da" (Ms) or "Fo" (Mr) in front.
Sunday August 2, 1998
Mostly I lay around today being sick and enduring being saluted by people I don't understand. But there were a few bright points. I actually ate and enjoyed a quantity of food for dinner. I took photos of the choir and they were quite pleased. Three young cherubs came by and weeded the yard proving that small brown children are infinitely cute.
Monday August 3
EFD biked off to Tinife this morning to accomplish some unknown task and has again left me to my own devices. I spent quite a while showering and shaving and am feeling much more civilized now. The rest of the morning has been spent catching up the journal, reading Newsweeks and wandering the compound. The weather is not inspiring and in fact cold. I've been here now one week. Hopefully another two are survivable! I'm feeling anxious to move on or at least see something here. While EFD protests that these people are marvelous and wonderful, I can't understand them nor they me so neither of us gets much out of seeing each other. I would rather see the countryside, the worth of which I am capable of judging without translation.
And then there was the drumming! Five drums, wooden blocks, a shaker gourd and a bell. Only the men play. The women and some men as well dance around in a circle around the drums and sing. Incredibly powerful. Mostly joy. I was moved to tears. If I manage to capture this on tape, it will be the most important souvenir I have to bring back. Words really fail.
I really need to get out of here. Children are screaming at each other and adults talking all around and I can't understand a word. I'm cooped up inside a relatively boring house with increasingly little to do and there is this repetitive clapping going on.
Da Rosine and Emily. Nice pants, Em! (This is why PCVs are cautioned to relearn fashion when they get back to the US.) | Pounding fufu. Immediately after this photo was taken, I took the place of the man. It's hard work! I mostly concentrated on not whacking the woman with my pounding stick. |
Tuesday August 4, 1998
A curiously, almost maniacally full day: started with a 5km hike to Appeyeme to do various errands and meet people. Met Da Pauline the tailor and the phone guys and Madjome (first name Tchanimbe), EFD's boss and a very interesting fellow. Mama, a large marche mama, is _the_ source of gossip and local mail delivery. Longer distance mail, like to the USA, takes 235 cfa and two weeks. Somewhere Togolese stamps went from interesting to pretty dull.
It was also a day of gifts. We were given about 5 pounds of bananas, a gargantuan pineapple, a salad for two, fufu, taro leaves, and a lot of peppers. We stayed up long into the night baking banana bread.
There was a torrential rainstorm for much of the afternoon which filled the cistern. I sat on the porch sewing the togo flag onto my pack.
When the rain let up while E had her Ewe lesson from Da Agnes (which consists of telling stories), I wandered solo down the road toward Ghana a couple of km. Very pleasent and different from the other sections of road. I now have some better idea where things are around here...
Kossi found me half way back and we chatted in what common language we have. His english is not bad. Certainly better than my french. We discussed football, the sizes of trees and worms in Togo versus America, and other pithy topics. He's a good guy.
Oh, I also worked on identifying the gaggle of birds in the tree aways off. They're either black-headed orioles (10") or oriole finches (6") and being able to tell the size would be very helpful. I tend to beleive the former given the nest structure.
Wednesday August 5, 1998
With grimmest intent, we arose this morning at 5 and, despite the unappealing weather and state of sleep, headed out with adventure in mind. Our goal was Yikpa and its famous-though unnamed waterfall (more specifically Yikpa-Dafo as there are several buroughs in Greater Yikpa.)
The second leg of the taxi ride (a 2-parter with stop-over in Ndigbe) was especially notable as I was wedged across from a large man who bare an uncanny resemblance to OJ Simpson. Then it was over in the dreaded door seat wedged in practicing my climbing grips on parts of the door.
The ride took us off the plateau over some very exciting road lined by tall grass. The driver tootled furiously before every turn since the road was arguably not even wide enough for one bus.
(Here we had the adventure of the Waterfall at Yikpa, recounted in the Wilderness Journals.)
Thursday, August 6, 1998.
Awoke late to the usual fascade of plateau weather, grey, light rain, no visibility. Nevertheless, after a round of saluting and a rather bloody shave, I set out for a cycling circuit of Apeyeme, Elavagnon and back, a loop of ~25 km. First I dropped some letters in Apeyeme and coming back through ran into a French woman who is here teaching French, English and physical sciences. It's weird how yovos gravitate toward one another here. More on this later. The ride went well and I stopped several times along the route to look at views and examine ants. Saw another pair of what I think are some sort of hornbills; at least nothin else seems to fit the description.
Friday, August 7, 1998
First off, we climbed Mt. Akpaliwue, the local mount at the edge of the plateau covered mostly in sparse grass and prickly, thistel-like bushes. Possibly serpents as well. Kossi had been aching to hike with us/me all week and thus it was with great excitement that we set out munching on manioc balls. Saw a medium sized mantis (a "religious mantis") and some colorful grasshoppers. Traipsed down paths, through fields of corn and ingames and through the dooryard of and _extremely_ fat, casually dressed matron. With tree limb in hand, Kossi broke trail thrashing away at the bushes (presumably to drive off any serpents) and we ascended. Very steep but worthwhile views. On the east, Dzogbegan and the plateau farms are clearly visible. To the west, a similar view into Ghana but even more dramatic. All providing setting for a big, pleasently lumpy hill. We cambe back down, had beans with gari (dried, powdered manioc) and prepared for the evening.
Saturday August 8, 1998
A largely annoying travel day. Lots of bad taxis and bad connections culminating in two hours of hell from Atakpame to Blitta. Things this frustrating and unpleasent don't really bear putting down for posterity.
Sunday, August 9, 1998
Because of one small miscalculation it was a much longer day than neccessary. Still, a good interesting time was had. In the morning, after avoiding the Peace Corps authorities, we caught a taxi out to Codhani, a collective in Niamtougou of disabled artisans which produces beautiful batiks and other products of high price and quality. We bought several tourist items and then were lucky enough to catch a taxi back. The ride out and back was interesting for the beautiful weather and remarkably different nature of the landscape. Low rolling hills with occasional rocky mountains. The fields are of lower quality and filled with flat stones. People seem to raise largely the same crops, with the addition of millet and cotton and the subtraction of much of the fruit crops. Corn seems to be a universal. Thanks be to New World crops.
Upon arrival in Yikpa-Dafo--a pleasent village amidst some awesomely grassy, ridgey hills--we were informed that the wasterfall was infact in Ghana. The gendarme was very pleasent and forgiving despite our lack of complete papers and we were allowed to sotire down the 1km of road to the Ghana side.
On that side, however, (where they speak English) we were informed that yes the cascade was here but no, without visas we could not enter. Hardnosed beaurocratic pigdogs! Dejected, we retreated in the company of a lad on a bike who informed us that in fact there are two cascades, one on each side of the border. So we hired a guide and his retinue and headed out.
He lead us down the road to an anonymous path to the south like any other and up we went, first through the coffee and banana fields and then up the lower ridges of the hills. Soon we began to climb in earnest gaining perhaps 1000' of elevation in a mile or so of trail. The weather remained cool and dim and the views were increasingly good. The hills are clearly water-carved, but look to originally be part of an upthrust angled with the rough end to the SW. Periodic rock faces of brownish stone were seen promissing unknown climbing bounty.
We finally topped the northern face of our ridge and started steeply down into the first honest-to-goodness jungle I have yet encountered. Vines, darkness, rot, mud, decay, insects and probably quicksand. Pure heaven. Crossed a small stream and then a larger one.
A coup-coup was procured and our guide hacked a path out of the jungle valley and onto the neighboring ridgetop savanah. Loads of waist-height grass made the path invisible. But all of a sudden, from the yawning valley to the left a roar was heard. Turning arond and looking back we could hardly miss the cascade tumbling at least 500' in about three hops to the valley far below. While in the dry season, it may be a trickle, this is the wet season and it rained all day yesterday besides. There is no shortage of water!
We soon reached the end of the ridge and began an allarmingly precipitous descent back into the jungle biome. And me in Tevas. Not that I'm sure what the appropriate footwear would have been. Our guide and his two cohorts wore flip-flops or no shoes at all.
In a short distance, we dropped into the crevice of a valley where the jungle reigned. Large trees, large spiders, lots of steep traversing and slabbing on questionable trail. Our guide was busy cutting steps into the steeper muddy parts with his coup-coup.
Finally we emerged at the base of the falls. There is a large pool 100' across blasted with spray and whitecaps from the wind pushed by the water. A pebble beach is fighting a turf war with low ground plants growing from seed pods that look alarmingly like peirogies. Farther back the banana trees are whipped back and forth by the gale from the lake. The noise is just short of deafening. All plans for a rest and spot of lunch are postponed.
Unfortunately, the only way our guide knows of getting back to town is to backtrack. I had thought to follow the river down, but as this would lead to Wli and Ghana where I am banned, this is unacceptable. Back up we go. Strangely, the whole trip out including the muddy climb out of the valley is accomplished much more easily than the trip in and passes mostly without incident.
Fortunately taxi connections were again favorable and by 4 we were in Apeyeme chatting with Madjombe, EFD's functionaire boss. He asked us what we wanted to drink (Coctail de Fruit, of course!) and all of a sudden we were eating dinner of rice with red oil sauce and salad. He's a fascinating guy and very interested in getting a degree from an American college (probably by correspondence) in Comparitive Anthro or some such. Asked lots of fascinating questions. An intelligent wonderful man unfortunately trapped and held below his potential by the means and location of his life; like millions more I'm sure. How many billion people would be able to take what America/the first world has to offer and do great things? Conversely, how many people in the first world are doing great things with the means at their disposal? Sad misallocation of resources.
Walked home and caught a cab for most of the way. Shower, more dinner and then choir practice started in the church. We went over to see about recording and in the back pew ran into a yovo we'd shared a taxi with but hadn't otherwise spoken to. She's a German working Kpalime who was out seeing the area planning to travel back at nigh which seems like a bad idea. But it is so nice to comminicate with someone on my own! I can't get over it.
With great ceremony, the Choir Saint Benoit ran through its repetoir and I sat there in the lamplit interior in the front pew recording away. The director is very serious about the music and indeed the choir of four or five of each SATB part sounds really exceptional. The recording sounds great and everyone is really stoked. Me very much included.
After resting for much of the afternoon and accomplishing house tasks, I headed out again in the later afternoon and biked to the western edge of the plateau. The views out past Bogo and Sassanou to Ghana were dramatic with layers of ground cloud alternating with layers of hills.
For no good reason, I started down the winding road off the plateau and, even after it proved steep, kept going most of the way to Bogo. Very dramatic road and i got plenty of chances to admire the micro and macro landscape as I labored back up. Not a daily commute I would savor.
Just as I returned, two yovos showed up on the doorstep claiming to be Patrick and Maria PC '91-'93. We arranged to meet for drinks after dinner. I wumped up a stirfry of freshly picked beans and peppers and pineapple which tasted _so_good_! Spent a lot of time processing the pineapple which was very juicy and slightly rotten. And very large to boot! Pineapple upside down cake was manufactured.
Patrick and Maria came by and we chatted for a few hours. The are _very_ impressed with EFD's language skills. Tee hee!
Oh, in the afternoon we wandered, introduced the Togolese to frisbees, saw an oven at Da Claire's house, saw the river and lots of other sights, sites and sounds.
Learning of my imminent departure from his village, the Chef decided to throw a fete in my honor at 4pm. By about 5:30, the area under the meeting tree had been wept and the chorus was out performing some of their greatest hits. Drums showed up by a little after six and for about an hour or so there was drumming, singing and dancing under a rising full moon. Very cool. I did my best to join in with the dancing (shuffle shuffle wiggle wiggle) much to the delight of Da Rosine but no one could claim me as competent.
Suddenly the drumming stopped and a speech was made by the secretary of the DFC. E translated and he said all of what I expected him to say--she is part of the village and I need to make sure the people of America know that. Yadda yadda yadda. Then I was presented with another five pounds of bananas...
After all the festivites had died down, it was over to Da Rosines for a nice moon and limplit dinner of ingame slices with leaf sauce. We sat and ate and just basically hung out. A nice ending to a nice week on the plateau. But I am ready to move on.
The one enlightening and interesting event of the day was when a gentleman in Adeta (an otherwise evil town) leaned his head in the window or our Lexus (really!) and started talking to me.
"Do you have paper and pen?"
"Um, yes..."
"Good, write this..." and he proceeded to teach me some basic Housa. Not the kind of interaction I am used to from strange men at taxi stands.
Finally arrived at the Kara Maison at about 9:30pm. The place is full of stagiers and most of them are women. Having a real (if cold) shower is nice even if in the process I got electric shocks. To bed by the shocking hour of midnight and slept soundly.
Biking north from Guerin-Kouka on Marche-day. |
Monday, August 10, 1998
The Fetishist composing a potion of some sort. (Note that food would not be kept on the nice skins, it would go directly on the ground.) | Old woman spinning cotton on a tockle. |
Tuesday, August 11, 1998
Another charming transit day. Before breadfast we were up and biking to Guerin-Kouka. Then into a crammed taxi and back to Kara by way of Kaboo again because a bridge is out. Stopped by the Maison to drop a bike and then the usual long wait before leaving for Dapaong.
Escarpments north of Tandjouare in the Fosse Aux Liones. Typical weather in the rainy season. |
Wednesday, August 12, 1998
Market trucks leave early so we were up at 5:30. Packed, left and got our bikes tied onto a big blue truck with a strong resemblance to a dump truck. Then spent a while wandering around the Zongo Quarter (Moslem quarter) eating breakfast and people watching. Dapaong really is a very low-key, pleasent town. Almost no yovo screaming kids and little bandit activity. Finally we were loaded onto the truck perched upon and between large unidentified bales and small children. There were probably 50 people crammed in there. Several apprentice/handlers scrambled all over the outside of the truck while it was in motion and narrowly avoided being clotheslined by low trees.
A welcome stop on the market truck route in Bambwaka. The fellow in the fatigues is a Gendarme whom you're not supposed to take pictures of. |
Thursday August 13, 1998
The lovely town of Yembour, Togo, West Africa. Those are cotton fields. |
Friday, August 14, 1998
Well, the rainy season seems fully entrenched over most of Togo and today is no exception. We hopped on our 2 wheeled beasts, fully laden and partially water-resistant and pedalled off. A fairly pleasent trip over dirt/mud for the first half and pavement for the second half of 45 km. Interesting scenery and a small pond full of small yellow frogs which, by sound you'd guess were about the size of Volkswagons. Good cliffs and a stunning little dampening at the Fosse aux Lions. No lions, though.
Saturday, August 15, 1998
Up at 5 and out looking for taxis south shortly thereafter. Things worked out strangely with a number of bandit taxis half-full speeding south with a purpose. Didn't see much along the way except for the mountains south of Dara which are pretty cool. Nearly got decapitated trying to photograph the Faille D'aledjo. On the muddy hell-road between Blitta and Anie we got repeatedly soaked by rain from above and road goo from the sides courtesy of a less than maximum number of windows in our vehicle. By rides-end in Atakpeme at about 5pm I was tired, hugry, tired, filthy, sore and tired. We limped to the maison and collapsed in various stupors. Then out for dinner shopping--more rice and spaghetti with red oil sauce. I'm definitely about ready to go home. It's not that it hasn't been really fun, but three plus weeks of being on the road is a lot. The food in Togo is usually pretty good, but limitted in scope. Lots of things look really good but I can't have them. Pizza is sounding really tasty about now.
Anyway, returned home and was kept awake for a long time by the late 80's soft-rock hits emanating from the bar down the hill. Finished "Hayduke Lives" at the ripe hour of 1:30 am.
Sunday, August 16, 1998
Well now that's unanticipated. Got a nice leisurely start to the day, showered, packed, read books, hung out and generally relaxed under the oppressiveness of Bette Midler and such torture from next door. About 11 a phone call came down at the cabine from Dudley. Apparently there is machine gun and mortar fire in Lome and we are forbidden from travelling there. Huh! I sat down and said "huh" for a while.
Monday, August 17, 1998
Well, I did it. "There and Back Again" or at least "There and On the Way Back Again". The word came down this morning that there had been no further sign of violence and nobody really knew what was going on. Theories abounded. One had a bunch of military types just getting back from Congo and discovering they hadn't been paid. Another said it was Ghanains (aka, supporters of someone other than Stevie) getting uppity. Whatever. Things are quiet today.
Epilogue: Friday, August 20, 1999
Well, it's been over a year since I returned from Togo. I did make the flight and bid a fond farewell to Emily and Africa in general. Shortly after takeoff from Abidjan, the one stop on the way to Amsterdam and thence home to the USA, I became violently ill in the worst possible way. Bless the Dutch! Lots of blonde, friendly KLM stewardesses consoled me and let me basically inhabit one of the lavatories. Upon arrival in Schipol, after a rather sleepless night, Randy and I found our way to the KLM traveller's clinic where we parted company and I was, free of charge, given medicines and put to bed for a blissful few hours.
Here it is a year later and much has happened. I have regained the lost weight and recovered fully. The final diagnosis was another bout of food poisoning (probably from poorly-kept mayonaise) compounded with a rather righteous case of giardia. Emily is still in Africa and working on wrapping up her various projects there. She's building a school, working with a tailor's collective and empowering native girls. She comes home in January. Our parents, journeyied to Lome in November and spent two weeks living in Dzogbegan. They didn't do quite as much travelling in country, but developed stronger relationships with the people of Danyi. Furthermore, they were there during the hot season and thus we had rather different experiences. I am glad to be back in America and see more clearly now the strengths and weaknesses of the society we live in.
Rolled into Dapaong in the mid-afternoon to a full house of PC people. The rain started up in earnest (for the nth time) and we settled in. EFD ran work-related errands while I played Scrabble. Then out for dinner, beer and ice-cream (!) with the gang.
Reconcidering our options, we called home. Mom and Dad took the news pretty calmly and in fact have had their shots.
Everything is on hold. E did some of my laundry and I constructed some clothes lines. We sat and read and at about 3 went out to shop and eat. Failed to find pagnes until, after consulting the ingame ladies, we were taken to a house and shown a number of models. I got a really ugly but surpassingly cool lizard one for myself and a psychodelic pattern for Robin. A nice long real meal at the Solidarite of chicken sandwiches and fries (real fries, sort of). Back to home base to read, watch the bats and chat with Janine who is on her way to Ghana. Unless the border is closed.
So we packed up and left. Sunny weather and hot temperatures marked our ride which was fortunate as our otherwise stellar tixi had no windows. Or rather no glass in the windos.
We arrived in Lome with some fanfare at around 1pm. Taxis took us to the bureau and we relaxed.
Lunch (expensive) was had at the Hamburger House--actual approximations to real hamburgers. My treat. Then we wandered the Marche in search of the flying-bird and sheaves-of-wheat pagnes. I remember now why I hate this city; all of the bad parts of Togolese society with few of the redeeming parts.
We met up with [a PCV] and her brother Randall (who apparently I've emailed) and it turns out he's flying out today as well. Great, a comrade in arms!
Rushed around, packed, unpacked, packed again and finally
Flying Northwestern back to Dulles was accomplished without too much incident though I can scarcely say I was feeling at my peak. I didn't put up a fight when the US Customs people confiscated my ingame and asked pointed questions about my other produce. 26 hours after leaving Lome, I staggered from plane to bus to train to train to taxi. By the time I staggered in the front door of Juniper Road and collapsed on the couch I was definitely feeling marginally alive and ready to sleep for about a week.
The scales said I had dropped 20 pounds over the trip (which is almost unheard of for me) and everyone commented on my rather gaunt appearance. A week was spent in NH under the loving care of my parents as I regained strength, recounted experiences, and waited for my photos to be processed.
Glossary:
Maps and Links to Togo-related Stuff
Map lifted shamelessly from Microsoft Encarta and touched up a bit.
Some Togo-related Links