Okay, friends, I am very sorry to be late in posting most of these good wishes, but getting the internet in Togo is like trying to glean news of the wizarding world during a summer with the Dursleys. Know that I was thinking good things on the appropriate day.
Congratulations to Carl L., who finished his ACE program. Whatever will you do with all the free time?
Happy Birthday to Michael, who turned seven. First grade is going to be awesome.
Duncan, enjoy nine. It's your last year to have sole right to the front seat.
John C., I know the party couldn't have been fun without me there to give you inappropriate cards in front of Nana, but I hope you struggled through.
Liam, if you tell girls it's your birthday, they will think you are even cooler.
Seth, if you tell girls it's your birthday, they will still not think you are cool, but you might get a pity kiss.
Calvin, Annie, and John are all two years old within three weeks of each other. Happy birthday to my three favorite not-quite-babies-anymore.
Now, working in advance, an early happy birthday to Gracie, Lauren, Karen, and Kathy SC. I hope your parties are all awesome and involve running water.
Also, an early happy birthday to my Flounder who will turn six next week and who started Kindergarten just a few days ago. Big day.
Finally, a big congratulations to Teresa and Joe M. on their new son Luke James. I can't wait to see pictures.
Friday, August 28, 2009
It's the Little Things
So after posting about attending a birth, it’s hard to think anything else will be very interesting, but several people have asked me about my house and things like that, so I’ll try to give you an idea of my living situation. I have a house with two rooms, each about ten by twelve feet. Right now, there is nothing in it except my bike, but I ordered some furniture during my visit, so I’m hoping it will be ready by the time I get back. One room will be for sitting and cooking, and the other will be my bedroom. A fun fact about the place is that the doorways are about five feet tall, so I have a lovely bruise on my face from running into them. Several times. When I worked at Just Goods, we had these really cute West African dresses, and it seemed like every woman who came in tried them on, but no one ever bought them. My boss and I thought this was really weird, so one slow Tuesday, I tried one on, and we realized that they were made for someone who was four and a half feet tall. I’m slowly realizing that they were made for the women of Togo. Every time I walk into my house, I feel like Snow White.
Another fun fact is that my latrine is not yet finished. Now, I hate to be picky about things, but this did present a bit of a problem. I am not above peeing in the shower (a concrete slab and a bucket outside), but eventually I knew I was going to have to find a place to poo. Fortunately for me, on my second day in village, two nearby volunteers came to welcome me, and the first thing they said was, “Your latrine isn’t finished. Where are you pooping?!” I told you, talking about poop is something volunteers seem to love. I told them I hadn’t yet, and they said they would come up with a solution for me. This was welcome news, and I figured they would find a neighbor whose latrine I could share for the week, so when they walked around my house once and came back, I was surprised that the solution had come so quickly. Of course, the solution was not quite what I had expected. They said, “Wait until night and use your head torch dig a hole behind your house. Then, turn off the light and poop in the hole, and use your light again to fill in the hole.” I said, “I am SO in the Peace Corps right now.”
Also fun is the lack of cell phone reception. If I walk about fifteen minutes out of town to the middle school, I can kind of find it sometimes, but it’s sketchy. My nearest internet is in Kara, which is one of the biggest cities in Togo and is about 70k from me. Now, I know that sounds like a forty-five minute car ride, but trust me, it isn’t. You have to find a car leaving my village (which is possible two days a week) going to a nearby village, where you have to get out and find another car going to Kara. Once you find the car, you have to find a way to sit down inside it. This is harder than it sounds because a van made to hold eight people usually has something closer to twelve adults, ten children, a few fifty pound bags of charcoal and several goats and chickens. This is not an exaggeration. One woman had a puppy in a plastic bag, and another woman vomited into her hand and wiped it on my friend’s shirt. It’s also something close to six thousand degrees inside the car, and the roads are worse than on The Island Which Must Not Be Named (Sicily, for anyone who is not Ian). All told, it’s a lot what I imagine the womb must be like. With a Siamese twin. I sent a request to the med unit for more nausea medication. And some Valium.
Another fun fact is that my latrine is not yet finished. Now, I hate to be picky about things, but this did present a bit of a problem. I am not above peeing in the shower (a concrete slab and a bucket outside), but eventually I knew I was going to have to find a place to poo. Fortunately for me, on my second day in village, two nearby volunteers came to welcome me, and the first thing they said was, “Your latrine isn’t finished. Where are you pooping?!” I told you, talking about poop is something volunteers seem to love. I told them I hadn’t yet, and they said they would come up with a solution for me. This was welcome news, and I figured they would find a neighbor whose latrine I could share for the week, so when they walked around my house once and came back, I was surprised that the solution had come so quickly. Of course, the solution was not quite what I had expected. They said, “Wait until night and use your head torch dig a hole behind your house. Then, turn off the light and poop in the hole, and use your light again to fill in the hole.” I said, “I am SO in the Peace Corps right now.”
Also fun is the lack of cell phone reception. If I walk about fifteen minutes out of town to the middle school, I can kind of find it sometimes, but it’s sketchy. My nearest internet is in Kara, which is one of the biggest cities in Togo and is about 70k from me. Now, I know that sounds like a forty-five minute car ride, but trust me, it isn’t. You have to find a car leaving my village (which is possible two days a week) going to a nearby village, where you have to get out and find another car going to Kara. Once you find the car, you have to find a way to sit down inside it. This is harder than it sounds because a van made to hold eight people usually has something closer to twelve adults, ten children, a few fifty pound bags of charcoal and several goats and chickens. This is not an exaggeration. One woman had a puppy in a plastic bag, and another woman vomited into her hand and wiped it on my friend’s shirt. It’s also something close to six thousand degrees inside the car, and the roads are worse than on The Island Which Must Not Be Named (Sicily, for anyone who is not Ian). All told, it’s a lot what I imagine the womb must be like. With a Siamese twin. I sent a request to the med unit for more nausea medication. And some Valium.
Mini Me
It’s been awhile since I’ve been able to get to the internets, so my apologies for the datedness of these posts, but about five weeks ago, I got to spend a week in Namon, which will by my home for the next two years. I feels like I met just about everyone in the village. Of course, I can’t really remember any names. I hope that will come. Actually, remembering names became a bit of an issue as one of Togolaise people’s favorite things to do is give you a new name in their local language, and despite being told several times, I could never quite call my new name to mind when meeting people. I can’t tell you how embarrassing it is to have to lean over to the person beside you and whisper furtively, “What’s my name again?” I feel like an amnesiac soap opera character. The name is Opicha, which roughly translates to “newest wife in the family.” Given the delicacy of cross cultural attitudes surrounding marriage, it was difficult for me to express my distaste at this christening, but I was less than thrilled. My hope is that everyone else will have as much trouble remembering it as I did, and they’ll just give me a new one when I get back. Until then, I think I’ll just pretend not to know people are talking to me. That should work.
Aside from eating several meals a day at various people’s houses, which, in addition to drinking a lot of tchouk, took up a large part of each day, I did begin to do some actual work. My homologue is a midwife, so I went with her to the dispensaire (sort of like a clinic) to help with the baby weighing they do every Monday. This was interesting not only for purposes of understanding the system I will be a part of but also in gaining insight into the expectations of my homologue, who kept saying things like, “On Thursdays, we do vaccinations. You can start administering those right away, but it will be a few weeks before you are ready to deliver a baby.” Despite having been told by Peace Corps (and, repeatedly, me) that I have absolutely no medical training, she seems to believe that I am a kind of apprentice for her and should therefore leave with a comfortable knowledge of how to perform minor surgeries. This should be no problem what with my BA in English and Gender Studies.
The first day went smoothly enough. I helped weigh and measure all of the babies and give out enriched flour to the ones who were malnourished. Despite the fact that they do this once a week, the process is far from efficient, so there is a lot of standing around listening to crying babies, but I think it really went as well as could be expected. The second day, however, we were doing prenatal visits. This mostly involves weighing each woman, measuring her stomach, and listening for the baby’s heartbeat. I knew we had twenty visits scheduled for that day, so when I got to there, I was surprised to find no one waiting. I sat looking at the clinic’s records for nearly an hour, and no one showed up. I asked my homologue why no one was coming, and she looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “It’s raining.” Ah, yes. I mean, it wasn’t really raining, but it was certainly cloudy, and there was a drizzle from time to time. Clearly, one shouldn’t venture out of doors. I think Namon is the anti-London.
Shortly after that, a young woman did arrive, and my homologue came to get me. She said, “Come quickly. She’s going to give birth, and you can watch.” I felt a little bit of uneasiness for the woman’s privacy, but I went and kind of stood in the corner. This would not do for my homologue. She made me come stand right next to her, saying, “How will you know how to do a birth if you don’t watch properly?” I said, “I am not a doctor. I will not be birthing babies..” She said, “Put your hand inside, and you can feel the head.” I told her that under no circumstances would I be putting my hand in another woman’s vagina against her will. She sighed resignedly. And then it happened. After about ten minutes of labor, the woman gave birth. Apparently, there is a local belief that if you scream during labor, it will alert the evil spirits that there is a vulnerable baby, but if you can keep quiet, they won’t know what’s going on, and the baby will be safe. The woman never made a sound. When the baby was born, my homologue handed her to me while she cut the umbilical cord, and I wrapped her up in a cloth. Then they named the baby Emily. It was unreal.
Aside from eating several meals a day at various people’s houses, which, in addition to drinking a lot of tchouk, took up a large part of each day, I did begin to do some actual work. My homologue is a midwife, so I went with her to the dispensaire (sort of like a clinic) to help with the baby weighing they do every Monday. This was interesting not only for purposes of understanding the system I will be a part of but also in gaining insight into the expectations of my homologue, who kept saying things like, “On Thursdays, we do vaccinations. You can start administering those right away, but it will be a few weeks before you are ready to deliver a baby.” Despite having been told by Peace Corps (and, repeatedly, me) that I have absolutely no medical training, she seems to believe that I am a kind of apprentice for her and should therefore leave with a comfortable knowledge of how to perform minor surgeries. This should be no problem what with my BA in English and Gender Studies.
The first day went smoothly enough. I helped weigh and measure all of the babies and give out enriched flour to the ones who were malnourished. Despite the fact that they do this once a week, the process is far from efficient, so there is a lot of standing around listening to crying babies, but I think it really went as well as could be expected. The second day, however, we were doing prenatal visits. This mostly involves weighing each woman, measuring her stomach, and listening for the baby’s heartbeat. I knew we had twenty visits scheduled for that day, so when I got to there, I was surprised to find no one waiting. I sat looking at the clinic’s records for nearly an hour, and no one showed up. I asked my homologue why no one was coming, and she looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “It’s raining.” Ah, yes. I mean, it wasn’t really raining, but it was certainly cloudy, and there was a drizzle from time to time. Clearly, one shouldn’t venture out of doors. I think Namon is the anti-London.
Shortly after that, a young woman did arrive, and my homologue came to get me. She said, “Come quickly. She’s going to give birth, and you can watch.” I felt a little bit of uneasiness for the woman’s privacy, but I went and kind of stood in the corner. This would not do for my homologue. She made me come stand right next to her, saying, “How will you know how to do a birth if you don’t watch properly?” I said, “I am not a doctor. I will not be birthing babies..” She said, “Put your hand inside, and you can feel the head.” I told her that under no circumstances would I be putting my hand in another woman’s vagina against her will. She sighed resignedly. And then it happened. After about ten minutes of labor, the woman gave birth. Apparently, there is a local belief that if you scream during labor, it will alert the evil spirits that there is a vulnerable baby, but if you can keep quiet, they won’t know what’s going on, and the baby will be safe. The woman never made a sound. When the baby was born, my homologue handed her to me while she cut the umbilical cord, and I wrapped her up in a cloth. Then they named the baby Emily. It was unreal.
The New Andy McShane in My Life
Well, it was only a matter of time. Those of you who are familiar with the Notre Dame Liturgical Choir know just how much time of my life it consumed during my undergraduate career. I think my friend Maureen put it best when she said, “Singing with the choir is great…as long as you’re ready for it to be your only extra-curricular activity...no, really, the only one.” As a result, a lot of the stories I find myself telling these days begin, “One time, on choir tour…” a commencement only slightly less nerdy than band camp. So when my friend Katie’s host mother recruited her to sing on Sunday mornings at the Catholic church in town, Katie immediately came to me and demanded my support in this endeavor.
I know I have told some of you about church here, so you’ll have to forgive me for repeating myself, but it really is something. When I arrived, one of the first questions my host family asked me was whether I was Catholic. If I had know the consequences of answering that question honestly, I would almost certainly have lied. The first Saturday night, the conversation with my host mother went something like this. “Emily, tomorrow is the day of church, so it will not be necessary for you to sleep and sleep in the morning, as is your habit.” At this point, I had once slept as late as 6:15. For someone who used regularly to complain about 10am mass, this was unwelcome news. Mass was to begin at 6:30, so we needed to be dressed, fed, and ready to leave by 6:10. Ever the model of cultural exchange, I assured her that this wouldn’t be a problem, and I presented myself, dressed in my Sunday best promptly at 6:20. No one else was dressed, and no one was hurrying. (These are my kind of people.) We finally left the house at about 7:00 and made it to church in time for the second reading. This should have been my first hint that mass in Africa is not determined by a fifty-nine minute digital clock. Mass would take roughly three hours. This wouldn’t have been so bad, given the expanse of unplanned Sunday time, but the entire mass was in Ewe, the local language. After ten weeks in this village, I can understand Good morning, Good afternoon, I will see you tomorrow, See you soon, Goat, Sheep, Bicycle, Notebook, Hair, School, and the ever popular, “I haven’t seen you since yesterday. I am glad you woke up this morning,” which actually is how most people greet one another here. While a good start, these proficiencies don’t tend to allow me to fully follow the service. Someone pointed out to me that this is how people must have felt when mass was in Latin.
After my first experience, it occurred to me that my Sunday mornings might be best spend NOT sleeping in the back pew and making mental to-do lists, but when I raised the idea of opting out, my host mother informed me that not only she but also Jesus himself would see that I hadn’t gone, and they both would be deeply saddened. Skipping was not an option. Given all that, the possibility of singing with the choir seemed like a good idea. At least it would give me something to focus on. The swaying here is, in itself, an art that will take me some time to master. So I went to the rehearsal which began promptly fifteen minutes behind schedule, and though there were plenty of differences from the choral singing in my past, it was comforting to know that some things are true across cultures. There were not enough men to balance the women, the sopranos had a sense of superiority though they were slightly flat most of the time, and the sopranos and altos were constantly blaming one another for sections which did not go smoothly, and there was no sharing music (though this was, of course, because there was no written music at all). Given all that (and the double language barrier), Katie and I spent most of the time humming and perfecting the integral sway/clap motion. Fortunately for us, the offertory hymn, “Joy to the World,” was familiar (if slightly out of place in July), so we were mostly able to keep up on at least one piece. This anomaly, coupled with being slightly behind and whispering in the back made me feel right at home. The best part for me, however, was that the director, when speaking to an audience of Ewe people in a French speaking country began each piece with “One, two, GO!” which really isn’t all that different from “bah, tih, tah, TYA!” Good times.
I know I have told some of you about church here, so you’ll have to forgive me for repeating myself, but it really is something. When I arrived, one of the first questions my host family asked me was whether I was Catholic. If I had know the consequences of answering that question honestly, I would almost certainly have lied. The first Saturday night, the conversation with my host mother went something like this. “Emily, tomorrow is the day of church, so it will not be necessary for you to sleep and sleep in the morning, as is your habit.” At this point, I had once slept as late as 6:15. For someone who used regularly to complain about 10am mass, this was unwelcome news. Mass was to begin at 6:30, so we needed to be dressed, fed, and ready to leave by 6:10. Ever the model of cultural exchange, I assured her that this wouldn’t be a problem, and I presented myself, dressed in my Sunday best promptly at 6:20. No one else was dressed, and no one was hurrying. (These are my kind of people.) We finally left the house at about 7:00 and made it to church in time for the second reading. This should have been my first hint that mass in Africa is not determined by a fifty-nine minute digital clock. Mass would take roughly three hours. This wouldn’t have been so bad, given the expanse of unplanned Sunday time, but the entire mass was in Ewe, the local language. After ten weeks in this village, I can understand Good morning, Good afternoon, I will see you tomorrow, See you soon, Goat, Sheep, Bicycle, Notebook, Hair, School, and the ever popular, “I haven’t seen you since yesterday. I am glad you woke up this morning,” which actually is how most people greet one another here. While a good start, these proficiencies don’t tend to allow me to fully follow the service. Someone pointed out to me that this is how people must have felt when mass was in Latin.
After my first experience, it occurred to me that my Sunday mornings might be best spend NOT sleeping in the back pew and making mental to-do lists, but when I raised the idea of opting out, my host mother informed me that not only she but also Jesus himself would see that I hadn’t gone, and they both would be deeply saddened. Skipping was not an option. Given all that, the possibility of singing with the choir seemed like a good idea. At least it would give me something to focus on. The swaying here is, in itself, an art that will take me some time to master. So I went to the rehearsal which began promptly fifteen minutes behind schedule, and though there were plenty of differences from the choral singing in my past, it was comforting to know that some things are true across cultures. There were not enough men to balance the women, the sopranos had a sense of superiority though they were slightly flat most of the time, and the sopranos and altos were constantly blaming one another for sections which did not go smoothly, and there was no sharing music (though this was, of course, because there was no written music at all). Given all that (and the double language barrier), Katie and I spent most of the time humming and perfecting the integral sway/clap motion. Fortunately for us, the offertory hymn, “Joy to the World,” was familiar (if slightly out of place in July), so we were mostly able to keep up on at least one piece. This anomaly, coupled with being slightly behind and whispering in the back made me feel right at home. The best part for me, however, was that the director, when speaking to an audience of Ewe people in a French speaking country began each piece with “One, two, GO!” which really isn’t all that different from “bah, tih, tah, TYA!” Good times.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Congratulations Grammy and Papa!
Today my grandparents are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. I wish I could be there, but know that I love you both and that you are in my thoughts. Thanks for being so wonderful.
The internet has been sketchy, but I promise real posts soon.
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