My Still Life

I'm here in Lome for a week. Hope you enjoy the pictures. I'll try to post again before the end of the week. Peace.


The big brown thing is snake liver. It was pretty tasty, but I don't recommend snake skin. A little chewy, yet crunchy at the same time, plus the smell was pretty repulsive

Koliko: Togolese french fries, served best with a hot pepper sauce.

Watch your step!

Another enormously thick snake caught near my village.

Remember: Don't stray from trails.

Picture doesn't do this view justice, but Northern Togo is beautifully expansive with green grassy rolling hills for miles in every direction.

My friends and I celebrating a little. We had three birthdays in a one week so we had a joint celebration.

Fufu with peanut sauce

Kids here go crazy for balloons. (note to mom: please send more balloons)

My 25th birthday. Despite the smile, reaching a quarter century was depressing. My quarter life crisis was pretty brutal, but I got through it with boxed red wine and a few good friends.

I am getting doused with baby powder. They cake it all over themselves and then dance. At one point a group of Togolese men lifted me up on their shoulders and danced around. My friends didn't get a picture of this because they were "laughing too damn hard."

Persed lips, hunched back, the dorky thumbs up: That is the official lame white man dance.

Wrestling at the Evela Festival

Evela Wrestling Festival. They hang dogs from trees and then eat them later.

Picking insects off my leg

He's searching for bananas down my shirt.

He was adorable, but a little scary. They got some sharp teeth.

I fulfilled one of my main PC goals: Befriend a monkey.

Some young campers selling goods they made at the market.

My cabin. The Lionkillers!

Jake and James hanging out watching the campers at the market.

My cabin's banner they made. We were known as the Lionkillers!

Camp Espoir 2009: The Camp we run for AIDS orphans. It was an awesome week. Here is everyone dancing around a campfire.

Eating Dog and Cat

Author's note: I decided to make the title to this post as straightforward as possible so you know what you're getting into. Next month I travel to Lome where I will post lots of pictures with captions. I promise!

Eating Dog

The Evela wrestling festival takes place every summer in Kabye villages around Togo. The Kabye people are an ethnic group from the North, known to sometimes eat dog. So when I went to visit this year’s festival in my friend’s village, I was prepared to try it. In the morning, the young men douse themselves in talcum powder and wrestle in a giant circle. On the outside of the circle, and in trees scattered around the village, hang dead dogs. Strung up by their necks, the dogs dangle lifelessly with their tongues hanging out of their mouths. (Pictures to come soon) I watch the men go through the same routines they do with goats. Light a fire. Burn off the hair. Cut off the head. Place burnt head on stake. Make dog-kebobs.

I enter a straw hut with my friends Jocelyn and Nicole, two other PC volunteers who have already made the decision not to try it. But I have been talking for weeks about how I was going to try dog at this festival, so I couldn’t back out at this point. As I take my first bite, my friends note how I am noticeably shaking. I struggle to keep a steady hand as I pop the gristly morsel into my mouth. While I chewed my mind was bombarded with visions of all the dogs I have ever had. Kacy chasing the tennis ball. Abby fogging up the glass on our front door. As I take a second and third piece, and chew through the fat and the pieces of skin with fur still attached, I try to pinpoint the flavor. Not quite chicken but not quite beef. Then I realize, and maybe this is my mind playing tricks on me, the meat tastes exactly how a dog’s breath smells. I gag on the fourth piece. I take two shots of Sodabe and decide I’m done here.

Eating Cat

I had a cat, although it wasn’t technically just my cat. My neighbors had a cat when I moved in, and he often slept on my porch or on my lap as I read, purring as I scratched him behind the ears. Sometimes I fed him scraps of rice or spaghetti and he would hunt and kill mice in my latrine. We had a pleasant agreement. Not anymore though. The cat, who we affectionately called Pousse, is dead now. I ate him. I was tricked into eating my friend, thereby breaking the long standing rule most of us Americans live by:

ONCE THOUGH PETTETH AN ANIMAL, THOU SHALT NEVER EATETH IT.

The story: My neighbor, Pastor, had a brother visiting from the city. Being it a special occasion, the decided to kill a cat and eat a cat, not a usual practice in my village. I emerge from my house one morning and find them preparing it. I believe they have bought a cat from someone. I am a little weary and still sleepy, but eventually convince me to try some of this delicious cat. And it really is delicious. The woman has prepared it crispy on the outside and moist on the inside. It’s like fried chicken with a dash of hot pepper sauce on it. I eat a leg, the liver, and a little brain. I politely refuse the eyeball.

My other neighbor Matthias, chooses not to eat the cat, because it is his friend. I feel to grasp the meaning of this statement, thinking he means he doesn’t eat cat at all, which is odd since I often see him eat all other kinds of animals. Marie, his wife, seems particularly elated about eating cat this morning; I never knew she liked cat so much, but she’s from Northern Togo where eating this stuff is more common.

Later that day as I eat with Marie and Matthias, I notice Pousse is not around begging for scraps like he usually is. Marie has always hated Pousse, hitting him when he whines, But Matthias and I always shield him from her and let a little rice or fufu fall off our plates for Pousse to eat. We are the only two people in the compound that show any time of affection toward the cat. I assume the cat is off sleeping somewhere or dutifully killing mice in my shower area.

24 hours later I am eating dinner with my neighbors again. Pousse’s cries for food once again are unheard. In my mind, I think, god I wonder Pousse has run off……..my thought trails off and the reality hits me. Our cat is missing. Matthias refused to eat cat yesterday because it is his friend. Marie was thrilled that we were eating cat yesterday. My other neighbor, the Pastor conveniently found a cat to kill and eat. I was like the detective in the last ten minutes of The Usual Suspects, slowly piecing together all the parts of the story from the giant bulletin board in my brain. I had to know with certainty.

Uh Matthias. You know that cat I ate yesterday.
Yeah.
Was that the cat that lived here?
Huh?
The cat the lived here in this compound, that we fed and petted everyday?
Yeah.
I-I thought it was a different cat.
It doesn’t matter.
But that cat was my friend. I don’t want to eat my friend!
It was mature. And everyone else wanted to eat it so I couldn’t say no.
But even so, I betrayed that cat. He was my friend, and I ate his brain.
It’s not a big deal.
Je ne suis pas content!
Mattias and I eventually decide we must buy a new cat, and I suggest a dog as well. Only this time, no eating the compound pets!

Obviously, I would never eat dog or cat in the United States. But there is the phrase, “cultural relativity,” I always try to keep in mind when I try new things over here. Coming to Togo, I vowed to eat anything once, as long as I didn’t have to know the animal beforehand, a rule I clearly broke when I ate my cat. The Togolese can keep eating dogs and cats every year if they want. To many of them, meat is meat, protein is protein. And I understand and I respect that, but that doesn’t mean I’ll do it again.

My Life in Photos

I'm here in Lome editing the volunteer magazine this week so I have access to free fast internet. I hope you enjoy these photos. I have tried to include a mix of both work photos and fun photos, so all you back home don't think I'm either working too hard or having too much fun.

Hopefully, I'll have time for another post this week before I go back to village, so stay tuned.


The Primary School in my village

A classroom, some have desks, other's don't. I'm looking in to what I can do about this.

My Kitchen

This storm hit our beach party the day after we swore in last december.

My bedroom

The view from atop Mount Agou, looking down on my training village Agou Nyogbo

Compost Bin I created in an attempt to improve soil quality in my village

Tree Nursery

One of the main purposes of Peace Corps is cross-culturalization. I thought long and hard one day about the staples of American cultures, and how best to integrate those into Togolese culture. I decided the only logically hilarious thing to do was to take pagne, colorful African fabric, and create overalls, the one-piece of choice of many American farmers and blue-collar workers. I bought pagne, went to a local seamstress, and embarrassingly described and drew pictures of what overalls look like.

"It's all one piece," I would say to her as she stared at me confused.

"With straps, like this," I said, pretending to bring them over my shoulder.

"And they connect here, with a button!"

A week later, I received my overalls, and unveiled them at a volunteer party. This picture is me jammin on my harmonica. Notice my Barack Obama jersey underneath, I think that adds a nice touch.


My closest PC neighbors and I taking a break from village life

The view from atop the mountain next to my village

A door to a church on top of Mount Agou, the tallest peak in Togo

My garden, on planting day, right now I have romano beans, zuchinni, and sunflowers, with hopefully carrots, green beans and butternut squash still to come.

Looking down the street from my house toward the center of town

My adorable neighbor Joshua

The Audacity of What I Wear

Simply: The greatest purchase I've ever made.

How I Spent My May Day

Waahhhhhh Wahhhhh Wahhhhh!!!!!!!



6:17 AM



(Open eyes. What's that sound? A child crying or a goat dying? Study the noise. Listen.)



Living here is like living on a farm. At first the smells and sounds of the animals are obnoxious, but eventually they become a part of your life and you learn to live with them. I've even taught myself to sleep through the Rooster's 5 AM wake up call every morning. The goat, however, can still completely annoy the hell out me. They really are dirty, smelly, dumb, obnoxious animals (not even the young ones are cute). Which is why I enjoy holidays and specials occasions so much in Togo. Not because we get to drink a lot, although that can have its perks, but mostly because we eat goat. Despite my complaints about them; they really do taste good. However, the sound of a goat being slaughtered is truly frightening because it sounds so eerily like a child crying bloody murder.



6:18 AM

(That sound is right outside my window. Friggin kids! It's too early for this kids! Wait.....Listen.)


Waahhhhhh Wahhhhhhh Waaaaaaaa-uch uck (choke) (gurgle)


(Wait a sec. That's no child. That's a goat being killed! It must be a holiday! I'm eatin goat today!)


6:22 AM

Bonjour Marie!

Ah Bonjour Grant! Happy Holidays. Mathias is killing a goat in the backyard. Go back and watch.

Ok.


Bonjour Mathias!

Grant bonjour! Today is le jour du travailleur.

Oh like Labor Day. We have a day like this in America. So you're eating goat I see.


The dead goat has now been lit on fire and placed on two large logs. As it burns, two other guys turn it with sticks and scrape all the hair off with dull knives. This is done in preparation of dressing the animal.


7:28 AM


So how's the goat coming along, Mathias?

Good.


Mathias stands up his hand deep into the goats lower intestines. Slowly, he scoops outs undigested goat crap from the long cylindrical entrails, then washes them, poorly.


Oh yeah. My oatmeal is sittin real well right now.

What's that, Grant?

I'm going to come back later.

9:51 AM

Grant! Vien ici! Mangez!

Oh the goat's ready.

I'm staring at a giant bowl of what looks like brown soup with vegetables and....ground beef? Plus a lot of goat intestines. Those are easily identifiable being swirled around with a spoon by one of the five men sitting around the small wooden table. I sit down, am poured a tall friendly glass of sodobe, or as the the Togolese sometimes call it, L'eau de vie (the water of life). I grab a spoon, maneuver it around the goat intestines and take a scoop of ground beef. I slurp down what looks like taco meat, and then think, wait, how could they possibly have ground beef?

Uh, What is this I'm eating?

Blood.

Uh, I'm sorry, blood?

Yes. In Togo we eat everything.

But this can't be blood. This is not a liquid.

It is cooked. When we cook it, it clots. It becomes chunky.

(Pause)

Grant, are you all right?

Yeah. Please pass the intestines....And is that the heart?

Yes.

Oh, I wanna eat that goat's heart.

The heart's good.

I'm gonna need more water of life.

Of Course!

Have you guys ever seen that show Fear Factor?

12:30 PM

Lunch is served. A heaping mound of fufu is put in front of me. Fufu is pounded manioc, I used to be able to eat it until right around Christmas time I was sick for about a month from a steady diet of fufu and pates (fufu's corn equivalent). Now that sight and smell of it churns my stomach. Some volunteers eat fufu everyday, but for me, it can only be described as trying to choke down wet play-dough (although the play-dough's probably healthier). Coiled around the base of the fufu mound lie goat intestines.

Grant. Take this beer. it's not cold, sorry.

It's ok. (I love warm dark beer when it's ninety degrees outside). Thank you.

And wine? And Sodobe?

Uh no thanks, I need to slow down.

12:55 PM

More wine, Grant?

Hell Yeah! And where's the sodobe? Hmmm, bon goat......thanks aga....oh what are you guys doing!?!

I witness all three men at my table mix wine, sodobe and beer together in one glass. This is not uncommon in Togo, I often witness the coke-beer combination at other social events as well.

This is good! You want to try.

No Thanks. I don't like mixing them.

They don't mix them all in America?

No. We never mix those things together.......hmmmm well maybe in college.

2:03 PM

Grant. We're going to a wedding. We must pay our respects.

But I gotta let my goat heart settle.

Let's go!

2:21 PM

Grant, more tchouke?

Tchouke is millet beer. It is drank out of giant calabashes all over Togo. I admit I love tchouke and rarely turn it down. It is a bit like a spiced cider, kinda sweet, but a bit gritty. It's made in giant plastic bins. Different ethnic groups brew different types; it's all pretty similar but it's "goodness" is definitely best enjoyed in moderation. Two calabashes of strong tchouke makes me a bit, ummm, "talkative."

Yes, Please.

Are you going to the soccer game later, Grant?

Soccer game? Yeah, maybe I'll play in it.

Oh good. More Tchouke?

Yes, Please.

The mother of the bride dances before me. Men sit happily beside me, downing tchouke. Spirits are high, like the sun in the sky bearing down on the back of my neck. My stomach hurts

6:36 PM

Grant! Grant! Are you home?

(Open eyes. What's that sound. My neighbor calling me? Ok. Get up, go outside.)

Hey, good evening.

You missed the soccer game.

Sorry, I, uh, fell asleep after the wedding.

You drank too much.

Uh, a little.

Do you want some pates?

No, Thanks.

OK. Tomorrow, we party again. This goes all weekend.

My head hurts.

The Wedding

About thirty or forty volunteers descended upon Agou Nyogbo, my training village, this past weekend for a volunteer wedding. Two second year volunteers were doing the whole traditional Togolese wedding. It was a pretty awesome time and a huge party! We all drank too much sodobe, which is distilled palm wine, resembles grain alcohol, and tastes like silver polish. (Although after being given a shot of gin the same night, after a side by side comparison, I've concluded that gin is still worse). We all paraded from the groom's house to the bride's house and all had a big ceremony/dance party in the process.

Of course, getting to the wedding meant traveling in a bush taxi. I was at least traveling with other american volunteers making it more bearable, but some problems still arise. Because I am tall drivers like to put me in the front seat of a five seater. But there aren't just five people put in these automobiles, sometimes seven or eight or even nine people get to squeeze in, and for hours on end! My favorite position would have to be sitting on the emergency brake straddling the clutch. Every time the driver shifts he briefly gropes my inner thigh. First Third and Fifth gear aren't as bad, but when he puts in second or fourth, the stick trembles dangerously close to my....um..."special" area. (I pray to god he never has to put it in reverse). Basically, a bush taxi ride becomes one giant invasion of personal space. Add that to the fact that I constantly lose feeling in my legs which makes me immediately fall over upon exiting the vehicle. Plus I often have to dodge poop and pee from the crying infants nestled against my shoulder while the goat behind "baaah's" in my ear every five seconds, and am constantly fearful of breakdowns, potholes, jagged metal corners digging into my butt and lingering near my temple, and the possibility of a fatal head-on collision because my idiot driver keeps passing trucks on blind curves. Good times.

Here are a few pictures from the wedding and one other, the computer is running slow today so this is it for now.
My village, Kamina, in the distance
Yep. My face is lookin a bit thinner nowadays.

The parade of people

My friends dancing in the parade. I was shakin my thang as well, of course.

The bride, there in the middle

Here are a few pictures from the wedding and a few more from village.

The Groom

Some other updates and random thoughts:

~I went to the hospital to test my stool last week. I was fairly positive I had parasites but the results were negative, so I guess my body just hates me. It might be because I am eating more with neighbors and the Togolese cook with A LOT of oil. But it's so good. Black Eyed Peas with red oil and onions and gari (which is crush manioc and resembles grape nuts, added to the beans for crunch and flavor) Hmmm, plus Watchee is good, which is the rice and bean combo, with oil and onion, and crushed red pepper. Or rice with peanut sauce (with oil and onion of course) is another good meal.

~I ate something strange a fee weeks ago. In french, it was called 'la goutie' which doesn't exist in any french/english dictionary I have found, but from the description my friends in village gave me, it sounds like some sort of prairie dog/ground hog. Anyway it was really good and the meat quite tender.

~I am going to begin a world map project for the students. Kids don't have maps of the world to look at so I am going to paint a huge world map mural on the side of the school to teach them about geography. It should be a cool project and I hope the kids get into it and help out a lot.

~I have been selected as an editor for our publication called "Farm to Market." It is the Peace Corps Volunteer created Newsletter that circulates around the country and other countries in West Africa. Volunteers submit stories to it and it comes out once a quarter. So three other editors and I get to go to Lome once a quarter for a few days to put together the publication so that should be a lot of fun, and our whole trip is reimbursed, so we can live it up in Lome.

~Living in Africa makes you totally redefine "healthy" and "sanitary." Am I healthy? Well sure by Togo standards. Is that meat on a stick sanitary? I'm buying it from a man cooking over a fire in an old oil drum. I'm sure I won't regret eating this later. It is pretty funny to evaluate how your standards change after being here for awhile. There are only so many precautions one can take. Besides, street food tastes goooood. And I need my protein.

~Thank You to all who have sent letters, packages and anything else. It means a lot. I hope I receive them all but unfortunately it is inevitable that a few will be "lost" to the Togolese postal service