Le Champ

I went to the champ (farm) this week.  Or rather, a few hours Wednesday morning.  My good friend here in LT, Hortense, was just given a small piece of land (about the size of a basketball court) and she needed help tilling the weeds so she could plant beans.  Sure, I’ll help, I said, disregarding the hour of pilates I had just done and was already beginning to feel in my shoulders and back.  I’ve helped dig yam piles, but I’ve never really ‘gone to the champ,’ as does every single person here this time of year.  I wanted to be like everyone else; I wanted to prove a white girl could work too. 

We marched off from my house around 8 that morning (Hortense let me sleep in) machete’s in hand.  

My pride was big enough to float us to the farm, wherever it was.  As we passed village people they not only gave Hortense a hard time for going to the farm (remember, everyone knows where everyone goes here – imagining telling all the neighbors on your street every time you leave to go somewhere, and then them asking how the store or wherever was, every.single.time.) as a girl but then they really had a laugh when they saw me trailing behind. A WHITE GIRL is going to work in the farm? Hortense laughs this off, she’s used to it.  I unfortunately was much more defensive. 

Hortense led the way through random yards and fields of corn a good two feet taller than me.  I called up to her that my dad always told us never to walk into a field of corn for fear of getting lost; she thought that was funny. (The corn doesn’t get as tall here, nor is it as compact). After twenty minutes we came to this overgrown chunk of land, filled with weeds and wild grasses.  Hortense took off with her machete, making it look so easy, swinging and clearing a path in a matter of minutes.  No problem I thought.  

Twenty minutes later I looked up realize I had covered about a third of the ground Hortense had in the same amount of time.  As we both stood to take a breather, she smiled at me, and I glanced down at my hands, screaming as blisters had formed in several spots and popped at the same time.  What’s worse, she hadn’t even broken a sweat.  I continued on, switching to my left hand and thinking about all those batting lessons my parents paid for in high school were really coming in handy.  I pushed on, insisting I was fine as my left hand started to follow my right in its screaming for a pair of gloves.  As Hortense made her way back over to my section, cleaning up what I missed, I was flooded with childhood memories of mom vacuuming the same spot I had just attempted on our Saturday morning house cleanings.  So interesting that while I’ve come to this place to teach them new things, more often than not, I find myself doing most of the learning.  And usually it’s simple skills young children pick up like learning to walk.

An hour had passed and we had cleared about a third of the plot.  I could go all day, I thought, if it weren’t for these blisters, and the sweat dripping in a constant flow from my every point on my face, and my arms scratching incessantly from those few minutes among the corn rows. Yet again, a new level of being humbled. After two hours, Hortense said we could be done. This is how farm work is done here; little by little.  On the way back, Hortense asked if we even had machines for planting and cultivating our farms.   As I nodded, almost embarrassed, I didn’t have the heart (or the French) to explain the latest GPS technology that guides a lot of farmers’ tractors back home. We walked in silence and I thought about what a contrast our lives were; both young twenty-somethings, but living entirely different lives. I once again gave my silent prayer of thanks to God for being born and raised where I was in the world.

Back home I tended it my wounds, showered and collapsed in my hammock. Who needs pilates anyway? 

Camp Season

I haven’t been home in awhile – that is Lama-Tessi home.  The past three weeks I spent in Pagala, a small town about 2 hours south where Peace Corps has a center equipped with cabins, a dining hall, and lots of meeting spaces.  AKA my home for the summer as it is officially Camp season in Togo! Thankfully, it’s also officially RAINY SEASON and I’m living comfortably these days!  While Pagala has a gross dampness too it (nothing dries- ever) it is nice and cool and there was no trouble sleeping at night. Not like I would have had trouble anyway, I was so exhausted I fought to make it through dinner each night. Not used to days starting at 6 (or before on days I went running) and lasting til 9 or 10 – and full days, entertaining and managing energetic little Togolese rugrats. 

I’d been dealing with this weird stomach thing for a few months and it came to a head the first weekend at Camp.  I’ll spare you the details but let’s just say I’m thankful I had friends there to bucket flush my mess in the toilet when I was too weak, walk stool samples to the hospital and retrieve medicine for me. I didn’t move for a day and I felt the effects for a few days.  Unfortunately that meant I missed the majority of the first week of camp.  Fortunately, we had a good team of PCV’s in place and everything ran smoothly.  Two days of rest and the next round of campers arrived, this time energetic boys wanting to play and play and play. Amazed that they would be up kicking the soccer ball around even before breakfast as I returned from my runs. A couple of them stole my heart and I’ve promised to visit in the fall.

Two more days of rest and then the third week was the training of trainers for another camp PC runs, Camp UNITE for which I will be a counselor for the boys’ students week next week.  While I enjoyed being productive and useful as an organizer for Camp Espoir (first 2 weeks), I appreciated sitting back and not having to stress about to-do lists and putting out fires in the third week. I returned home Saturday, with a bag of damp dirty laundry, exhausted and just wanting to sleep.  I was welcomed by Aposto and lots of kids waving hello as I walked to the market. It felt good to be home.

I’ll leave you with some observations and camp details:

Each morning, campers (aged 10-17) participated in educational sessions led by PCV’s and NGO staff where they learned about their rights, sexual health, the transmission of HIV/AIDS, the importance of balanced nutrition, how to be a good role model and more.  The afternoons were set aside for fun: the Olympics – Camp Espoir style and a pretend market where each cabin got to make and sell small items (think candy, juice, and popcorn) to their peers as a way to practice income generating activity lessons. 

Nightly entertainment kicked off with an “opening ceremony” in which each cabin represented a different country, marching in with their flag and added their flame to the bon fire.  Maybe more special to PCV’s than to campers was the highlight of a marshmallow roast as the finale of the ceremony.  Later in the week, campers young and old came together to put on skits and show off their dancing skills at the nightly talent shows and dance party. 

Meal time was remarked as being the best part of camp by many participants as kids were given the rare chance to eat full, well-balanced meals to their content. This was especially interesting for me to watch, realizing some of these kids have never had a lot of these foods like salad, pineapple and especially not meat at every meal. 

Camp also offered the rare opportunity for catharsis.  Many painful stories of losing parents, learning of their HIV status, being orphaned and treated like outcasts flowed forth during the candle light ceremony held one night.  Tears flowed and campers were given a chance to tell their story in a safe and comforting environment, surrounded by new friends with similar stories. One girl in particular told of her situation living with her aunt who makes fun of her for being HIV positive and basically treats her like a dog; eating whatever is left over after the rest of the family has eaten. 

This candle light ceremony was interesting as it was quite painful especially because Togolese normally don’t talk about their problems, feelings or emotions.  While some NGO partners don’t like this activity as it makes the kids safe, we as PCV’s push for it and sometimes I think it helps us more to understand the grimness of their situations.  One would never know they’ve lost their parents or don’t get enough to eat by visiting camp; kids run around with copious amounts of energy, playing, eating, teasing, getting into a little trouble, and fully exhausting their staff.  It appears that life is good, normal but in the reality, this may be their only chance all year to enjoy a week of carefree fun.  That’s why we keep plugging on.

Home in time for the start of Ramadan and a neighborhood full of fasting Muslims. While I’ve noticed the town seems quieter, I’ve also noticed my host mother is a bit more cranky – you would  be too if you couldn’t have water, I tell myself!  I noticed a change in me, however.  Last year when it was Ramadan, I had only been at post for a few weeks and didn’t really think about it too much, eating and drinking and not really minding to think of the hungry/thirsty people around me.  However, this time around, I’ve noticed myself hiding my water bottle when I know I’m in the company of someone fasting.  I eat my meals in my house so as not to ‘rub it in’ my families face by eating out on my porch.  Interesting to see how perspectives, attitudes and behaviors change. 

90 homes, 16 hours and three days

The past few days have been incredibly productive.  In partnership with multiple international organizations, Peace Corps is conducting a country wide evaluation of the 2011 bed net distribution.  This translates to each volunteer surveying three villages near them.  After a day of training on how to conduct a non-bias, authentic, and legitimate survey with two counter parts we chose from our villages we received our fancy blue ‘survey’ vests and survey books. 

With the week before Camp Espoir, I knew my schedule was light and so I volunteered to do all three villages with my counterparts.  Why not? I’d like to see more of small villages around me.  Thankfully, we didn’t have to battle the weather and it was overcast and cool most of the three mornings. I took notes on my observations to share some highlights:

First up was the village to the south of me, Yara Kabye.  My counterpart (I call her Madame because I can’t pronounce the rest of her name) met me on my porch and was full of the latest gossip concerning these silly surveys.  You see, Madame is a local health agent who was recommended to me by Aposto, but she isn’t who another staff member would have chosen to do the work (and received the pay) and thus there was ugly talk going round. Really? I thought to myself? Why does everything have to be everyone’s business? I wondered if this place would ever advance if it continued to battle petty politics like this. We arrived bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to announce our presence at the chiefs doorstep a few minutes later.  Too bad the chief wasn’t as eager.  The guy was almost literally almost dead. His children had left to work in the fields and so here he was delirious and refusing to go to the hospital.  What a great encouragement for our work!  Luckily, other village ‘officials’ arrived and gave us their blessing to continue with the surveys.  

One of these kind leaders decided to be our tour guide for the day, helping us navigate the winding paths between houses and fields.  It was helpful and he carried my heavy bag. However, he also yelled at villagers when they didn’t respond to the questions in the ‘correct’ manner.  After this happened the second time, I had to pull him aside and explain we were here for the truth, not the ‘right’ answer.  I’ve learned people in need will often tell you what you want to hear so you’ll keep coming back and providing for them.  And in fact after a lot of the surveys, people asked us if we were going to bring them more mosquito nets. Oh, development work.

With Madame not having the greatest eyesight or literacy and most of the tiny village speaking local language, it was a busy morning of me reading the eighteen questions in French, her translating back and forth and recording the response. Over and over.  It was cool- I felt very PC, until about house number 20 and hour number four of walking and sounding like a broken record. At about this point, my energy and patience was running low and the little kids chanting ‘white person’ went from being cute to just plain annoying.  Every house we went to a crowd gathered to see what the white person was doing here.  When one family offered a calabash of tchouk and even larger crowd gathered to watch me, I tried to explain how it’s not polite or nice to stare.  That if they came to America, no one would call them out for being black or stare at them.  This blew them away a little and while I knew they’re innocent in their wondering, it wears on a girl after awhile.

Walking among spouting corn, bean and cotton fields I wondered how long progress and development will –if ever- take.  Watching filthy, half naked kids scraping bowls of corn mush clean while interviewing their mother breastfeeding another child and who couldn’t have been past 30, I couldn’t help but wonder if this cycle of life –poverty – will ever be broken.  Will there always be small villages in Africa with no sanitation, health care, or education? Other oddities/frustrations came when you asked the mother or father, how many people live here and what are their ages. Unfortunately, I thought of America and sitting at someone’s kitchen table, parents easily listing off their kids’ ages (birthday, social security number, and what they ate for dinner, if you asked).  This is unfortunate for me because obviously this is not America and someday, hopefully I stop comparing the two.   A general statement, but often parents may not know their children’s ages, or the kids who slept at their house last night. Everyone is welcome (the mother’s sisters cousins daughter and her daughters son), thus determining the age and gender of the nuclear family are difficult.

The second day started out well.  I noticed right away the socioeconomic differences of the two villages.  This day we were in the small village just north of LT, Yao Kope, and I was working with 

Terry, another local health agent.  This chief was very with it and ready for us.  When you enter someone’s compound or yard of sorts, someone calls for chairs or wooden stools and you do the interview with whoever is there.  ‘Its always interesting to watch the hierarchy within the families (if dad’s there he yells at mom for the chairs, if mom’s there she yells at the kids who then yells at the youngest to get the chairs). Almost all of the compounds in Yao Kope had cement covered outdoor areas, when almost everywhere else I’ve ever seen is dirt.  Not only that but families had pens for their animals and full cement huts for cooking and storing things, not just stick and straw lean-to’s. The real kicker was the public latrines. I counted at least five (and used one) scattered throughout the village.  Wow! This is quite unheard of and I wondered what made this village, only a few kilometers from Yara Kabye so much more developed.  

Not only was Terry more literate than Madame (he filled out and asked every question) but he was much more methodical, thus the 30 houses took us six hours instead of five. In more of a supervising role, making sure he was filling in the blanks correctly, I was in my own day-dream world as the interviews were all in local language. To top this day off, we couldn’t find moto’s to take us back to LT and had to walk the hour back, in the 1 p.m. sun.  “I signed up for this,” I said, reminding myself.

On the third day, Madame was early and I sat at the schoolyard being stared at intently by the hoards of kids milling around while she went looking for our motos. I felt light and happy as we road through fields and washed away dirt roads to reach this even more remote village of Kobyo. I prayed I could feel this way in five hours. Thankfully, Madame was on a mission and as I would start the question in French, she would start in local language and this helped move things along. Again, I made not of the socioeconomic status; huts made of mud and straw, out in the middle of fields.  New this time however, I noticed the lack of oral health as most people were missing quite a few teeth and what was left were obviously quite rotted.  

Trekking even further between households, I was amazed and saddened when the mothers would ask us if she should get her husband from the fields to meet with us. No, we explained, you’re quite capable. We got caught in the rain at one house where everyone was sitting under a straw hut when their oldest boys came home announcing they had passed their exams.  The family was very glad, but they discussed how expensive it is to pay for school and they worried how they would manage with four more kids not yet school age.  I wanted so badly to be into the conversation, but again we were at hour 4 and my human needs of being hungry and tired overrode the volunteer in me.  Add to that the foul wafts of the father’s breath hitting me in the face and it was too much and I had to look the other way.  We passed a farmer herding his cattle on our way to the next house. I was pleasantly gifted cow’s milk after the interview, of which I destroyed on accident in attempting to pasteurize it when I got home.

Finally, we went to say goodbye to the chief and as we waited for our moto drivers, I shared my package of cashews from America and he and Madame were amused. 90 homes, 16 hours, five moto rides, three calabashes of tchouk, one craft of cow’s milk and countless miles walked, yes, it was quite the experience. 

Rain, rain, never go away!

It still amazes me how happy rain makes me. How clear blue, sunny skies make me cringe yet dark clouds make me so excited, happy, and content. Rain means cool air and cool air means not sweating uncontrollably.  Amazing how much manageable and more enjoyable life is here when you’re comfortable.  I spent a few days in the capital, Lome, preparing for Camp Espoir and was able to really enjoy them as I wasn’t drowning in sweat from the usually intense heat and humidity. It was so nice!  I felt so normal; walking places, doing work and not being discussed with myself! I also ate really well while I was there, almost to the point that I was getting a little too used to ‘normal’ food again – that is expecting it rather than treasuring it. I was in the American bubble; working in the PC office with my fellow volunteers, enjoying high speed internet, consistent electricity , being productive, going to lunch and dinner in different places.  On the last day when I took my first run in Lome I was quite satisfied as the increased levels of delicious dinging had paid off with a high energy run along the beach. 

Thankfully, I was gently worked back into the ‘Togo bubble’ as I headed to Kovie, my friend Veronica’s village a few hours northwest of Lome. It is a really beautiful village about the same size as mine (7,000) Her house is also really spacious and peaceful with an enclosed front courtyard to herself.  We went for a killer run among the green fields starting to sprout, avoiding puddles (seriously, it rained almost every day!) the first morning.  Of Latino decent, Veronica was excited to make me a traditional breakfast after our run. Beans with a tomato sauce, cheese (or as close as we can get here), eggs, and toast. She also explained the tradition with beans in her house growing up; how they’re prepared a batch for the whole week on Monday and mixed and modified to make different meals throughout the week. I loved hearing her speak about her culture, very passionate and very proud. It was so lovely sipping coffee and relaxing on her front terrace, enjoying the view over a good meal after a great run.  A perfect morning. 

A very active and involved volunteer, Vero had meetings and business to attend to so I got to tag along and watch her work.  Her village loves her and she seems to be known by everyone! I appreciate her passion for her work and for the people she’s come to call family.  Later, when we were walking to go see nearby rice fields, we got to talking about the development of Togo and of development in general.  I think it’s safe to say this is a highly discussed topic among PCV’s here; sharing frustrations, opinions, what someone’s read in the latest book from the other side about development.  

More and more I’m understanding how development, corruption and poverty are all intertwined.  How it’s often easier to keep a population oppressed than help lift them out of their despair. Vero reminded me of this country’s youth and how not long ago anyone willing to voice their opinion was often never to be heard from again.  Volunteers throughout the country have heard such stories, so it was interesting to me to really think of this place on a development timeline; a continuum.

Saturday we headed to Atakpame and I had a wonderful few days celebrating my birthday with some of my closest friends here.  It was a big week and for the first time in a while I can say I was happy to return to my home this morning.

Food Security

Last week we had our Mid Service Conference in Pagala.  This was my favorite PC ‘training’ by far; less random surface technical sessions and more realistic things like learning how to incorporate monitoring and evaluation into our work and details about starting a funded project. One of the coolest things I took away from these few but packed days was a session on Food Security, which I thought might be good to share.

The idea of being food secure is not new, but recently it has become a big part of West African PC work.  Being food secure not only means not having enough food but having access to healthy and safe food, year round.  This means not having the income to buy vegetables (if you don’t grow them already) and therefore there is a lack in your diet is being food insecure.  This means even if you have balanced meals but they are prepared in a way that is making your family sick, you are food insecure.  This means if you don’t have potable water to drink you are food insecure. There is definitely a ‘hungry season’ here in Togo and while I didn’t see much of it firsthand as my host family is pretty well off, I did notice the lack of variety in my neighbors and village friends’ sauces.  Additionally, we haven’t had fufu (pounded yams) in months because the yams have run out.  This means my family has eaten pate (mashed corn meal) for the majority of their meals for the past few months with the only change coming in which sauce they prepare.

The PCV Food Security Committee did a great activity at the conference to demonstrate who is food secure in our villages.  We formed a line and a large rock placed about five feet in front of us represented being food secure.  We were given personal scenarios and then the leader read things like: “if you have a university degree take one step forward (towards being food secure),” and “if you have more than four children take one step back (away from being food secure).”   There were about a dozen different scenarios ranging from a man with a degree, wife, and three kids to single mother with a good job but eight children. Others included a teenage girl who just found out she’s pregnant, an employed father with a farm and a wife but with three chronically ill children. Less obvious situations were 14-year-old boy in an average family or the youngest girl in a similar family.  These are important to realize however, as men and boys are served first with the largest portions, with the women and girls (who most likely have prepared the meal) are served smaller portions of what is left.  In other words,  young men, especially those with university degrees were the closest to food security at the end of the activity, while the young girls, single mothers or households with lots of kids found themselves behind.

 

One thing I found so interesting was that I could identify or think of someone or a situation in Lama-Tessi that applied to each of the activity situations. While it was cool to realize how much I understand this place (compared to a year ago), it was extremely disheartening to really stop and realize how the majority of my village is probably food insecure. 

What’s more, I learned about the severe and long term affects of being food insecure.  When a young child lacks adequate nutrition, its body goes into survival mode, improperly storing any food it receives.  In turn, if this child survives and consumes a high carbohydrate diet (most likely in developing countries), the body will continue to improperly store those calories and the person will likely become obese.  Granted, that’s not a scientific explanation, but you get the idea of the severity of this paradox.

I also realized how it impacts the four sectors of PC work here in Togo.  Health and agriculture are the obvious ones but the gender equality and small business development can also play big roles. 

So, what can/are we doing about it? Well, PC Togo is part of the West African Food Security Program in which PCV’s can apply for small funding opportunities to apply techniques in their villages.  Techniques like training farmers how to raise more and better crops by adding different trees that promote nitrogen in the soil.  Or teaching mothers and kids how to dry fruit so that after mango season (when there are so many mangos, kids literally eat at least 10 a day) they will continue to have those vitamins and food variety.  Promoting personal, family gardens so that when the prices of staple tomatoes and onions increases in dry season, you can sustain yourself.  Discussing with groups how to make their drinking water safe and why it’s so important. 

Important things to remember when working in impoverished countries concerning food. First, we can't just bring in food and think this is fixing the problem.  This is making a crutch for the community; sustaining them for a while but not forever. We must take small steps to lay the groundwork, the infrastructure to help them move towards food security.  To that end, we must remember its not just about sacks of flour or grain; food variety and the nutritional value of food is just as important. Lastly we must think culturally. For example, a friend of mine said people in her village won't feed their kids eggs because it will turn their kids into thieves. That is, the kids will like the taste of eggs, and therefore start stealing other peoples eggs (because people don't keep their chickens penned up).  Finally, the culture here says men deserve and need more food; thus women, girls and children get less. 

Lots.of.things. 

 AKA- overwhelming for this PCV.  For now, I’m starting small with my host family.  Encouraging protein consumption and drinking clean water.  I figure, if I can teach/guide/encourage my host mom to think about her meals then slowly, maybe other mothers in our neighborhood will follow. Little by little.

SOS

I ate a big plate of SOS last night.  With fresh green beans.  I closed my eyes and saw my family sitting at our kitchen table on the farm, eating the very same helpings of mashed potatoes and dried beef gravy.  Thank you Linda White for the latest package including dried beef that made this meal possible.

This is a big deal; I’ve been dreaming – in detail – about food for the past few weeks.  One morning this week I woke up after a dream meal of a bologna sandwich.  You know it’s bad when you’re dreaming about cold-deli sandwiches- especially bologna. The meal also had sides of Baked Lays potato chips, strawberry yogurt and sugar cookies. YES I DREAMT ALL OF THESE DETAILS! A few mornings later I woke up only wanting a hot dog (with ketchup), chips and an apple. And a Coke. What?! I don’t drink straight pop, let alone COKE! But oh man, does it taste oh.so.good. And the other day walking down the street in village I was craving my mom’s tortilla pinwheels. I can’t even read about characters in books sharing a meal. The story won’t even be about the meal, but the fact that they’re at a pizza place just unnerves me.

Last night, after arriving in Atakpame (with a store that sells all of the above and a house for PCV’s equipped with a refrigerator and toaster oven) this dream became reality. And let me just tell you how my knees about gave in tasting those Pringles as soon as I had paid for them. Wow.

This morning I had cold milk and cereal. Again, a-may-zing. Indulging  on tasty treats when in Atakpame (Snickers, Swiss cheese, apples- imported from South Africa) is nothing new and I look forward to each upcoming trip; in fact, Vanessa and I will text each other what our ‘priorities’ are for Atakpame. It’s like we just get by in village and then have this weird food binge the minute we get to Atakpame. But this trip I felt more called – more crazy – for good, tasty food. And to this end I must eat my words- (if only they tasted like my Grandma’s rhubarb cobbler) pun intended. It’s not uncommon for volunteers to go off about a food their craving, something they’re missing, or how much they would give/do for a certain meal.  In fact, this is probably one of our most conversation popular topics; food. But, for a long time I just saw food as fuel here. I was getting by on cabbage and lentils for dinner with the occasional treat of popcorn for something crunch and salty. Lately, this hasn’t been doing the trick and I’ve forgone healthier alternatives for straight up Nutella sandwiches. My body wants something indulgent; something it knows.

 We try here. Ness and I attempt pizza or pasta dishes but nothing is quite the same. Take my dear friend Connor, who loves to cook and will be a great chef someday.  My hang-up is the kid loves to turn a simple meal into a 2-3..4 hour ordeal; adding random things, sautéing, roasting… and all of it just takes too much time for this girl.  I realized cooking with Connor is like Thanksgiving; you wait around all day, anticipating the deliciousness but you have to eat something throughout the day, so you graze and snack and when the meal finally comes, you’re not hungry enough to enjoy it to its fullest. I just want some simple home fries; no I don’t need any fresh chopped garlic and onions sautéed first, thank you!  Just give me the Beach Club from Jimmy John’s…or simple slice of Casey’s taco pizza.  I don’t need anything fancy! In fact, I vaguely remember saying to someone last week how I’d be willing to personally dismember my pinky for a meal of JJ’s…

Today is Vanessa’s birthday.  This is where Connor comes in handy as he is determined to make something define. And I’m making him start early so we can hopefully eat before 10pm. Meat (fresh from the scary meat market next to the rail road tracks) is already marinating for a Sheppard’s pie and just whipped up some peanut butter cookies. So, we’re going all out..while we can J  

I Didn't Know

One year ago, I didn’t know how to take a bucket shower, fix a flat bike tire, or eat around and through ants. I didn’t know how to catch, barter a price or deal with bush taxi’s. A year ago, I didn’t speak French (or understand it at least) or know the foreign sounds that make up local, ethnic languages in Africa.  I didn’t know this journey would draw me so much closer to my Creator and show me the intense love and need I have to be close to my family.  I didn’t know how strong a relationship based on love and friendship could become when you date someone who truly has your best interest at heart- even from an ocean away. 

One year ago, I didn’t understand the power of electricity or a cold shower; or a shower in general for that matter. I’d never thought so much or spent so much time on greetings and asking about people’s families and work.   I didn’t have any idea how hard a girl’s life was in a developing country, how childhood is in a way nonexistent and how hope for a better life somehow always remains. I didn’t know how cruel the school system was or how sad the health care.  I’d never eaten or heard of pate or fufu one year ago.  I didn’t have any idea how important and meaningful it is to share a meal or calabash of local beer with someone, or that it’s all about the sauce when I landed here last June.  I didn’t know I could tolerate a 15 hour trip with 4 vehicle changes just to go a hundred miles or so.  A year ago, I didn’t know that I had the ability, knowledge and influence to inspire girls, teach them to believe in themselves and their dreams.  I didn’t know what an African ‘hot season’ felt like or believe I could survive such a thing. I didn’t know how much comfort can come from hours of reading a good book.  Or that I would become a regular member of Sunday Mass at the local Catholic Church out of the comfort of a routine and order.  A year ago I’d never been in the delivery room to watch a baby being born up-close-and-personal.  I didn’t know I would be able to teach grown women the power of saving and budgeting or how to set goals.  

A year ago I didn’t realize every Togolese person had a farm- even if it’s a few rows of corn in the ditch- as a means to survive.  I had never thought so much about the value of hand washing a year ago, and I had no idea how to wash my clothes without a machine.  I didn’t know how much joy and comfort rain would bring me or how real the need becomes for water when the sun blazes for months on end. I had no idea how to drink water or eat lunch out of little plastic bags. I didn’t know I would think about stomach bugs so much or about the issues that come with open water sources. I didn’t know what it felt like to sit with a girl and her parents in their rural village after giving her a loan to run a small business during the summer in an effort to save and pay for her school fees.  I didn’t know school fees for girls were often times the last priority for families.  I’d never been so outspoken and defensive for girls; demanding they give an equal chance and the respect each of us deserves. I didn’t realize how behavior change and development go hand-in-hand.  I had never really thought about behavior change; that it’s more about convincing people to make the desired change than distributing the information. I’d never rationed my fruit and vegetable supply before. Or been so acutely aware of my body; hunger, temperature, emotions and attitudes. I had no idea how passionate I would become about nutrition, family planning, and the health of the kids and families around me. And I didn’t realize that these passions could spark an idea to become a teacher.  

One year ago, I didn’t know how much joy a group of twelve-year-olds trying to speak English could bring me.   I’d never spoke ‘Fran-Glais’- mixing French with English but still struggling to put correct sentences together and get my point across in a foreign language. A year ago, I didn’t loathe the sun and constantly seek shade. I’d never counted the hours in the day, days in the week, weeks in the month, months in the year so much as I have in this year. One year ago from this day, I had no idea I would make such great friendships; friends with Togolese that I can call my family here and in a diverse group of Americans who can only truly feel the words I’m writing.

One year ago I didn’t know how to live in Africa. Despite many moments of heart ache and struggle, now, I know.