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It’s that time of the year again
when, according to the Peace Corps calendar, another group of volunteers are
preparing their departure. Like in past years, some close friends will be
leaving Togo in
the next few months. Unfortunately, this is something you get used to as a
volunteer. My good friend Charlie will be heading back to LA at the end of the
month and then to DC to start law school. The Kara region won’t be the same
without him. He, Patrick, Jon and I have formed a pretty tight group and we’ve
partaken in some crazy antics together, all will be remembered with a smile.
We’ll try to keep up the tradition and keep the ‘Brasserie de Benin’ brewery in
business. Our good times together will be remembered over many cold Castels.
It’s never fun to say goodbye to
close friends but such is life for me here in Togo.
People come and go all the time and you do get used to it. I seem to have a
tougher time than most leaving… I’m a little less than 3 months away from the 3
year anniversary of when I landed in Togo.
So many things have happened to me since, not all great, but incredible for the
most part. My departure, scheduled for January 2008, is already weighing on my
mind. I’m really not sure how I’ll cope with saying goodbye to everyone who
have been such a huge part of my life while I’ve been here. I’ll be replaced by
a new volunteer here in Bafilo and that will make things a little easier. It’s
good to know that someone will be here to continue work at AED if they so
choose, to live in this house, to keep my dogs, and to act as an intermediary
for me and the people here.
I’m glad to say that I do have some
sort of plan for when I leave. Graduate school is something that I had never
considered before coming here and seems to be my best bet in figuring out a way
for me to come back to Africa and continue in the same
kind of work I’ve been doing here.
On another note, a lot of other volunteers have often
wondered why I decided to extend for a 3rd year. I’ve listed a few
reasons why I decided to stay:
I’ve had the incredible opportunity
to witness first hand life in a country that I barely knew existed before I
received my invitation letter from Peace Corps. I’ve been privileged enough to
meet people here who have taught me so much more than I could have ever
expected before I stepped off that plane in Lome on September 25, 2004. So much
of what I’ve seen and experienced here has been beautiful and inspirational. So
much has been frustrating to a point I could never imagine and heartbreaking.
All of it, I hope, has been observed and recorded accurately in my head; the
bad, as well as the good.
I’ve worked with people who have
knowingly stolen thousands of dollars intended for their fellow countrymen. I
was first posted in Lome to work
with an organization more interested in having a white person around than with
what I could offer. I’ve had the experience of living in an African capitol
city with all it has to offer along with all the difficult moments I
experienced while there.
I was in Lome
and got to see, behind the safety granted to us by Peace Corps, Togolese people
take the streets and demand a fair government, risking their personal safety,
when their president of 38 years passed away. I was able to know what it feels
like to have someone take advantage of that confusion and break into my home. I
was able to witness the empty streets and closed shops of Lome
when general strikes were called upon by the population to protest against the
army’s illegal procedure of placing the ex-president’s son in power. I felt the
tension that prevailed in the city as election day grew nearer. From the safety
of the med unit, I was able to see barricades at every intersection instantly
erected minutes after the results of the elections. I heard gunshots coming
from many directions shortly after that as the army began firing on the people
they were there to protect. I got to hear about how my 5 year old neighbor
Miguel worried about where I was when the military starting shooting off rounds
outside my house. I got to maneuver my way through trenches dug in the street
and around burned cars on my way home after a week at the med unit. I felt the
stares of everyone on me on that walk home, I’m not sure what they were
wondering. Was I somehow to blame because of the color of my skin, was I was
crazy to still be here after thousands of others had fled to Benin
and Ghana? I
wish I could have told them I was just going home, doing what Peace Corps had
been telling me to do for weeks, not knowing or understanding what was
happening around me. I wish I could have told them I was scared.
A few days after, as reports of the
events finally started filtering in, as the phone service was re-established,
as the internet came back on and we were able to re-join the rest of the world,
I got to see the old lady who sold fried plantains across the street bring out
her stool, stove and basins, to continue doing what she needed to do to earn
some money. I heard the yells of women selling water as they walked down the
streets all day. I was able to witness people too tired of the violence and
their government give up their resistance and resume their daily lives. I got
to see life get back to normal, even though approximately 500 people had been
killed in the aftermath of the election. I, along with many people, wondered
what those lives were lost for.
I had the chance to move to Bafilo,
a town almost 100% Muslim, and be accompanied by the soundtrack of the prayer
call 5 times a day. I’ve met, worked alongside of, become close to, received so
much from, given what I hope to be as much as I can to, some of the most
courageous men and women I’ve ever known.
I’ve seen the beauty of people working together in a healthcare system
that is so flawed in order to better the lives of their neighbors. I’ve felt
the unbelievable frustration of trying to get medicine from the state run
pharmacy. I’ve seen a little child, a year old, who could barely sit up on his
own because of a disease that doesn’t care about age, race, or geography. I’ve
felt the joy of seeing this child cry for the first time since he had been too
weak to cry before. I’ve been at the door to greet his mother after she had
walked 6km with him on her back to see a doctor. I now know what it feels like
to hear about his sudden death at one and a half years old.
I’ve been able to become friends
with an old woman who speaks only Kabye while I speak none. I’ve taken naps on
a mat under a mango tree at my friend’s house. I’ve heard a mother and her child
laughing together at night. I’ve seen some of the most beautiful landscapes
I’ve ever had the chance to glance at. I’ve walked along dirt paths where
nothing grows because people have been walking along that same path for
generations. I’ve felt the frustration of living in a place where for a year
the power was cut every night at 6pm.
I’ve realized how lucky I’ve been to live in a house that has electricity. And
running water. I’ve tasted mangos, bananas, passion fruit, pineapples, oranges,
mandarins, watermelons, tomatoes, onions, garlic, peppers, cucumbers, lettuce,
cabbage, carrots, sweet potatoes, and countless other fruits and vegetables the
way they’re supposed to taste. I’ve had the luck to wear shoes only once or
twice a year. I have the ‘tapette’ tan lines on my feet to prove it. I’ve been
able to share a bowl of food with complete strangers and feel a brand new kind
of closeness with that person after the meal. I’ve been laughed at for getting
food all over my face and clothes when learning how to eat with my hand.
I’ve been singled out for the color
of my skin and for being from another world. I’ve felt the shame of this. At
times, I’ve taken advantage of it for selfish reasons. At other times, I’ve
done everything I could to try to minimize its importance. I’ve yelled at
children for singing that annoying song. I’ve laughed with children who try to
sing it but don’t know the words to the song. But generally, I’ve learned to
accept it and not place too much importance on it. I hope the people I’ve
gotten to know can see past the different color and see me underneath it.
I’ve had to struggle with the fact
that I could have spent the last year of my father’s life with him instead of
staying here for my third. I’ve gotten the call from my mom telling me he had
died while standing on the side of the road waiting for a bush taxi to get me
to Lome and a little closer to him.
I’ve felt the sincere sadness in the voice of my friends who were around me
when I got that call. I’ve received condolences from complete strangers upon my
return to Bafilo after his funeral. I’ve gotten strength from seeing how people
here react to and accept death on a daily basis. I’ve felt the warmth from
people who have shared the grief with me even though they had never met him. I
feel that because my father’s death happened while I was here, a part of me
will remain here forever.
I’ve seen the sun set over Africa.
I’ve felt the African dirt under my feet. I feel today, after almost 3 years,
as if I just arrived. I worry every day about the day I have to leave, 6 months
away. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to live anything like this again.
I value the bad as much as the good
here, maybe even more. Each minute here teaches me something new about the
world, about people, about myself. I hope I’ve been able to return the favor in
any way at all. I thank Togo
and the people here for all of this. For the first time in my life I feel like
I really get to live every day. No more coasting through day after day of the
same tedious business. Every day is special and full in its own way.
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