“The Togo Zone” – different dimensions of time
I can see William Shatner’s character looking out that airplane window where he is the only one who can see that strange life form waving to him on the wing of the plane. Sometimes I feel that I am the only who sees what I see here in Togo.
Time.
There are two landscapes the timekeeper uses to record the pulse here in Togo. There is the ocean, where the waves massage each grain of sand, shaping the seconds into an orchestral concerto, luring the minutes to the shore only to drain them through the tireless silt, dragging the hours like a breath through the mud. Gently, but assuredly, time is persuaded to move forward. “Hurry!”, you shout. But time is deaf and my voice leaves no fingerprint.
Then there are the mountains, where there is no valley rhythm or beat, the sunsets drop into the horizon of indecision, and the icy fingers cue the dream is over. I contemplate my next step, standing on the cliff’s edge of assessment. “Wake up!”, you hear. You heed to its authority. A month’s view dips into the past.
How can time press forward with such lethargy? And at the same time, fast forward with a simple push of a button on a remote control? Where did the time go? What did I accomplish? What have I learned?
Both dimensions coexist in Togo. Moving boldly and courageously, yet kissed with compassion and character.
Togo time is eager, ambivalent, incredulous, empty, full, lonely, playful, serious, free, determined, gorgeous, light, heavy, lazy, silly, angry, and it guides me to my passion.
I am a time passenger. On the wings of that plane. Who can see me now?
Setting boundaries
I have learned that here in Togo, my first priority is to take care of me.
Muriel, this entry is for you because you, especially, know what I mean.
Setting boundaries is a glorious way to be mindful of me. Not just with the Togolese, but with fellow volunteers. I have to remind myself that I am surrounded by predominately 22 to 24 year olds and who behave exactly as I would expect at that age. I cannot be the caregiver as I am so often tempted to do. I have enough on my plate taking care of just me!
Culturally, the Togolese respect physical boundaries.
The majority of guests never see the inside of another person’s home. Conversations are conducted on porches, somewhere in the compound, just anywhere but inside.
Next, there are people we invite into our living rooms. Usually, this is family, extended family, or people considered to be family.
Lastly, there are the people we invite into our bedrooms.
Yep, that’s it. Three levels of intimacy.
Once someone has been allowed into the living room, they will never go back to the porch. And once someone has been invited into the bedroom, they will never go back to the living room. It’s a one-way street.
I witness this all the time. Additionally, it is perceived that any man I invite into my home, well, I am sleeping with him. Homosexuality is not recognized in the country and is illegal, l so I can invite all the women into my home that I want.
Then there are the personal boundaries. Living in Sokode, the regional capital in the central region, it is a convenient meeting point for volunteers traveling north or south. In addition the volunteers who live in centrale come here for the poste, bank, etc. at least once a week. I consider myself fortunate that I live out in the ‘burbs because someone really has to want to see me if they’re going to make that 40 minute trek (with luggage, helmet, etc.) or to take a moto chez moi.
There’s also what I consider survival boundaries. As volunteers, we all understand and respect these boundaries. We have to. We will set them and we will meet up with them vis-a-vis. Some are presented with a gentle hand, others are blunt and brutal. Whatever we say is respected. Sometimes not liked, but respected.
Just like in the states, we all have our priorities and we all make our choices. You want shoes, clothes, purses, makeup, and jewelry? I want food and travel. I won’t wear or use your stuff. Stay away from my food. Same here in Togo.
Boredom, depression, and loneliness
I have none of these (just in case you were reading other volunteers’ blogs and were wondering if I suffered these malades.)
I miss my family, friends, and food. Not necessarily in that order. Hee hee!
Confirmation – Losses: 4. Togo gains: 19.
Lastly, the gal who went to D.C. was medically separated from the Peace Corps. And my dear pal, T., announced his departure on September 3. I will miss you, your old spice, and your hammock.
If PC stats hold true, more will go. I hope that’s one goal we don’t meet.
Fruits and vegetables
Thanks to mommy for requesting that I include this next section.
I have my own personal vendor for avocados, bananas, and plantains (I fry the latter with a little salt). Her name is Richella too, and she screamed with joy to everyone that our names are the same.
Philapina always finds me warm bread in her large and numerous over-flowing baskets, baked within hours, just for me. It’s lovely.
And I have Odette for my eggs, cabbage (I stir fry it with soy sauce or I’ll throw it in with a package of ramen), tomatoes, and green peppers. Have to eat the tomatoes and green peppers that day or they rot from the heat. And they are teeny tiny. The tomatoes are smaller than a baby roma tomato that you’d find in the states and the green peppers are a third the size of a Togo roma tomato. Yep, you read that right. Teeny.
I have another vendor for my onions (they’re teeny tiny red onions). Same size as the green peppers. Hard to chop with a dull knife. I can get green beans (but I don’t like them), teeny eggplant, cucumbers (but they are too ripe), and still searching for stuff to try.
There is pineapple too, but it’s also too ripe to eat. It’s not mango season (just ended in June) but those are good. There are oranges (but they are green) and they are full of seeds and not sweet or juicy. When I point that out to the Togolese (that the oranges are green and not orange), they don’t think it’s that funny. I explain, “They should be called ‘greens’.” Good thing I can find my own humor.
No comments:
Post a Comment