Shea Butter

Within my first month at post I was introduced to Olonowo-n'djo Tchala. Tchala was born in my village—and has a whole slew of relations there—but married a Peace Corps volunteer several years ago and then moved to Seattle, Washington. There, he maintained his ties to Togo and started a fair trade company selling shea butter products. The shea butter is produced in the outskirts of Sokodé (my regional capital in Togo) and employs several women from the surrounding villages.

During his trip to visit the new production facility, Tchala invited me to spend the day with him and his party of travelers from the States. First, I met at his sister's house for breakfast: corn porridge with condensed milk and sugar and citronelle-flavored coffee. Over breakfast I met his friends that had traveled with him from the States and Abel, a very ambitious Beninese who works in Togo doing feasibility studies for local products and seeking foreign investment.
We then strolled about 1 km to the outskirts of Sokodé, where the Agbanga-Karite Group were busy working in their new—and immaculate—facility. The women rushed out to greet us in brightly colored dress and beautifully woven tissue. Some were Kotokoli, some Kabiye, some Fulani. But they were all very happy to have found such good employment and to work together. When we entered, we took off our shoes and watched a group of women singing and pre-washing the nuts with their feet and hands. During the tour, the most high tech item that could be found was a milling machine. Then I sat down and whipped some butter myself. My hands felt amazingly soft and smooth after.

We returned to the house of Tchala's sister for a lunch of black-eyed peas with gari and avocado. And to wash it all down—some tchouk! It was delicious! But then it was time to get ready for the party ...

Hiking 3 kilometers outside of the city then, the Fulani women hosted us in their village for one of their almost-weekly parties. Any excuse for a party in Togo! The afternoon began with brief sparing between the boys and younger men using sticks or wadded palm leaves. The girls, women, and men then took their turns on the dance floor while others managed the crowd whacking at their feet with brooms of palm leaves. They had carefully folded palm leaves wrapped around their ankles to create a swishing noise as they danced about. After sharing thanks between the parties for the occasion we sped out across the dance floor ourselves. It was a full day!

A shameless plug ... Please visit the Agbanga-Karite Group's website for more information about their work and also a brief history of my village, Kaboli. If your interested in fair-trade shea butter products (very good for your skin!), please visit the website for Alaffia Fair-Trade.

Stories from stage: The Battle

As our months of training began to wind down and we became anxious (or nervous) to go to our official posts, some of my fellow stage-mates and I got together for a movie night at training center. Some of us decided to sleep over, so we didn't have to rush home and worry our host families with staying out too late. Danielle couldn't sleep, however, and then randomly suggested that we should build forts ...

We split up into teams: Girls vs. Boys. Danielle and I against Peter, David and Jamie. Each member of the boys squad received 5 lives. Because we were only two, each member of the girls team received 7 lives. A life was lost each time that you were hit with a pillow. The odds were slightly in the boys favor: 14 lives for the girls vs. 15 lives for the boys. But we had a secret weapon. The back door of our fort led out to the terrace. So when the lights went out, we snuck out to grab the big chalk-board that listed our training schedule to use as a shield.
As the boys fired their first on-slaught, we blocked every single shot. After hoarding every single pillow that they had wasted on our shields in our fort, we then led our own offensive. Peter was the first to go and decided to referee the rest of the game. The score was tied.
Danielle and I had to start taking more risks. I lost, but then David was left with only 1 life left. With a lucky shot, Danielle quickly forced him out of the game. That left only Danielle and Jamie standing. The battle raged on. And in the wee hours of the morning, it became a tied game once again: 1 life vs. 1 life.

Jamie brought down a rain of fire, pillow after pillow bouncing off of Danielle's shield. But then the shield back-fired. In the split-second that Danielle relaxed her muscles ever so slightly, Jamie fired a blow smacking the shield into Danielle's face and splitting her lip. Peter declared a draw and we broke out the first aid kit. Danielle told her host family that she ran into a door. (We miss you Jamie!)

Stories from Stage: Welcome to Togo!

After passing through customs and receiving more vaccinations against various diseases, I set of from Lomé to the region of Agou in southern Togo—which served as the Peace Corps training site (stage is the local french word for "training")—along with the other Peace Corps newbies that I arrived with.

Driving down the road, a couple of hours outside of Lomé, our van was suddenly enveloped by a crowd of people. We turned down a small dirt road and parked. From within the crowd, a man continuously yelled “WELCOME! WELCOME! WELCOME!” from a megaphone as others tapped on bells and blew into wooden horns. We hesitantly got out of the van and crowded together with our backs to each other. The senior volunteer guiding us that week approached me and said that I would be girl to receive the flowers--the queen of the day. She led me to the front our group and instructed me to follow the man next to me.

Always surrounded by the noisy crowd that followed our van into town, our group walked less then 10 meters before I was met with a teenage girl, standing under a large mango tree and holding flowers. As she handed me the flowers, she strained a long speech in English--using every muscle in her mouth. I nodded as though I understand every word--through the chants and screaming instruments of the crowd. I turned slightly, a man began spilling shots of gin on the ground and repeating local prayers. After several prayers, I shook hands with the chief who stood behind the priest and then greeted several other village notables.

At the welcoming ceremony, we watched a series of speeches and a series of musical performances. Afterwards, we met our new host families that we would stay with for next three months. My family cried out my name and hugged me as soon as I met them. They carried all of my luggage for me to their house and then fed me as much food as I could eat.

Settling in: My new home in Togo

My first 3 months in Togo, I lived with a host family in the mountainous region of Agou for Peace Corps training. The area was beautiful and my host family was very welcoming, but I was anxious to get to my official post—where I would spend the next 2 years of my life, here in Togo.

Kãboli (alternatively spelled, Kambolé) is a moderately-large village for Togo, with a population of around 10,000. The village is less than 10 km from the border of Benin and then 80 km from the region's capital, Sokodé (the second largest city in Togo). The primary language spoken is Ana, a dialect of Yoruba, which finds its roots in Nigeria. Being a border-town with strong ties, the secondary languages spoken in Kãboli are both French and English. Most of the locals speak French because they went through the Togolese school system, but certain notables and frequent visitors from Nigeria only speak Ana and English. The public religions practiced here include an even mixture of Muslims and Christians (mostly Catholic, but some are members of the Assembly of God). Yet, all carry latent beliefs in the indigenous or animist religion. My friends and neighbors are very welcoming and I feel very much at home in my new village.

My new house has three rooms, a long front room and two back rooms. The front door leads out to the terrace, which then leads to the private, walled courtyard at the side of my house. Found in the courtyard are a latrine/shower area, a paillotte (similar to a gazebo), and the door leading to my compound. The compound is interspersed with mango trees and lined with two-room and one-room houses. My house not only stands out as the largest in the compound, but it is also the only painted house. It's a very conspicuous lifestyle—the only person with white skin living in village and the nicest house on the block. The compound is on the outskirts of the village, though, so the house serves as nice retreat from the eyes of village.

To assist me with my work and getting to know my new community, my official counterpart is named Foumalayo (one who goes searching for joy). She is a member of the local credit union and serves on their control committee. Working with the credit union will be my primary project. However, as a volunteer (and therefore not paid by them), I also have the opportunity to work more or less like a consultant with other organizations and people in the village who are interested in my help. For instance, I am looking forward to working with the newly-formed butcher association and possibly expanding the youth club at the local schools.

Trial and tribulations: Missing cords

I have been very slow to post on my blog due to some minor complications: 1) I forgot the power cord to my laptop in the hotel where I was staying just before leaving for Togo; 2) You're lucky if you can visit more than 5 pages per hour with the connection in the Cyper Cafés. Now that I've received my power cord in the mail, I hope more can be expected from this blog. However, once receiving my power cord, I then realized that I forgot the cord connecting my digital camera to my laptop in order to download pictures. Petit à petit, en ...

The Announcement

I'm going to Togo!