The Road Less Traveled

This was a fairly uneventful day. The morning seminars went well, but ran long—we were supposed to have lunch at 1:00 but we didn’t go out until 2:00 pm. We went to our usual place. This time I wanted to take pictures of the place.

Many people in Africa get angry if you try to take their photograph, or demand a cadeau (payment) for it. To avoid that problem, Jean asked Jacques to take pictures for me and of me, so it would be less conspicuous. For the first time that week, I was allowed to go to the kitchen area and watch the woman pounding out the fou fou, with a toddler strapped to her back. She let Jacques take pictures easily.

After lunch, we went back to the seminars. I finally decided to brave the bathrooms there. I was shocked to find out that the bathrooms in Togo are generally unisex stalls with a common sink and towels. It was a little sad to me that SIL had to put a sign on the door in French that said “don’t urinate in the showers”.

Today was the day I tried Ablouey, which is a kind of pot that is baked. It’s a little sweeter and breadier than pot, so it’s my favorite Togolese dish after fou-fou. I had it with grilled goat cheese cubes, which reminded me of Indian food (palak paneer). They were delicious.

In the evening I went out again with Jean, Jacques, and George. This time we went to a place George knew for grilled pork. It was a little more upscale than the previous place. I guess I’d gotten acclimated to Togo because I found it weird eating with a fork and not having a bowl to wash my hands in. The food wasn’t as good as the previous night, and not just because I got a hold of a hot pepper that brought tears to my eyes.

On the way back we stopped at the Shell station, which seemed to be the center of commerce in Kara. I looked around at the buses and bush taxis. Buses here were minivans, similar to a minivan used as marshrutka or routiera in Moldova. However, the buses in Togo are smaller, and all of the goods are tied to the roof of the car and covered with a tarp. Bush taxis are trucks with large covered flatbeds that manage to look less comfortable than a crowded minivan.

The seminars went better today, as I focused more on practical points of teaching content and less on theory or technique. We had an especially interesting discussion on the media in Togo. I wasn’t surprised to hear that the newspapers were biased, but I was extremely surprised to hear two groups of teachers say that they felt drums were the most reliable form of transmitting information. Of course that’s in the villages, not Lome. I saw increasingly how difficult it is to keep teachers there on a time limit. Many teachers kept asking for more time for activities. Jean told me that some teachers, if they have the class before lunch or the end of the day, keep going for 15-30 minutes beyond the end of class time.

Trying pot for the first time

For lunch I headed with Jacques and Jean to the same café as before. This time I tried pot. No, I’m not talking about marijuana. I’m talking about a dish similar to fou-fou, but made from corn. I didn’t like it as much as fou-fou; it tasted like an uncooked tortilla. The chicken I had with it was okay. It came in a sauce with green leafy vegetables that may have been the same kind I had in the gboma. I’m personally convinced it’s the ancestor (or as my dad would say, Kunta Kinte) of collard greens and hot sauce in African American cuisine.

Why is it always fish heads?

Dinner was far more adventurous. I went out to dinner with Jean, Jacques, and Jacques’ friend Joe, who is a regional manager of the Flag brewery in Kara. He knows all of the places in Kara that are or should be selling his beer. He offered to guide us to a place for poisson (fish).

We drove on a dirt road with no lights, at one point through a corn field, to a restaurant. For a second I felt like James Earl Jones in “Field of Dreams”. We sat down at the table outside with limited lighting. On one side was the corn field, and on the other side was a small shack with a grill. One woman fired up the grill and fanned the flames while the other took frozen, whole fish out of a plastic bucket so we could choose our fish. I saw a flat one (maybe flounder?) that didn’t look bad.

While we were waiting, the waitress brought two plastic bowls: one filled with soapy water to wash our hands, and the other filled with clean water to rinse. We all used the same bowl for rinsing.

The fish was served whole, which wasn’t anything new for me. It was seasoned with the same spices I’d had on the chicken in Lome, and topped with chopped onions and tomatoes. I’ve noticed that onions and tomatoes are the main vegetables used with all haute meat dishes here. The plate was finished with four sauces: 1) tomato sauce (like ketchup), 2) mayonnaise, 3) Dijon mustard, and 4) hot sauce. It was also served with a plate of fermented pot, which was cut in medium-sized white chunks and had the taste of vinegar.

It was at this table watching everyone eat that I realized all week I had forgotten about the rule in Togo: You only eat with your right hand. The left hand, as one teacher said, is saved for “special activities” (of the bathroom kind). I must say eating fish that hasn’t been deboned using only one hand is quite challenging. But it was easy compared to looking at Jacques’ plate and realizing he had eaten everything on the fish, including the head. Jacques said I should start by taking out the eyes, but that thought horrified me.

I tried to work up the nerve to do that by eating around the edges of the head, but I had to close my eyes as I pulled the meat away. Finally, Jacques and Joe agreed to split it. Jacques asked me to put my hand inside the empty, open space of the head and pull. I completely balked. I handed Jacques the plate and washed my hands, not looking back until the food was gone. Christine from DIFOP later told me that in her tribe, offering somebody the fish head is a sign you hate the person. So at least I wasn’t the only one in Togo who doesn’t think much of
fish heads.

I followed Jacques to the car. That’s when he told me that there were “bad herbs” on the path and he wanted to pull the car over so we’d avoid walking in them. I hadn’t seen or felt any, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t get touched by them. I was starting to believe that while Ukraine had utility roulette (which one are you going to lose?), Togo has disease roulette. If malaria, yellow fever, dengue fever, and intestinal problems don’t get you, African poison ivy just might.

It was a beautiful sunny morning when the rooster started crowing at 6:30. Mary said that didn’t wake her up, but the morning call to prayer at the local mosque did.

We hit the road at 8:00 am for SIL. The first seminar went okay, but the second one proved time consuming and challenging. Half an hour into the lunch break some teachers were still working on the task I needed to check.

First fou-fou

Jacques, Jean and I went to the restaurant where Jacques had waited while Jean and I walked around the market. Jacques had enjoyed the fou fou there, and wanted some more. I of course had never had fou fou, but was interested in learning what it was. It turned out to be mashed cassava, but pounded to a thicker consistency than mashed potatoes. I was instructed to pull a piece of it off with my hands and dip it in a delicious tomato-and-hot pepper sauce. There was also goat meat served in the sauce. I’d never seen goat skin, but it was so dark and rubbery looking I didn’t eat it.

Before we ate, we poured water over our hands over a plastic bowl on the middle of the table. After we ate, we did this again. I noticed on the table there was also a small blue square that looked like chalk for a pool stick. Jean told me it was soap. I used it and have to say it felt like chalk for a pool stick, too. But it did the job.

As we ate, many children came around the tables selling cheap odds and ends—Q-tips (cotton swabs), shoe polish, flashlights, etc. We ignored them, or Jean told them to go away. One kid with bundles of short, thick sticks caught my eye. I asked John if they were firestarters. However, he replied that villagers use the sticks to clean their teeth. I was stunned. Jacques said, “I told you at the airport you would see some strange things here.”

I decided I had to buy these sticks, just to remember the story. I asked the young boy, “how much”? I heard, “cinquante cent francs”. I knew “cinq” meant “five” and “cent” meant “hundred”. So I concluded that this must have meant “500 francs” ($1). I gave him 500 hundred and he gave me many bundles of sticks. When Jean saw my bundle of bundles, he said, “How much did you give the kid? $250?” I said, “no, I gave him 500. He said cinquante cent francs.” Jean then told me I misunderstood. The kid had pointed to the smaller bundle and said “50” (cinquante) and to the larger bundle and said “100” (cent). Moreover, each stick can be split into 2-3 thinner pieces for cleaning one’s teeth. Which means I bought enough for 5 families. And some of you are getting some very weird stocking stuffers at Christmas. 😉

Learning about life in Togo

Too soon it was back to work. As we were heading back, it started to rain. Hard. In the middle of one seminar, we lost power. I asked the teachers what they do when they lose power in their classes. They said they continue working; it’s not a big deal. However, some complained about trying to listen to me talk while the rain was pounding the windows; they suggested in the future that I stop class until the rain lets up. It was the first of many signs that Togolese culture is the exact opposite of American culture. In the last seminar, for example, I learned that not only do Togolese not value space or privacy as Americans do, they find such values literally laughable. I also learned that in at least one group of teachers, weddings and funerals are considered “informal” activities for which being on time is not important. Only a school exam was considered a formal activity for which being on time is required. It is also so serious that students are instructed to bring their own candle and a match in case the exam building loses power.

Strange dinner at the hotel

By the time we finished the seminars and the debriefing with the DIFOP trainers, it was well after 7. We went back to the hotel and agreed to give the hotel restaurant a try. I was a little skeptical at how good the food would be, but Jean assured me it would be fine. Feeling game (pun intended), I decided to try the “pintade”, a guinea fowl. It was served with couscous and vegetables in a tomato sauce. The fowl was tougher than chicken; I would not order it again. The vegetable sauce was okay but not exciting. Meanwhile, Jacques had found a friend up the road and had been allowed to bring a similar dish from this friend into the same dining room. It was very strange that the restaurant would allow outside food.

The road to Kara

Another program driver, Alex, picked me up at the Hotel Ibis around 8:00 in the morning. He was a little late because of the rain. We then drove through the city to pick up Mary at her walled compound on a small dirt road. Then we began our 420-km journey to Kara.

On the way to Kara I saw many villages with huts, though it seemed many of the huts were used for cooking and storing motorcycles. Other homes were made out of mud brick. The richest homes had concrete walls and tin roofs.

On the sides of the road I saw many women and children walking with bags, tin bowls, or bundles of wood on their heads. They wrapped cloth into a small, flat circle to act as a buffer or balance between the object and their head. Sometimes children were
carrying bowls of water to their house. Mary said in many villages there is no running water and no electricity.

I saw two other things on the side of the road. Many women and children left squares of crushed corn or cassava on the side of the road to dry out. Sometimes it was on a tarp or canvas, sometimes it was directly on the street. I also saw cars or trucks broken down on the side of the road. Sometimes the vehicle placed a series of leaves in front of and behind the vehicle
to tell other drivers there had been a breakdown. It reminded me of the branches left in Ukraine and Moldova to warn pedestrians about uncovered potholes.

I thought I had read in my guidebook that I would see grassland, something like the movie “Out of Africa”. And apparently if one goes near the Burkina border one can see just that. Instead what I saw were lush, tropical valleys and hills, and the occasional river.

We arrived in Kara about 2:00 and checked into the Hotel Concorde. Mary and I had a quick drink, a Gatorade-like diet soda called Sport Aktif, at the hotel bar/restaurant. Mary had wanted to eat something before her 3:00 meeting, but the cook had run off to the market.

Lunch and the market in Kara

Alex took Mary to her meeting, and Jacques took Jean (the local assistant to Mary) and I to a restaurant for lunch. Thinking of Mary’s advice that eggs are always safe (and safer than fish or lettuce) I had an egg-tomato “omelet sandwich”. It was excellent—because this is a Francophone country, you can get good bread and omelets anywhere. The price was reasonable too (less than $1). I also tried Castel Beer, which was good.

After lunch, Jean asked what I wanted to do. I said I wanted to walk around and see the city, or see the markets. So we walked a bit around the Grande Marche (Large Market) of Kara. The arrangement of the vendors and the road conditions reminded me a lot of one of the piazzas in Chisinau, Moldova. There were of course some differences. Some stands had a pot of hot oil with plaintains or cassava cooking in them. My favorite one so far has been the stand with chicken wings in a spicy red sauce—it looked like Buffalo wings back home.

I saw many fruits and vegetables for sale. The cucumbers looked okay, but the tomatoes and peppers seemed very small and appeared to be going bad. The bananas were a little overripe but looked good displayed in circles on trays. I saw dried cassava and took a picture—it looks like chalk. I also saw the biggest yams I’ve ever seen, and took a picture of that too.

I bought a few things in the market. I bought a palm fan like the one I saw at the Hotel Ibis restaurant. I saw what I call “babushka bags”, the plaid nylon bags old women sell in Ukraine and Moldova and which are also popular in China and India. But I saw more than plaid; I saw solid colors and pictures of birds and places like New York or Italy. I had to have some of the new styles. With Jean’s help I got them at a bargain.

First day of work

We went back to the hotel so I could take a brief rest and check out the two channels on TV. Then we drove to SIL, the language institute run by a bible translation service. This is where the meetings would be held. I was surprised to see such a large complex with Western money built on a dirt road near goats and chickens.

Upon arrival, I met some of the teacher trainers from the Ministry of Foreign Languages, called DIFOP. At 6:00, Jean welcomed everyone, and then had me take the floor. I am used to the unexpected, but the only thing I could think to do was turn it into an icebreaker activity, and then ask teachers to tell me about teaching in Togo. The most surprising tidbit was that the average class size is not 50 but 80 students; some schools have as many as 120 packed in. I could only hope what I was teaching would be applicable in such large groups.

Hangin’ with the PCVs

Mary called the Peace Corps volunteers she knew of in the area, and arranged to meet them near the hotel at a restaurant called Le Chateau. Eddie from L.A. and Mike and his wife (whose name escapes me now) from North Carolina were with Mary in the air conditioned room of the restaurant playing pool, drinking beer and sodas, and eating pizza. They told me some hairraising stories about bad taxi rides, sleeping outside because it was too hot inside, and more. It was quite enlightening.

Early start

I woke up at 6:30 in the morning. Not because of jet lag, but because on the beach I heard music again. Drums and bells. It sounded like the final lap of a race. When I opened the curtains, I saw men in shorts and tank tops running. I later asked a program driver about it, and he said different groups go running for exercise. Along the way they play drums or bells.

The musical wakeup call was my first opportunity to see Lome in the daytime. It was only then that I realized my hotel room had a view of the beach, the ocean, the restaurant, and the hotel pool. It was so beautiful, I didn’t mind that I had to get up at 6:30
a.m. to see it. By the third weekend though, I was wishing I could sleep in a bit later.

Second haggle

Mary, the program officer who arranged my visit, picked me up at the hotel a little before 12. She knew I needed to use an ATM, and said she needed to as well. Afterwards we could go somewhere for lunch.

I got into her car, a large Toyota station wagon. I was surprised and impressed that she would be willing to drive in Togo, let alone in such a large and expensive car. I found out later that she has worked in the region for many years and is married to a guy
from Benin, so she has learned to cope more or less with the road conditions. Also, the car had been bought at the port of Lome so it wasn’t that expensive.

We drove to the nearest bank, which I learned later from my map is on Rue de Commerce. As we got out of the car, a man approached us trying to sell necklaces. They looked nice, but I didn’t want to get into bargaining just then. We got our money at the ATM machine while a security guard sat a few yards away, then we went to the nearby supermarket. Many of the
products were French, and many were grain-based. The only things that stood out as unusual to me were the peanuts in old liquor bottles, halal meat (15 percent of Togo is Muslim), and the chocolate bars in the refrigerator section. It was also at the supermarket that I saw some good postcards; Mary said it was probably a good place to buy them so I did.

As we left the supermarket, another gift seller approached us to see if we wanted to buy anything. He had some cloth purses and pencil cases that looked interesting. I passed on the leather wallets and the leather-covered fruit knife. I chose two cloth purses
and a pencil case. Mary helped me get a price that left me fleeced but not completely fleeced. As I was getting ready to leave, a woman wrapped a cloth in traditional African colors around my waist. I don’t think anyone has done that to me since I wore a hula
skirt in Hawaii, and given that I was 5 years old and don’t remember much about the Hawaii trip I’m not even sure about that. It seemed to be a good fit. Again, I probably paid too much but Mary helped me get a halfway decent price. As I was leaving, the same lady gave me a bead bracelet, which she said was a “cadeaux” (a gift). For some reason, I was touched by that generosity. I wear it all the time now.

Mary said at that point we were at the entrance to the artisans’ market. I was stunned to hear that. The road into the market was a dirt one, and the stands looked quite ramshackle. It didn’t seem like a proper home for artisans. I was afraid if I didn’t leave
soon I’d spend all my money in one day. Mary said when I got back from Kara, she’d have a Togolese person take me shopping so I wouldn’t get ripped off. Plus by then I’d have a better sense of the country and of the value of goods.

As we were getting in the car, the man with the beads approached us again. Again they were tempting, but now I was sure we didn’t have time for that. He seemed pretty angry about that, especially since he could see I’d bought stuff elsewhere. He was even standing in the car doorway, and I feel lucky that I could eventually get the car door closed. But I did and we took off towards the center of town.

Lunch in Lome

As we were driving, Mary saw a croissant place and suggested we stop in. It looked a little dingy, but I didn’t want to be picky. However, it turned out that although they advertised croissants, they didn’t have any. Nor did they have coffee. The shwarma and fries looked good, but Mary said sometimes lettuce has bacteria in it, and if I was going upcountry, I shouldn’t risk getting an infection. She said she knew another good Lebanese place, so we drove over there. It’s next to the Hotel Palm Beach, which she said was walking distance from my hotel if I go in the daytime and don’t carry a big purse. I never got brave enough to walk back though.

Instead of Lebanese food, I opted for a French ham and cheese sandwich (served on a baguette panini-style) and “Cocktail du Togo”—a blended drink of avocado, banana, mango, and honey. The cocktail sounded awful when I first read the description, but then I thought, when I will I have another chance to drink a cocktail du Togo? And although the green color from the avocado was slightly off-putting, I couldn’t taste it so the drink was delicious.

Second night at the hotel

Mary drove me back to the hotel around 2:00. I put the essentials into my wallet with a strap, left my purse in the hotel, and started to walk along the beach. The street food and street people looked interesting. I might have walked on further, but the
clouds started to gather. I just barely made it back into the hotel before the storm hit. I was a little disappointed—I wanted to walk around more. By the time the storm had passed and I was motivated to leave the hotel room, it was nearly dark. I was afraid to be out on the street alone at night given all the warnings I’d heard. There were taxis and motortaxis which could have provided a fun adventure, but I wasn’t sure where to go or how I’d get a safe taxi back to the hotel (a leftover paranoia from my recent trip to Mexico City, where taxis are a target for bandits). I probably also would have been overcharged for the ride. I thought about the Hotel Ibis café/bar/disco across the street, but when I checked it out at 3:00 p.m. it looked pretty seedy and I was sure at 6:00 p.m. it would look even seedier.

In the end, I decided to stay in the Ibis compound. I went to the bar downstairs and tried an “Eku”. It’s a Bavarian beer that is bottled in Togo. It was very good. The bar staff offered me peanuts to go with it, then toasted coconut. Yum.

I went to dinner at the same hotel restaurant I’d been at the night before. This time I decided to branch out and try an African dish, gboma dessi. I wonder if the waiter, Ambroise, was surprised at my choice; he made a point of saying it was a Togolese dish and then gestured to the plant on the table to indicate I’d be eating a plant. I asked if it was hot (since cooked plants generally can’t hurt people as much as raw ones can) and he said it was. So I went for it.

I feel bad that I couldn’t finish all of it, and not just because I paid 6000 CFAs for it. It was spinach, meat, and fish in a brown spicy pasty sauce. The rice on the side helped balance out the heat of the dish. I could have done without the crab claws and crab body on and in the dish, but other than that it was great. The waiter asked if I wanted dessert, but I pointed at my stomach and said I couldn’t. He said in English, “tomorrow, don’t eat outside.” I laughed and said next time I wouldn’t.

Arrival and immigration

When the plane arrived from Paris at Eyadema airport in Lome at 6:30 p.m, it was already dark. Nevertheless, I could make out palm trees around the airport. My UCR colleague Carol, who spent 3 years as a Peace Corps volunteer in nearby Burkina Faso and
visited Lome many times, had raved to me about the palm trees. I didn’t see how palm trees could be exotic coming from California, but the palm trees in Togo really are different. There are two kinds: one with tall thin trunks and short thin palm fronds, and
the other short with long, broad fronds. Both sway easily in the warm gentle breeze.

I got off the plane and walked to the terminal. My “expediter” was waiting just inside the entrance. It was the first time I’d ever had assistance BEFORE going through immigration and customs. He took me to the front of the line and the officer stamped my
passport without saying a word or checking my yellow fever vaccination. I put my bags through the x-ray machine, and then I was out.

First haggle

In the airport there were a couple of men playing drums. They had a series of paintings on the ground in front of them. My expediter asked me to sit down at the café near these men while he went to check on another American who was still getting his visa. I ordered a Sprite. The price was 900 CFA (a central African currency, pronounced “Sefa”), which I calculated should have been about $1.50. I didn’t have CFA, only dollars, so the waiter asked me for $2. I gave the waiter the two dollars, but when he came back with the Sprite he informed me it was $3. I was ripped off.

As I was drinking a Sprite, one of the men playing drums came up to me and smiled. He talked to me in English
with a heavy accent. He laid a painting and some shells on the table. He asked if I was interested in buying it. The one on the table was nice but it was dark brown and not my style. I asked to see a light blue one instead, which turned out to be a group of
women carrying baskets on their heads. I had to admit it was beautiful.

Then the bargaining began. He said it would be 20,000 CFAs (about $40). I told him I didn’t have CFAs, and asked how much it would be in dollars. He said it would be $100! I said in French that was crazy. He asked how much I wanted to pay, and I said $10. I knew that was a ridiculously low price, but I really wanted to pay $20 or $25 so I knew I had to start at $10 to get to $25.

In the meantime, my expediter came and looked over the painting. It was through his inspection that I realized it had been painted on the back of a cutout from a large canvas bag that had been used to carry other goods such as rice or flour. It wasn’t framed
in any way and I started to wonder how to hang something so soft. But I still liked it, so I gave the drummer a final price of $25, and he took the money. Then he said it would be $25 times two. I don’t like having a price accepted and then raised. I
said $25 yes or no; he gave me the money back. But he gave me the shells for free, and his phone number so I could call him in the morning before he went to the beach. I’m still not sure what that was about. Then he went to the bar. When he came back, he said he talked to his friend and found out the right exchange rate. (That was probably a ruse to save face.) Then
he agreed to sell me the painting for $25. Ironically, I probably would have gone up to $40 or $45, and was now feeling like I had fleeced him instead of the other way around. I even thought about buying a second painting, but was barely sure what I’d
do with the first one and didn’t feel like bargaining again.

The Hotel Ibis

Finally, I got in the car with the program driver to the hotel. The driver, Jacques, was a university student during the day and he spoke English very well. He pointed out how many motorbikes there were on the road, and said that I might be surprised to see women carrying things on their heads. I did see women carrying things like large baskets and plastic jugs, and even with the painting I’d just bought I was surprised at the sight. I also saw many people selling goods on the street, with a homemade kerosene lamp for light.

Jacques dropped me off at the Hotel Ibis. As I got into my room, I heard African music in the distance. I asked the porter what it was from; he said from the beach. But like my guidebook and Jacques, he informed me that the beach was dangerous at night and I
shouldn’t go there. Since it wasn’t safe to walk around, I decided to go to the hotel restaurant. Although I’d had an excellent dinner and lunch courtesy of Air France, I needed another big meal to take my anti-malarial pills with.

The restaurant turned out to be an outdoor grill near the pool, covered with a large hutlike roof. It was very relaxing. In the morning though, I found several bug bites because I’d failed to put on my DEET. So far I have no symptoms of malaria.

I ordered the grilled chicken legs and a large (1.5 L) bottle of water to take my pill with. I watched the cook over the grill as she fanned the smoke and flames with a fan that appeared to be made from woven palm leaves. I watched the other chef cook omlettes in a castiron skillet, steam vegetables and boil fresh spaghetti in a steel pot, and fry French fries in a Western-style basket.

The food was surprisingly good. The legs were grilled and seasoned with salt, garlic, and one or two other spices I couldn’t identify. It was delicious. The vegetables were merely two slices of cucumber, but I could forgive that given the quality of the chicken. There were two sauces on the side: one that was mayonnaise-based but had extra seasoning in it, and a second which was a tomato-flavored chutney; it tasted like a thick spaghetti sauce. The total for this was 6700 CFAs (at the hotel’s exchange rate, $14.25). A bit pricey, but worth the convenience and ambience.