Sunday, December 18, 2011

Dope Nose

Note: I'm thinking of submitting this for a Peace Corps published magazine, "Perspectives," that they have in Togo. Tell me if I'm full of shit or not.
        I can’t speak for everyone but I have to say that the lack of a genuine French equivalent for the word “awkward” has been a matter of concern for me. The word itself is so all-encompassing of the interactions I have here with my Togolese counterparts (adults and especially children), Administration, and even other PCVs, the people I am closest to, who have only seen me in this extremely high pressure situation of Peace Corps in West Africa. We may have acclimated, ou bien, habitué-d to our environment here, but everybody deals and reacts with living and working in a foreign country differently. Me? I’m awkward. So. Awkward. Oh, hey, boutique-lady down the street. You’re telling me (something) about change for (something) I just bought at your store and then you’re going to just stand there and stare at me. Okay, maybe my français vraiment n’est pas encore arrivé, so I’m going to apologize profusely and rummage around in my purse until you start to laugh and say that you messed up on the proper change, hand me some coins, and walk away, still shaking your head and giggling. Or there’s walking down the street with a local guy when a kid runs out, stares at me and screams “YOVO YOVO!” On my own that’s usually fine. If I’m in a cordial mood I might say, “B yin Konjit” (“They call me Konjit”) to set the little bugger straight, or if not in such an expansive mood I might say “WHAT?” or “Yooooo!” and attempt a high-five. However when I’m with another Togolese there’s an awkward pause, the other person clearly wondering if they should let it be or start scolding the kid in Moba or French.
                The closest word I can find for “awkward” is “maladroit” (also the name of a great Weezer album, yes). I use it all the time with the rationalization that I’m sure the person I’m speaking to will “get it,” which is usually my excuse for my spoken French overall. Volunteers with our 10 weeks of professional-grade language training probably get that it’s etymologically “mal à droit,” or “badly/poorly right.” So… “not right,” I guess, yeah, which would be an accurate way of describing many of my interactions here.
                The most recent glaring example of maladroit in my life would come from a meeting I had with my homologue, the director of the CVD and some professional development official who’s from Lome. The villagers wanted latrines. Naturally. They also want a new CEG. Makes sense. We went over a list of eight items I thought I could help them with, but many of them involved money. I had explained to them going into this that I am not an NGO, I do not give money, and they assured me that they did understand this. However, they started giving me the names of NGOs and organizations that can give money, such as the Catholic Church in France. I asked them if they had already approached them for the money they need.
I could see the conversation circling about, with a lot of eye-rolling and sheepish glances to the ground. I fixed my smile in place and saw my foot start to jiggle faster and faster, waiting for the response I knew was coming yet still made it difficult to breathe. It finally got to the color of my skin. As a blanche, maybe I could push the NGOs a little more, make them work a little faster or more in my village’s favor. I’m sure my smile was crooked when I made no promises to these middle-aged men but assured them that we would try our best.
                “Mal” as “badly” or even “wrongly,” “droit” as “right”: both of left versus right, and of the concept of rights. This was bad. This was badly, poorly, not “right.”

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Chakpa

I figure it’s finally time to fill you all in on the secret to not going insane or ETing up here in Savanes: it’s made in trash buckets and consumed via a hollowed-out gourd, called a calabash. Chakpa, ou bien, “dam” in Moba, is a fermented millet beer that is drank all day, every day, by people up north. It’s slightly alcoholic to begin with and as the day progresses and it ferments more in its plastic serving bucket it becomes stronger. Chakpa stands after 5pm can get rowdy, as a friend here can attest to. There’s no shame in being drunk in public here, nor is there an inappropriate hour to start drinking. A lot of farmers in my village seem to function on a slight buzz, even filling up bottles and bringing it to the fields with them for lunch. Chakpa fulfills a lot of roles: the chakpa stand is the social gathering place (okay and when I say “stand” I really mean a woman sitting under shade of some kind with her chakpa buckets, some calabashes with a rinsing bowl for after each use, and maybe a few benches. Sitting on tree roots or rocks is always an option). Selling chakpa also gives women a little extra income – hardly any, as a calabash up here goes for 50 cfa, but seeing as the farmers grow the millet themselves, the ingredients are basically free. To get more into the (unfortunate) health aspect, it’s the cheapest way to feel full and it keeps the kids quiet.
                Side note: I was hanging out at a stand once and a bunch of men were pointing and laughing at a little girl, maybe 2 years old, who was slugging chakpa out of a calabash like it was her job. I asked them why it was funny – I mean, I knew why I thought it was nuts, but maybe the guys had a different opinion? – and they told me it’s because she’s Fulani, an ethnic group that’s primarily Muslim thus forbidden to consume alcohol. So, you know, in my subtle manner I asked them if they thought she was going to be punished by an angry parent ou bien God-même and they said, nah, she’s too young. She doesn’t know any better, that’s all. Aaahh, THAT’S why it’s okay. Seriously though, the kids down south are so much more rowdy and annoying. Just saying. Also, one of my favorite chakpa stand scenes has got to be the woman holding a breastfeeding baby with one hand and a calabash in the other.
                Of course, poverty and boredom come into play. The Russians have vodka, the British have gin, we have chakpa. After planting and harvest, subsistence farmers really have nothing to do and if it’s not a marché day the women claim that they do nothing either because, you know, running the house doesn’t count. If you were bored, tired, and hungry, wouldn’t going through life with a little buzz make everything a little rosier? I know that it’s made my assimilation much easier here. I can’t throw a rock without hitting a chakpa stand in my village, so all I have to do is stroll outside, sit down for a while, and become increasingly more tolerant of people excitedly yelling at me in Moba. That’s how a few volunteers up here have learned their Moba, actually – it’s like having a language class in a bar. The women in my village rotate who makes the chakpa for which day, and I’ve already found my favorites. My homologue’s wife makes the best in Dampiong (Sundays and Thursdays), and the woman who lives across the “street” is sure to bring me a free liter of it every Wednesday morning, the carafe perched jauntily on her head and not spilling a drop. I’m usually down for the count on Wednesdays until mid-afternoon, yeah.
                On my way to the market on market days, chakpa stands dot the sides of the road and I tend to get flagged down by people who invite me for a drink. It’s completely gauche to not accept somebody’s invitation, so I roll on over and sit down to have my “goût,” which is the free first taste that the chakpa-lady, called the “diengal,” gives every customer, and by “goût” I mean the calabash is half-full and people who have visited from other regions claim that our bowls are the biggest. The person who does the inviting always pays for the drinks of the invitee, as well as anyone the invitee has with them. It’s also completely fine to give away some or all of the chakpa you are given. Just hold out your calabash and ask if anybody wants some – frankly, if it wasn’t for that social nicety I probably wouldn’t make it to Dapaong on market days. I’ve lately been buying a “demi,” which is about a liter served from a carafe, and send it around to the other people at the stand. It’s a good way to get people to like me, what can I say?