Harmattan is the dry season here in Togo, and it is also considered the cold season. This means that when you walk down the street you feel like your lungs are being coated with a layer of orange dust and your eyes swell with tears due to the high concentration of dirt in the air. It’s pleasantly chilly at night and in the mornings, temperatures dropping to around 50-60 degrees Fahrenheit. Togolese people ask me, “How do you like Togo? How do you like the cold?” It takes a lot of will not to say, honey, you don’t know cold.
My first day at post (the town where I will be living for two years, the name of which I can not mention) was also Tabasky, a holiday celebrated by Muslim Kotokoli people here in Togo. I was drawn to the music and costumes as I was wandering the town trying to comprehend the fact that this town is my new home. I was standing on the outskirts of the tent which encompassed a huge crowd of people of all ages and genders dressed in traditional outfits but accented by bright colored sunglasses, hats and shoes that one might find when visiting a vintage shop with 1970’s garb. The mélange of traditional dress with outrageous Western style is a microcosm of how modernity has touched these traditional societies. It’s also oh so very hip. As soon as the men who were dj-ing the fete saw me standing there, they invited me to sit under the tent, gratuie, of course. I accepted, swept in by the excitement of the loud drums, sequined headscarves and candy. I had barely sat down, when I was told, “Il faut danser”, or “It is necessary for you to dance” and I found myself in the middle of the circle trying to awkwardly imitate the one other person who was the center of attention with me in front of at least 300 people. Then someone put a scarf around my neck and started pressing play money on my forehead, which stuck since I was so hot, and throwing hard candy at me. At the same time someone else was handing me pastries. Each dance move was a step out of my comfort zone and after the song was finally over I jetted out of there before I could be talked into another dance.
I’ve learned not to feel too awkward or embarrassed in these extremely uncomfortable situations, as the people I’ve encountered do not hold me to the same standards as I hold myself. Togolese people actually tell me my French is good and that they didn’t think Americans could speak French. For example, I was invited to observe a club meeting for “fille leaders” or girl leaders at the CEG (junior high). “Observe” being the keyword, I hadn’t prepared anything to present or teach. After a half an hour past when the club was scheduled to commence, there were no adults there but me. The girls of the club informed me that they were told an American would be running the club. The “American” was presumptively me, so I had 30 minutes improvise a presentation in French. Usually when I give any presentation in French, I prepare ahead of time with a dictionary and maybe practice pronunciation in front of a native speaker. But this was on the fly, so I just talked about America, something I know pretty well, and led a debate on gender equity in Togo. I thought it was a total bust, but the girls truly appreciated it. The girls walked me home, offered me non-fermented tchouk, offered to take me to climb the one tiny mountain in town and seemed completely unconcerned with the quality of my presentation. Alas, my panic attack was not as severe when the exact same situation occurred again the next week at the high school for the club of girl leaders there.
The students in Togo have a 2-week holiday vacation for Christmas and New Year’s Day. Therefore, my work for the last two weeks has been heavier on the cultural integration side than on technical work, since most of my work will be done in schools or with apprentices. I’ve spent time trying to form relationships with Togolese women and girls. I have a new friend who is a couturiere and has her own atelier to make clothes. We’ve been sharing meals and hanging out all week. She cooks the most delicious Togolese food, like fufu (pounded yams) with sauce arichide et tomate (peanut tomato sauce with hot peppers and fresh –as opposed to dried and crunchy- fish) that you eat with your right hand. Call it integration - or hunger - but I’ve truly enjoyed vrai Togolese food for the first time while eating at her house. It’s still a bit of a stressful situation because as soon as she senses that I’m slowing down eating the meal she says “Il faut terminer la fufu” or “It is nessecary that you eat all of the fufu.” I told her that I want to be skinny, like her (she is beautiful and thin and could be a model in America), and don’t want to eat too much. She told me that it’s an insult to call a Togolese person skinny. I feel like I’m in this alternate universe where you have to eat yourself sick to make friends and being chunky is the beauty ideal.
