Maman had heard we were coming, but she hadn't the credit to call me and confirm it. When the Peace Corps van rolled into Nyogbo, Maman was at the end of the driveway, standing behind a table containing bowls, colognes, and expensive woven shirts. I waved to her, and she stared at me, which I always take to mean, "Oh, really, so you're back now?" but which I like to think is just Maman's way of saying, "You're home, and this is good, this is what normal should be."
Catching up started as it always does; I complained about my village, Maman gave out the locations and status of my host-siblings, all away on summer break except Daniel. Daniel was shy at first, like he was at the funeral, but he remembered me, and after some minimal prodding he was showing me the completed pages of the coloring book I'd brought for him a year ago, as well as his new cat, Chance. "Tony, regardes." He picked Chance up by her back, turned her upside down, and without hesitation threw the cat feet up into the air. When she landed on her feet and tried to slink away, he laughed and grabbed her and repeated the trick six or seven more times. Daniel's smile is more space than teeth.
We were in town for just three days, designing the training program for the new group coming soon. I'll be teaching them about the joys of working in the Togolese school system. Yippee. Because we were there as volunteer trainers and not trainees, we slept at the tech house, and not with our host families. Many of us ate from fufu stands along the road, or grabbed cent francs of koliko and fried plantains. Aside from a communal trip to a fancy restaurant in the nearby bigger town, and pizza night at Edith's house, I ate every meal with Maman and Daniel. Couscous with fried chicken and veggies; rice and tuna spaghetti sauce; koliko and fried plantains with spaghetti and chicken; etc.
Meal time was Our Time during training. If I wasn't helping prepare (they only let me do that rarely), I was always sitting on a small stool in the kitchen, talking to Maman, Kommi, and Angel while they cooked, playing with Daniel while we waited to eat. Then, because the children ate apart from us, and Papa usually enjoyed his meals in the living room, Maman and I would sit across from each other at the table and go over the day's events. This visit, things were no different, except, of course, that Papa was not there.
I'd been wanting to ask her about how she's been since his death, but didn't know how to approach the subject. On our last day in town, eating the spaghetti she'd prepared for me the night before, not knowing that I was at the fancy restaurant, I saw an in to the subject and took it. "Since he died, I don't understand anything," she said. Well, I said, all we can do is keep living. God knows his affairs.
It was at this last comment, a common one in Togo, that she looked up. She seemed tired, like a person who has finally settled for an argument by giving up her side completely. "Do you believe that?" she asked. "I guess I have to," I said. She stared at her plate, resigned, and said simply, "Oh."
One of our big lunchtime discussions during training had been about religion. Maman had pried out of me that I didn't go to any church, and that this was a conscious decision. We had a conversation eerily reminiscent of one my grandmother and I had had years ago, and almost as reassuring. God was what she loved, church was just the easiest way to get to him sometimes.
The distance between these two conversations is a long and disturbing whisper. I don't believe in religion, but I believe in Faith, in the comfort and necessity of believing in something beyond yourself. Often, we rely on this Faith, attribute to it powers, make it divine, expect it to let things ride when all is well, and to support us when times are hard. It is there to explain the inexplicable. When it can't, there is no hope, simply devastation.
Monday, September 15, 2008
DFW, 1962-2008
David Foster Wallace is dead.
There's the old cliche which has now reared its head with the news of his death: "His writing meant so much to me." I can't see any way to get around that.
It was just so damn good. I've recommended him to anybody I've ever met who likes writing.
I'd like to write more, but I never knew him beyond his writing, and I think speculation on his final thoughts (which I can't help but to do) would be grotesque and insensitive to put in writing on a fan's stupid blog.
Read him.
Monday, July 7, 2008
So Shines a Good Deed in a Weary World
Gene Wilder is a genius. On my two most recent trips to the regional transit house, I've watched the old Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I love the song "Pure Imagination." My favorite scene is the one I hated most as a child: on the boat, going through the tunnel, images of insects crawling across people's faces, of a chicken being decapitated; Wonka reciting, at first calmly and lyrically, but then hysterically, madly:
There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing
Is it raining?
Is it snowing?
Is a hurricane a-blowing?
Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of hell a-glowing?
Is the grisly reaper mowing?
Yes, the danger must be growing
'Cause the rowers keep on rowing
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing
Absolute madness. In one of the next scenes everyone (save the chocolate-drinking German boy and his mother) is passing through a room with strips of fruit-patterned lickable wallpaper. Wonka is giddy as a child. "The strawberries taste like strawberries! The snozzberries taste like snozzberries!" Veruca Salt, the little bitch, turns to Wonka and says, "Snozzberries? Who ever heard of a snozzberry?" Wonka grabs her spoiled little face by the cheeks and says "We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams."
The first day that the kids learned to play, one of the professors at the primary school came over with some friends to drink. I am not a fan of this man. Two wives, ten children, overweight, and unfunny. The boys were playing as he sat down, callabash in hand. Adele, who had just served him, came back under the paillote to get into the game. "What's she doing?" the fat man said. "She doesn't know how to play." This man often walks into my house without knocking, and his idea of a joke is to tell me he's going to sleep with my girlfriend. "She knows how to play," I said. "C'est toi qui ne sais rien." Adele slapped in, and won the game.
It sounds crazy to make this connection, but I believe that the card games have given Adele more self-confidence. She smiles more often, and won't let the boys cheat her when they play. I haven't even seen her get hit in a long time. She still gets yelled at occasionally, but no more so than the boys. And when the brat cries, he's left to cry.
Even the village seems to be nicer. Recently, a middle-aged man was watching the kids play, and when the game was finished, he took the cards to teach them another game. It was a partners game, and he put two of the boys together, and set Adele at his side. Many of the things I wish to describe seem so lame in words, but imagine if you can, the impact of this move. With the man as her partner, Adele came into a position of power. Not a significant position, and you could argue that it didn't continue following the end of the game. But whereas a week ago somebody was saying she didn't know a thing about cards, now somebody took the time to teach her, and declare her, by making her his partner, his equal. I only wish the first asshole had been there to see it.
There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing
Is it raining?
Is it snowing?
Is a hurricane a-blowing?
Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of hell a-glowing?
Is the grisly reaper mowing?
Yes, the danger must be growing
'Cause the rowers keep on rowing
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing
Absolute madness. In one of the next scenes everyone (save the chocolate-drinking German boy and his mother) is passing through a room with strips of fruit-patterned lickable wallpaper. Wonka is giddy as a child. "The strawberries taste like strawberries! The snozzberries taste like snozzberries!" Veruca Salt, the little bitch, turns to Wonka and says, "Snozzberries? Who ever heard of a snozzberry?" Wonka grabs her spoiled little face by the cheeks and says "We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams."
--
I've taught the children card games. Togolese kids are absolute murder to a deck of cards, but I won't begrudge them a little over-enthusiasm as long as they're having fun. They've learned Egyptian Rat Screwer, and two forms of Speed, and they play them remarkably well. In turn, I've learned the game Huit Americaines, which is a bit confusing at first, but lots of fun. We often all play together under the paillote, sitting at old school desks in various stages of disintegration. The chickens run around the yard, stalking beneath our feet for discarded peanut shells. The women of the compound prepare meals, or serve tchouk, or sit and watch. When somebody new wants to learn, I have the kids teach them. Nowadays both the women in my compound and even a local pastor can sometimes be found sitting on a small stool in a circle of children, slapping doubles, and sweeping up cards.The first day that the kids learned to play, one of the professors at the primary school came over with some friends to drink. I am not a fan of this man. Two wives, ten children, overweight, and unfunny. The boys were playing as he sat down, callabash in hand. Adele, who had just served him, came back under the paillote to get into the game. "What's she doing?" the fat man said. "She doesn't know how to play." This man often walks into my house without knocking, and his idea of a joke is to tell me he's going to sleep with my girlfriend. "She knows how to play," I said. "C'est toi qui ne sais rien." Adele slapped in, and won the game.
It sounds crazy to make this connection, but I believe that the card games have given Adele more self-confidence. She smiles more often, and won't let the boys cheat her when they play. I haven't even seen her get hit in a long time. She still gets yelled at occasionally, but no more so than the boys. And when the brat cries, he's left to cry.
Even the village seems to be nicer. Recently, a middle-aged man was watching the kids play, and when the game was finished, he took the cards to teach them another game. It was a partners game, and he put two of the boys together, and set Adele at his side. Many of the things I wish to describe seem so lame in words, but imagine if you can, the impact of this move. With the man as her partner, Adele came into a position of power. Not a significant position, and you could argue that it didn't continue following the end of the game. But whereas a week ago somebody was saying she didn't know a thing about cards, now somebody took the time to teach her, and declare her, by making her his partner, his equal. I only wish the first asshole had been there to see it.
--
On occasion I get five or ten francs pieces as change, usually when making a photocopy. They're annoying to have because there's little you can do with them except buy candy. Therefore, I usually save them until a night when I need something from the boutique across the street but am too lazy to go over myself. I'll call a kid over, give him/her the money for the spaghetti or soap or whatever, and then squeeze a ten francs piece into his/her hand. They usually buy the milk candies, little white chewy squares without much flavor, but which are still delicious.
A few weeks ago I'd promised Adele that, since I hadn't brought her anything back from my little trip (I went to Atakpame, or Sokode, or someplace; everybody asks you to bring them something back, it's a cultural thing), I'd get her a sucker from the boutique, which is a whopping twenty-five francs a pop. For some reason I'd never found the time to sneak her the money without the other kids seeing it, or to go myself and get her one. Last Tuesday she was hanging out, doing nothing, and she asked when we could go and get the bonbon (candy). Let's go now, I said.
We looked all over the shelves of the boutique, on the front counter, in the clear buckets, but the suckers were nowhere. "Ils sont finis," the owner said. We had thirty francs on us, so we bought six milk candies instead. "Now," I said to Adele as we walked back home, "I'm going to take one, because I'm hungry. That leaves five. You can share them if you like, or you can have them all to yourself, but if you do that, just make sure you keep them in your pocket so the others don't get jealous." Naturally, I assumed and expected her to keep them for secret treats at night.
We continued in silence, the air sharp and delicious with the scent of the lime trees along the path. After a moment, Adele handed me another candy. "What's this for?" I said. "I want you to have another," she said, "and then I'll give one to Lidao, one to Theo, one to Maman, and keep one for myself." She stored three in her pocket, and took the one she'd reserved for herself, unwrapping it carefully, and bit into it deliberately, neither devouring it, nor savoring it. Her eyes wandered over the corn in the field, the women at the water pump, the fruits hanging from the baobab, and when she looked at me, her mouth broke into her shy smile and she giggled. And let me tell you, I could have stayed right there with her forever.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Il y a la fatigue
How are things, you crazy Americans?
Things here? Okay, I guess.
Don't really feel like talking.
Going to Europe soon, I hope.
Ready to get out of Togo for a bit.
Have stories to tell.
But don't want to write them now.
Au revoir.
Things here? Okay, I guess.
Don't really feel like talking.
Going to Europe soon, I hope.
Ready to get out of Togo for a bit.
Have stories to tell.
But don't want to write them now.
Au revoir.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Hugs and Kisses
Tomorrow, my little brother and sister will turn seventeen. They have jobs and drivers licenses and interests in the other sex. They will be seniors in high school come August. This all freaks me out just a little.
After giving birth, Mom was laid up in bed, exhausted and whatever else women are after having twins. I was six years old. I'd just finished kindergarten, was going to start first grade in the fall. I don't know what Gaetano was doing with his time. Dad, obviouly, was at work.
Mom and Dad had decided to use reusable cloth diapers from a service in lieu of the disposable ones they'd had for Gaetano and me. I don't know if it was the diaper service or the hospital who'd given it, but as I was wandering one day, alone as far as I can remember, bored because those tiny human apostrophes were sleeping, I found an instructional video. How to strap the baby seat in the car. How to burp, I think. And how to fold the cloth diapers.
I guess this is the long of way of telling you that I was the first one at home to change Nick and Anna's diapers. I remember teaching Mom how to do it. Honestly, for all I know, Mom and Dad had done it before and were humoring me, or maybe I just don't remember this well at all. But anyway.
We pushed them around in a twins stroller, a long basket in which they could both lay down. It was a light sky blue, the color you see behind wispy clouds. There was a mosquito net. I remember a day many years later when we all gathered to look at that stroller, and nobody could comprehend how those two were ever tiny enough to fit inside. I still can't imagine it.
We have pictures of their first birthday, when Nick blietzkrieged his cake and Anna negotiated with hers like a one-year old Neville Chamberlain.
I look at recent photos of them, remembering their dirty and dainty birthday faces, and can't help but wonder what the hell's been going on in the past sixteen years that made them decide to grow up.
Anna is still short. When I was in college, if, when I would call home, Anna answered, conversations were often like this:
Hello?
Hey, kiddo, how's it going?
Good.
Still short?
Yup.
Alright. That's all I needed, talk to you later.
One time she actually said, "Okay," and hung up on me.
Nick is gangly; skinny, but muscling out (at least since the last time I saw him). He and I used to lean on the counter in front of the answering machine, thinking of stupid shit to record. If you called us anytime in the past five or six years, you probably heard some of it.
The point is, seventeen is no longer a little kid, though it's not the adult they think it is. But for some reason, no matter how big they get (save Anna), they are always, in some way or another, the tiny little babies sitting in that stroller, in diapers I likely folded around them.
I love those kids. I once made a list of the people in my life I loved the most. Number one was Grandma. Tied for second were those two.
Happy birthday, kiddos. I miss you like hell, and then some.
After giving birth, Mom was laid up in bed, exhausted and whatever else women are after having twins. I was six years old. I'd just finished kindergarten, was going to start first grade in the fall. I don't know what Gaetano was doing with his time. Dad, obviouly, was at work.
Mom and Dad had decided to use reusable cloth diapers from a service in lieu of the disposable ones they'd had for Gaetano and me. I don't know if it was the diaper service or the hospital who'd given it, but as I was wandering one day, alone as far as I can remember, bored because those tiny human apostrophes were sleeping, I found an instructional video. How to strap the baby seat in the car. How to burp, I think. And how to fold the cloth diapers.
I guess this is the long of way of telling you that I was the first one at home to change Nick and Anna's diapers. I remember teaching Mom how to do it. Honestly, for all I know, Mom and Dad had done it before and were humoring me, or maybe I just don't remember this well at all. But anyway.
We pushed them around in a twins stroller, a long basket in which they could both lay down. It was a light sky blue, the color you see behind wispy clouds. There was a mosquito net. I remember a day many years later when we all gathered to look at that stroller, and nobody could comprehend how those two were ever tiny enough to fit inside. I still can't imagine it.
We have pictures of their first birthday, when Nick blietzkrieged his cake and Anna negotiated with hers like a one-year old Neville Chamberlain.
I look at recent photos of them, remembering their dirty and dainty birthday faces, and can't help but wonder what the hell's been going on in the past sixteen years that made them decide to grow up.
Anna is still short. When I was in college, if, when I would call home, Anna answered, conversations were often like this:
Hello?
Hey, kiddo, how's it going?
Good.
Still short?
Yup.
Alright. That's all I needed, talk to you later.
One time she actually said, "Okay," and hung up on me.
Nick is gangly; skinny, but muscling out (at least since the last time I saw him). He and I used to lean on the counter in front of the answering machine, thinking of stupid shit to record. If you called us anytime in the past five or six years, you probably heard some of it.
The point is, seventeen is no longer a little kid, though it's not the adult they think it is. But for some reason, no matter how big they get (save Anna), they are always, in some way or another, the tiny little babies sitting in that stroller, in diapers I likely folded around them.
I love those kids. I once made a list of the people in my life I loved the most. Number one was Grandma. Tied for second were those two.
Happy birthday, kiddos. I miss you like hell, and then some.
In the Ground, On the Mind
Land disputes led me to essentially abandon the field for about two weeks. The president of the community development committee, the group that had given me the land, croaked his way through an angry explanation. I've never really been able to understand him, and it's worse when he's pissed. He said he'd put sticks in the ground at each of the four corners of my field. He said the quantity of land would not be diminished.
Last Monday my homologue took me to the president's farm, since we hadn't been able to catch him at the house. He took us, speaking only in Kabye, to where my land was. There were no sticks. The size had been cut by more than half. He showed us the northeastern corner. "Where are the other limits?" I asked. He waved his hand in a southerly direction and spoke in Kabye. "What'd he say?" I asked my homologue. "Over there, over there."
The next day I went to the director of the CEG to ask him for several students to help me cultivate. What followed was a patronizing conversation about just what the hell did I think I was doing out there? If the village gave me the land, the villagers should help me. If the students are going to be cultivating, the school must receive the harvest. But, wait. I must not have understood, he said.
After twenty-five minutes of calling in other professors--all whom bitch about the director as much as I do--to agree with him, I finally understood that he was asking me just what would happen with the trees I was planting after I leave. You know, a year and a half from now. I don't know, I told him. I guess that's your problem, not mine. He wasn't buying that.
In the end, I got the students. They worked, turning up the earth and sweating and talking about me in Kabye. They worked through the rain. They worked till an hour before dark, and then we left.
I spent all of Thursday and Friday in the field, sowing seed. Rows of trees, rows of corn, a few sunflowers. Tapping small holes in the dirt with a branch I cut from a tree in the field. Throwing in two or three seeds, tapping the dirt back into the hole. Friday night I could barely move my wrist. My skin was more red than brown, hot to the touch. My eyes felt sunburned. Next week I have to finish the second half.
Had this been a few weeks ago, the president and the director would have pissed me off to no end. Maybe it's the new medication, maybe it's realizing that these assholes will always stand in the way of my work, and there's no way around it. Regardless, I didn't give a shit, and it was nice not to.
A Togolese friend and I were washing my clothes one day. I was quiet, fuming, having been kicked off the very land I was cultivating that morning. Land where I'd transplanted trees, raised seedlings, watched pigs and cows trample and eat my garden beds. "Thoughts," he said, "make a man crazy. Leave the thoughts, hold your sanity." Not too long after that, following several straight days of inebriation, the emotional crisis of a friend, and Papa's funeral, brought me to my regional capital. I took my friend aside, and told him what my clothes-washing Togolese buddy had told me. "Sure," said my friend, "but what kind of life is it, when to enjoy it, you must not think about it?"
He's right, maybe. But I'm not going to ponder on that too much. I want these good days to ride along for awhile.
Last Monday my homologue took me to the president's farm, since we hadn't been able to catch him at the house. He took us, speaking only in Kabye, to where my land was. There were no sticks. The size had been cut by more than half. He showed us the northeastern corner. "Where are the other limits?" I asked. He waved his hand in a southerly direction and spoke in Kabye. "What'd he say?" I asked my homologue. "Over there, over there."
The next day I went to the director of the CEG to ask him for several students to help me cultivate. What followed was a patronizing conversation about just what the hell did I think I was doing out there? If the village gave me the land, the villagers should help me. If the students are going to be cultivating, the school must receive the harvest. But, wait. I must not have understood, he said.
After twenty-five minutes of calling in other professors--all whom bitch about the director as much as I do--to agree with him, I finally understood that he was asking me just what would happen with the trees I was planting after I leave. You know, a year and a half from now. I don't know, I told him. I guess that's your problem, not mine. He wasn't buying that.
In the end, I got the students. They worked, turning up the earth and sweating and talking about me in Kabye. They worked through the rain. They worked till an hour before dark, and then we left.
I spent all of Thursday and Friday in the field, sowing seed. Rows of trees, rows of corn, a few sunflowers. Tapping small holes in the dirt with a branch I cut from a tree in the field. Throwing in two or three seeds, tapping the dirt back into the hole. Friday night I could barely move my wrist. My skin was more red than brown, hot to the touch. My eyes felt sunburned. Next week I have to finish the second half.
Had this been a few weeks ago, the president and the director would have pissed me off to no end. Maybe it's the new medication, maybe it's realizing that these assholes will always stand in the way of my work, and there's no way around it. Regardless, I didn't give a shit, and it was nice not to.
A Togolese friend and I were washing my clothes one day. I was quiet, fuming, having been kicked off the very land I was cultivating that morning. Land where I'd transplanted trees, raised seedlings, watched pigs and cows trample and eat my garden beds. "Thoughts," he said, "make a man crazy. Leave the thoughts, hold your sanity." Not too long after that, following several straight days of inebriation, the emotional crisis of a friend, and Papa's funeral, brought me to my regional capital. I took my friend aside, and told him what my clothes-washing Togolese buddy had told me. "Sure," said my friend, "but what kind of life is it, when to enjoy it, you must not think about it?"
He's right, maybe. But I'm not going to ponder on that too much. I want these good days to ride along for awhile.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
I don't have everyone's email. That's why there's a blog.
Here's a mass email. If you didn't get it, I'm too lazy to look up your address. So here you go.
Dear y'all:
I have not written in a while. And now that I am writing, and am using an American keyboard, I keep typing as though it were a French keyboard. "Some" becomes "so;e" and my name looks like Qnthony. If I wanted to type "wezelo," the Ewe word for welcome, it would be "zewelo." Those French are loony.
That notion is reinforced by the story I found in the "Readings in Intermediate French Prose" book I liberated from the essentially abandoned library in village. It's clearly a donated book, published sometime in the 60s. It was in between a history of the United States (in French), and old homework assignments past volunteers assigned to kids. All was surrounded by rat shit.
I've been reading this book to improve my French, obviously. I learned the word "desespoir," the opposite of "espoir;" the latter also has its synonym "esperance" (they both mean 'hope,' though espoir is masculine and esperance is feminine; please excuse any lack of accents). Within this book I found a story of a Frenchman who decided that too many people died on shipwrecks. After months of research into the nutritional content of seaweed, the amount of ocean water you can drink, etc., the maniac set off in a rubber raft with a bottle of water, some string, a knife, and a hook. He lived.
I decided to read this story to my troisieme class, to give them an example of the importance of being well-acquainted with the environment. I sent three kids home early, and stopped reading to make the kids put their heads down on the desk. I hate teaching.
That's the real reason I haven't been writing. The truth is I've been miserably depressed for about a month now. The only things I have to write about are my frustrations, and I was tired of sending out letters like that; they made me even more depressed.
To cap off this month, I'm going back to Agou-Nyogbo, the village where we trained. That really is a beautiful place, and I did love it there. During our Thanksgiving field trip the girls made a superlatives list, and we all voted. I was elected Most Likely to be Adopted by my Host Family. Daniel was as much my brother as Gaetano or Nick. My host mom used to call me "TH," for Tony Hadzi (their last name).
But when I called Maman last week to tell her I would stop by to see her, neither of us were too excited. "Ca va?" I asked. "Ca ne va pas," she replied. Papa had died.
While my bond with Maman was as strong as my bond with my real mother, Papa and I were not quite as close. Nevertheless, Papa was a good father, and the only Togolese man I've ever seen horse around with his wife. We used to sit and listen to the radio together, watching soccer on Ghanian television. The day I left Nyogbo for good, he called me into the living room. He looked me in the eye, through his crooked glasses with the prescription sticker still on, and he said, "Tony. Stay healthy. Stay happy. The work will follow from there."
I don't ever ask this, but if you could, whether it be by prayer or some hippie method, send good vibes to Chez HADZI this weekend. Maman is a good woman, with good kids, and she loved her husband as he loved her. They have been the best part of Togo for me, and Papa's death is taking its toll on Maman, and I'm sure the kids as well.
Sorry for the downer email. I'm changing malaria meds, so hopefully the hallucinations and depression will stop. Then I'll be able to write positively "instead of bitching to [my] ever so supportive and beauiful and wonderful girlfriend all the time."** Till then, toodles. I hope you're all doing well.
-Tony
**quote forcefully inserted by said girlfriend
Dear y'all:
I have not written in a while. And now that I am writing, and am using an American keyboard, I keep typing as though it were a French keyboard. "Some" becomes "so;e" and my name looks like Qnthony. If I wanted to type "wezelo," the Ewe word for welcome, it would be "zewelo." Those French are loony.
That notion is reinforced by the story I found in the "Readings in Intermediate French Prose" book I liberated from the essentially abandoned library in village. It's clearly a donated book, published sometime in the 60s. It was in between a history of the United States (in French), and old homework assignments past volunteers assigned to kids. All was surrounded by rat shit.
I've been reading this book to improve my French, obviously. I learned the word "desespoir," the opposite of "espoir;" the latter also has its synonym "esperance" (they both mean 'hope,' though espoir is masculine and esperance is feminine; please excuse any lack of accents). Within this book I found a story of a Frenchman who decided that too many people died on shipwrecks. After months of research into the nutritional content of seaweed, the amount of ocean water you can drink, etc., the maniac set off in a rubber raft with a bottle of water, some string, a knife, and a hook. He lived.
I decided to read this story to my troisieme class, to give them an example of the importance of being well-acquainted with the environment. I sent three kids home early, and stopped reading to make the kids put their heads down on the desk. I hate teaching.
That's the real reason I haven't been writing. The truth is I've been miserably depressed for about a month now. The only things I have to write about are my frustrations, and I was tired of sending out letters like that; they made me even more depressed.
To cap off this month, I'm going back to Agou-Nyogbo, the village where we trained. That really is a beautiful place, and I did love it there. During our Thanksgiving field trip the girls made a superlatives list, and we all voted. I was elected Most Likely to be Adopted by my Host Family. Daniel was as much my brother as Gaetano or Nick. My host mom used to call me "TH," for Tony Hadzi (their last name).
But when I called Maman last week to tell her I would stop by to see her, neither of us were too excited. "Ca va?" I asked. "Ca ne va pas," she replied. Papa had died.
While my bond with Maman was as strong as my bond with my real mother, Papa and I were not quite as close. Nevertheless, Papa was a good father, and the only Togolese man I've ever seen horse around with his wife. We used to sit and listen to the radio together, watching soccer on Ghanian television. The day I left Nyogbo for good, he called me into the living room. He looked me in the eye, through his crooked glasses with the prescription sticker still on, and he said, "Tony. Stay healthy. Stay happy. The work will follow from there."
I don't ever ask this, but if you could, whether it be by prayer or some hippie method, send good vibes to Chez HADZI this weekend. Maman is a good woman, with good kids, and she loved her husband as he loved her. They have been the best part of Togo for me, and Papa's death is taking its toll on Maman, and I'm sure the kids as well.
Sorry for the downer email. I'm changing malaria meds, so hopefully the hallucinations and depression will stop. Then I'll be able to write positively "instead of bitching to [my] ever so supportive and beauiful and wonderful girlfriend all the time."** Till then, toodles. I hope you're all doing well.
-Tony
**quote forcefully inserted by said girlfriend
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