Belgians, Chinese and Aliens

One of the local villagers in the middle of a traditional dance.


The two Chinese men fishing at the lake.


Truck filled with cotton.


The ground is confettied with tan cigarette butts, red batteries and metallic candy wrappers. Animals aimlessly wonder in and out of the public area under the shade of the large trees. The branches of the trees have vine like roots that stretch from the sky to the ground in an attempt to penetrate the soil to gather the water that rests deep underground. Wooden and plastic chairs are placed an “L” next to the large trunks. Today my village is searching for aid like the vines in order to bloom like the flowers that fill in the ground around the refuse. Two Belgians are arriving today to discuss community development projects. Prior to their arrival tomtoms (African drums) are place on a log lying on the ground near the chairs. Children promenade in groups. The carpenters across the road work slowly on a piece of furniture. A group of elders sit next to the drums with ponderous faces and clutching walking canes. Some wear modern clothing while the more elder men where traditional mawas. The wind rustles the gigantic leaves of a palm tree. The effect resembles the cracking of a log in a bonfire. A child wails in the distance. My friend brings over his baby nephew; face covered in sauce and crumbs. As he sits down he realizes that the baby has soiled himself and he quickly searches for his older sister to push the baby on to for cleaning. A car slowly rolls into village and the villagers assemble facing the chairs. There is singing and dancing as the Belgians take their seats. Introductions are given and speeches are many. The elder of the two Belgians gets the whole village to sing a song in English; “I will never forget my village, I will never forget Togo”. Books are given to the teachers and we tour the schools and the clinic. All of these events add to the déjà vu I am experiencing of a month prior when Jean-Marie visited the village. We eat foufou and drink palm wine and sodabe. The visitors leave after a good laugh with the villagers and I return home. My neighbour asks me if I would like to see how sodabe is made and I agree to take a small journey to the creek to view his operation. It is similar to the moonshine distilleries during the prohibition in the US; producing 10L every 2 hours. Returning to he village my attention is focused on the large truck parked in the middle of the road being filled by the youth with lumber. This gives good evidence of the deforestation problem in my village and in Togo. I leave for the garden and when I arrive at the watering hole I see it has dried up as expected. I have already lost my lettuce, cucumber and peas. Seeing the green beans flourishing gives me a minute sense of accomplishment. Tonight I eat with my counterpart at his house; foufou, small fish in palm sauce. Returning home around 8pm I am exhausted. I clean the house, feed and walk the dog, fall asleep.

Early the next morning I take a bike ride down to the lake. The temperature is mild and the wind carries the powerfully sweet scent of wild flowers. The crickets make a snapping sound as the jump from one leaf to another as I pass. I begin to circle the lake and on the far side I see to people fishing with poles. I bike closer until I am about 15m above them. I descend the 45° bank that was one filled with water during the rainy season. I come upon two Chinese men fishing; one in a boat smoking a cigarette under his straw hat and another standing on a staircase hair swaying in the wind. The standing man gives me a welcoming head nod. Every minute or so the men bring in another fish about the size of a child’s hand. I depart content with my Sunday morning. On my way back to village I spot a herd of cattle and stop to talk with the herder. The conversation was most body language because we did not speak a common language. Back in village is another large truck being filled with another batch of my village’s natural resources. This time it is not being filled with wood, but instead cotton. These images conjure some complex thoughts that bounce around my head. Children jump into the bed of the truck dancing and singing in the cotton to allow for more cotton to be packed into the truck. I leave and stop into a boutique before heading home. I know I have to pick up soap for the girl that does my laundry. I feel guilty that I don’t do it myself but I have been explained that in Togolese culture a person of my “status” should not be burdened with problems like laundry. The day winds down with my clothes drying on the clothes line attached to my house. The sun goes down and the moon comes up. Stars polka-dot the sky like the refuse on the ground I saw the day before. Looking into the heavens I see a light steadily traversing the sky. It is soundless and appears in the same place every night. I think it is a satellite. It crosses Hydra at Alphard, passes between Procyon and Sirius and then splits Betelguese and Rigel above the belt of Orion. I think about how scientists scan the sky for signs of life on other planets, when cultures so much closer are still so alien to most of us in the world.