Chief as he leaves hut.
This is the parade to the church on the last day. Some kids are still wearing the boy scouts uniform.
Day 4: The village is quite; tired from the events of the last three days. Much is the same today as the other days in the first 3 months at post. The men go to the fields early and return for lunch, nap then leave for the fields again. The women fill their days doing chores; gathering wood for fires, going to the river for water, washing clothes, looking after the children, cooking and cleaning. The older youths go to school wearing uniforms and carrying notebooks. The younger children run around the village wearing little to nothing. As the sun falls behind the palm trees, the transformation of the village begins. Energy is revitalized and a generator is place in front of the boutique to supply power for the music and light that fuels the frenzy that will last to the early hours of the morning. When the fictional family the Simpsons visited Africa they described their experience dancing with locals as similar to an Almond Brothers Concert. I equate my experience with the locals as a pool party without water. The style of dance is a mixture of modern and tradition styles and gives the onlooker the impression that they are watching people tread water to the rhythm of the song. I left early but enjoyed the music while falling asleep. What is better to dream to than Bob Marley “No Women No Cry”? The lyrics “Everything gon’ be alright” make the heat a little more berable as my thoughts drift to oblivion.
Day 5: I wake up understanding what dank gym shirts feel like. The week long festivities have taken a toll. The hammocks under my eyes mirror those of the locals when we greet in the morning. This gives me relief because I have visual evidence I’m not the only one feeling like shirts.I leave my house equipped with my 6 inch Gerber blade, machete as long as my arm, backpack filled with water, snacks, emergency med kit and other necessities. On my way through the village I see that the children are all dressed identically, well sort of identically. Each has a khaki shirt and a handkerchief tied around their neck. The all wear different pants, some have shoes, others have sandals and others go barefoot. Each has a decorated walking stick and is pounding the stick into the sandy soil in rhythm to the song they sing. They are practicing for the Scouts du Togo. I am told that a representive from the Boy Scouts of Belgium is coming to village today. “My brother” will arrive shortly. I reluctantly change my plans and return to my house. I change out of my dirty jeans and work shirt and into the same stall dress pants and shirt from days ago. I return to the large tree and converse with the teachers about setting up a community development meeting. After an hour I am told to return home and will be retrieved when he arrives. I am awakened from a nap by a gun shot. “My brother” must have arrived. I once again put on my clothes and head down to the commotion. I am led to a seat amongst the elders. Three speeches are given; each translated from French to Akposso for the comprehension of the elders, women, and children. The last is given by the Belgian, Jean-Marie. He is average height, heavily built, bearded, spectacled, graying and wearing Nike shoes and Cargo pants. He presents gifts to the village – a typewriter, medicines, medical supplies, scale for weighing babies, books for the students and a microscope. We tour the clinic built by the Canadians years about but left unsupplied and understaffed. After, we went to the chief’s house for lunch and sodabe. When I get an opportunity to talk to Jean-Marie I am able to discuss my two previous travels through his native land. I flatter him by stating that the escargot and mussels in Belgium and the best in the world, far better than Paris. This is a lie. The best escargot can be found along the streams of Agou Nogbo, Togo and who doesn’t know that I have the best muscles. He explains that he travels to Africa with suitcases filled with medical supplies to give to villages like mine and returns to Europe with suitcases filled with masks and other handcrafts. He uses the money made to finance future trips to donate supplies. He leaves as soon as lunch is finished. The elders and I take inventory of the medicines and medical supplies. After this long process I head home. Santa peed on the straw mat I take naps on while I was out. Tired, worn and dehydrated I get into bed and wonder about tomorrow.
Day 6: Like flowers in a desert, the celebrations arrived spontaneously with the rain. There were beautiful and exotic. But as many have said before, “all good things must come to an end”. Like and island in the ocean or an oasis in a desert the last week was a haven, a glimpse of comfort contrasting sharply with the harshness and uncertainty that is village life. Today is the last day of the celebration, the last day on the island and the last day at the oasis. The sojourn has concluded and now the village must leave the comfort and brave the unknown. The future health and prosperity of the village rests in the able hands of the new chief. As he leaves his mud house for the first time in days the chief is accompanied by the village elders, women and children. His strong strides symbolize the ease in which he can carry the village into the future. To guide him and his people with divine assurance and acceptance the leader of the parade marches toward the hut that serves as the village church. The ceremony is called a Catholic mass, but like most things in Africa the mass is much different from its American or European counterpart. It is uniquely African. There is dancing, singing, drumming and sweating. My mind begins to wander as I realize the whole service is in Akposso. First my eyes shift to my feet; my sandal making designs in the sand floor. Next, I look at my sweat as it soaks into my Mawa (traditional African clothing). Lastly, I scan the backs of the other people amazed at the different colors and fabrics of their clothing. The priest more than vaguely reminds me of the characters in the African short story called The Trials of Brother Jeru; a critique on Christianity in Africa. After two hours of singing and dancing preaching and arm flailing, the village forms what looks to me like a conga-line to offer donations to the church. They raise $50 American, which is a substantial amount of money. I think about the priest’s SUV and the other things that the money collected could have fueled – clean water, medicine, books – but I understand the importance many people place in faith and the rewards are often internal instead of external. After 3 long, hot hours and about 3 liters of sweat I am able to return to my house for lunch and rest under the tree in my front yard. My thoughts travel through the last week in an attempt to fully grasp the significance of the change in my village’s history. As symbolized before, a journey has begun. I hope the new chief can lead the village through the pool of sharks that wait as we leave the island. If hope is the vessel that will carry the village through uncertain and trying times, I know the village will arrive at their destination unharmed because the village’s immense faith in the chief has placed him amongst the best mariners in history.
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