January 7, 2013

There’s no mozzarella but there IS VQR (consolation? To some of us yes).

I’m back and sort of rejuvenated a cause de my America vacation. My mom’s hands still make the best turkey, pastelon de platanos (baked plantains, cheese, and sautéed things) and morro (beans and yellow rice) I’ve ever had. Loved the margherita pizza with fresh mozz and bangin’ tomato sauce; the Belgian fudge cheesecake was bomb (the Cheesecake Factory might be a machine, but that doesn’t mean it can’t occasionally give one culinary bliss); and the Christmas feast was killer (no shame - the food was and is central to this story). The family was spectacular – my mom started to cook at some morning hour that seemed far too early for an evening meal; my dad was petulantly checking on the pork (our favorite Noche Buena past-time is to pick at the food, mollifying the eagerness for the actual feast). My nephew was fantastic – the energy a baby gives to those around him goes unmatched. His best moments were either when he put a sauce pan on his head and a strainer on mine and we danced to MJ OR running into walls and adult feet on his battery powered Tonka car and laughing uncontrollably.

I left on an unfortunate date (Dec 31^st) at an incredibly senseless hour (9pm) which meant that I was somewhere between time zones when the clock struck midnight (Eastern Time, I guess). I left Detroit at 9pm (Paris and Lome had already welcomed the New Year) but left the eastern time zone before it was actually midnight. Anyways, nothing really exciting happened – no Champaign popping on the plane and barely any recognition from my fellow fliers. The best thing about the plane ride was the authentically Italian couple I was sitting next to. The man was as animated and grumpy as Frank in that sitcom, ‘Everybody loves Raymond,’ (not to say that Frank Barone is an ‘aunthentic’ representation of an Italian-American father, but you get the picture) with an unbelievable accent and Don Corleone hand expressions to boot. It was 1am and he was recounting his work in Cameroon as a construction advisor (or something of the sort) while I was desperately hoping he noticed how sleepy I was. When he got up to go to the bathroom his wife leaned across his seat and said “he talks too much, just tell him you want to,“ she put her head on her shoulder and waved her hand as though this would do the trick. They both spent the better part of the night complaining about how cramped coach seating is and impatiently gesturing for the attendants.  I took advantage of the AirFrance hospitality, got myself two bottles of red wine, and then found myself gagging into an airplane toilet bowl (combination of empty stomach, turbulence, and nerves(?)). The whole affair got a lot better upon exit of the Lome Airport – where Veronica and Ryan came to pick me up.

 I felt something of a sinking feeling when I was standing in the chaos of the Lome Airport – craving the anonymity in La Guardia; the self-checkout counters; the (more) professional customs guys; more than three security lines to attend to a flight of over 100 people; the clean and shiny surfaces. The feeling left as I spent the evening in good company – I DID enjoy the bar on the sand and the cool Awooyo. I was back and nothing, not the absurd moto driving; the hazardous sidewalks; the return to perpetual foreigner-status seemed all that daunting. I took a few days in Datcha with Alex, to soak in the comfort of partnership – (cheesiness warning) sharing the solitude of this life with a kindred spirit makes everything feel that much lighter. Making food for two is SO much better than the blah lonely rice you’ll make for yourself at post. I never make pancakes, or goat cheese crepes (yes, please!), or tacos for myself. Alex also hosted a few of the wonderful people of Egbedrovi to a dinner of fried chicken, to experience one of the vrai inspirations of American cuisine. I think it was resolved as a type of beignet fried around a chicken wing. If it weren’t for the unavailability (price?) of meat, I would say we’d start seeing fried chicken stands in Datcha. These days also served to reconcile with a return to Togolese routine, getting back into the swing of things as it were. Still, I couldn’t shake nervousness, a hesitation and uneasiness in returning to Badou. It’s one of those things people say – it’s the anticipation in waiting that makes fear and not the thing itself, ou bien? I had a healthy amount of separation anxiety on the moto driving away from Alex –a silent AHH! sounding off in my head. However, the bush taxi ride back soothed my nerves – not because it was physically comfortable (ahemm) but because I was with a good humored crowd who chuckled sarcastically every time our driver stopped to talk to one of his girlfriends.

Yesterday was my first full day back and it was RELIEVING. Madame Bide gave me the tenderest of hugs – maybe not as unconditional as my mother’s but with an absolute amount of feeling. And this wasn’t the last. I felt so, what’s the word…appreciated. I came back ready to face down that word that incites anxiety in all a good Peace Corps volunteer --- work. I have this determination (not something innate to me) to focus in on a few things I really want to do and I know I can do well. One of which is to paint a mural on the library wall representing the creativity of lycee students. This should be something totally plausible, fun, and won’t take a whole lot of coordination among officials (not something easily doable for Togolese officials). The reason I said “sort of rejunvenated” at the beginning of this post is because now, as I begin my last stretch in Togo, I have a restlessness to get back into things, set things in motion, and leave this service feeling utile, happy, and (at least relatively) ready and wanting for whatever comes next. Bon arrivé 2013.