Last day in Atakpame

Woke up a little bit ago, knowing that this is my last regular morning in Africa. Tomorrow, we will be getting up very early and heading off for a 7-8 hour ride to the airport, so it will be a different day. I just finished shaving and brushing my teeth with the bottled water, went in to the kitchen and filled the pot with water, lit the propane stove, and have a hot shower “brewing,” so thought I’d write my last (probably) email.

Yesterday, after sending off an email, I wanted to go to a local church, and Cate thought that most of them began around 7:00 AM, so I took off at about 7:00, sort of like we do often at home (leave at the time something is supposed to begin). I decided I’d try to find the Baptiste Eglise that Cate and I had seen on a walk the other day, when we found the VBS. It is approximately a mile walk, so I got there about 7:20, after a couple of diversions trying to remember the right roads. People helped me. On arrival, there was a pastor inside writing on a chalk board (you remember, white pieces of a hard substance that write on a special kind of board that creates dust, and lets one see the words—much like the white boards we have on which we use colored markers). I walked outside and there were two people talking, and tried to ask them, using pointing to my watch, and to the church, what time the service began. They weren’t sure what I wanted, but I got 7:30 out of them. So I waited outside for ten minutes, greeting all the people walking by. Many were dressed up in beautiful colors, and both men and women had on closed toe shoes, and seemed to be aiming at something (going to churches I believe). They were lookin’ good and all fancied up. ALWAYS greeting, or returning the greeting, with/to me with a great smile. At 7:30, I went to the church. There was one other man in there now, and he was standing up in front of the church, singing and directing. I thought he must be practicing, but I think I came to find out that he started on time, even though there was no one there. The pastor came and pointed for me to sit down. Kirsten, you’ll appreciate this—I sat down in the second row, as per usual. I tried singing along, humming along, whatever. A couple more men walked in and sat near the front. Then they stopped singing, and the pastor came down from “up” on the platform, and kind of pointed to me and said something. Another man came over to me and said, “you pray.” So I did. It felt good praying for the privilege of being many miles from home and worshiping the same God with Christian friends in another country, and knowing that this was happening all over the world. I prayed for their health, their education, their country’s leaders and government, all our families, and a good worship experience for me. The pastor then began, not a service, but the morning Bible class. When a man walked in, he stopp, went over and brought him up and sat him next to me, and the new man told me he spoke English, and he was to interpret for me. He was great, and spoke very good English. He is a music and drawing teacher from a nearby village. Found out later that he was also a visitor, but had been there one other time, when asked by the pastor to do some special music, and he liked the church so he came back. He said that he has a goal of building a small church in his village and being the pastor there. As the pastor later preached, it was obvious that Peter (this guy) also knew the Bible very well. The Bible study, on Leviticus somewhere, was about being clean and pure. Good message, and I don’t think I missed any of it. Then the regular service began at about 8:45. I had a quick thought of getting up and leaving, but Peter kept telling me about some of the things the pastor was saying, like “we are really blessed this morning as we have a white man with us, and this is a real gift to our church, others will see it and it will help us, and he brings us these gifts, and don’t know what other gifts he brings.” Oh wow, I thought that I’d better at least stay for the offering. Well, lots of music, and the man next to me had a very special hymn book (remember he’s a music teacher) with the music as well as the words (in Ewe, the local language, so it was not pronounceable at all, of course). I could, however follow the music and I sang bass along with the teacher, who sang tenor. We had fun. After a rip-roaring, but positive, sermon, with the pastor enthusiastically preaching in Ewe, and another young man, with the same emotions and gestures, repeating everything in French, and my friend Peter giving it to me in English, they finally got to the offering. Cate and Wayne had told me a number of times during our visit that it is definitely OK for white people to come and to go at any time during any activity, I was feeling a little pressure, as, during the sermon, the pastor was telling them (by the way, the church was now very full, and probably had 40-50 kids also) that the Muslims pray 5 times a day, and they don’t even know the truth, and we all have a hard time praying a couple of times a week. We can’t even come to church on time. The white man was here right on time this morning, and sitting in his place in church. I was feeling just a little pressure to stay for the duration. They passed the offering bag, brought it up to the pastor, and the pastor said that we would do that again, only beginning with the choir, we would walk up this time, to the front of the church. I didn’t have any more small money, so I faked the dropping in the bag. I gave a 1,000 note, which is $2. I had a 5,000 with me, $10, but I knew if I did that, they would follow me home to meet my sister and brother-in-law, so didn’t want to over-do it. Enough of church. Sorry. I did have a hard time getting away, as the pastor had told them to be sure to greet me and make me feel welcome, and many wanted my email address, and thought that maybe I could help get their child to the US for school. That part is very sad to me. They want, so badly, to get their children educated, or themselves, and they aren’t too shy about asking. I got home 4 hours after I had left for church.

When I got home, the tailor, Marc, was here doing a fitting for Julianna. He also brought some things for me, and some gifts. He has seemingly been a good friend to Cate and Wayne, and they have been a help to him. When asked for a price the other day in his shop to do these things, he said that he was from Kara, and we knew him, so we didn’t need to worry about that, and he’d be fair. It was the first time Cate had ever made a “deal” without negotiating first. He told me my price first, and it seemed quite fair. When he did D & J, it was actually quite high, and C was very disappointed, but accepted it. Later in the day, when we had a great party, Amy, another PCV said that she had been disappointed in Marc, as he would not give her a price for a dress he wants to make for her, ahead of time. She would not go back to him now again, because of that. It is just part of the culture that these things are bargained for, and discounted, before purchase. C & W probably will not go back to him, even though they have done so much with him, and he seems ambitious, and business-like. One of the gifts he brought was a shirt for me—a very nice shirt, in black, white and yellow. He knew my size as he had made a purple and gold (duh!) shirt for me, at Cate’s request, before I came. I wore it after he left yesterday, and Cate had to agree that yellow is not a color I can wear. I had my “colors done” in the 70’s and I was told that I cannot wear yellow, and since then, it always feels wrong to wear anything with yellow. It, however, is a very nice shirt, and we thought of who might like it, and Tom, you are the one who is going to get it to see if it works for you. Julianna is bringing it home to you.

Actually took my first daytime nap yesterday. Laid down about 1:00, and I was gone! Slept for maybe more than an hour. It had been work listening to the church interpretations, etc, I guess. Made me think of what C & W have been through during these two weeks of listening and translating and speaking for us all the time. That part has been so very relaxing for me, as I have been totally dependent on them, rather than learning myself. All I really learned were the very basic greetings, and left the other stuff to them. Has to be very tiring for them, as it a lot of work to do that, as we all know. They are going to be very relieved when my plane takes off, I think. Dustin and Julianna have done much better than I with the French, and get into lots more direct conversations than I.

At 3:00, we began the FuFu preparation, with Safu, who came to prepare the meal. She is the one who had traveled with us up to Tamberma, and she wanted to do this to thank us—and also she doesn’t like to miss anything. She brought her son to help. We had purchased the yams (hopefully we’ll have a picture of some of that activity) along the road during the trip. They are huge, much bigger even than the large zucchini’s that Sandy Meyer brings in to the office from her garden. Then the pounding began. They cook them, much like potatoes at Thanksgiving, in a big pot, to be ready for mashing. The mashing, however, is a little more of a process than ours. They have an hour-glass shaped wooden container that they put some of the cooked yams into, and then two people stand ready and began some soft crushing of the yams with 5 foot long, 3” thick, poles with rounded ends. Then a kind of hypnotizing sound and process begins. The two people standing on either side of the mortar begin each taking a turn pounding the yams, one by one, faster and faster, harder and harder, same sound pounding the pistol against the mortar, in regular rhythm, over and over again. Every once in a while, they’d stop, dip the pistol in the water (purified for us) and begin the pounding again. Then the cook would come out, and feel of it, add a couple of handful sprinkles of water, and they’d begin again. Haunting sound that we hear often walking around anywhere. At C & W’s landlord’s place, right below us, the madame does this for her husband at least once per day, sometimes twice. After the pounding for a good 10 minutes each pot, the cook rolls it in her hand into a “small,” probably 1 ½ pound roll of fufu, which by now is a dumpling-like consistency. Each of us were to eat at least one of those, with our hands, gathering some of the very good sauce that Safu had prepared. Veggies and soja, a tofu—quite nice, and pretty spicy, but not too much. We watched the guests do it, and that showed us how to do it. C & W had invited PCV Amy, and her Togolese boyfriend, Naya, and a wonderful Togolese couple, (the man works for Kreje, the NGO that C & W work with), and Charlotte, the secretary from Kreje. A big crowd and we had a ball, and lots of good food. Stuffed. Part of the 20 pounds I’m sure I’ve added back on since arriving here. I was actually thinking that I may lose some more weight here, but not to be, with all the starches, and other good things I’ve been eating.

Not sure what pictures we’ll add on to this very long (sorry again) message, but maybe we’ll add one from Cate and my walk the other day, when we walked a couple of miles to a small village, where we bought probably 6 items that people were cooking on the street, for a total of right at 50 cents. The people were very happy to have us buy it, and then we gave it away (not good for us to eat, health-wise) on the way back. Those people were also very happy. Fun watching Cate negotiate them down from 7 cents to 5 cents, etc. It is the way it is done. There is ALWAYS a “first price” and then getting to the purchase price. In fact, in Ghana, where the English is spoken, they tell you the “first price is ______.”

Most of you are asleep by now, from trying to read this, but know that I am doing this so I have a record of my experiences and thoughts at this time, and we end up sending it to you also. Ready to begin the last day here in Atakpame, and Cate is preparing some oatmeal and eggs, and I’m going to get some fresh bread at the “bakery” across the “street.” Love to you all, from all of us.