Insomnia

ry aIt’s 12:31, on a Wednesday evening, and I’m writing because I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep because I’ve consumed far too much sugar, and I consumed this much because, well, that’s all I’ve got in the house. Oatmeal, a pineapple, sugar, condiments for all the delicious “nothing” I eat, and a ginormous tub of millet, to be more precise. Below is a picture of my humble refrigerator



When you look at it, doesn’t it make you want to shut the flippin’ door? I know. Me too.
I could quite easily complain that it’s because this is Africa, but “franchement” (frankly), it’d be the same in the U.S. In fact, my fridge then and now look pretty much the same…minus the tub of millet and the random pineapple. I can cook but, holy mother of Mary (her name is Anne and yes I know come across as a holy roller, but isn’t that the point?), is it hard to do it for myself. Sure, it may be hard to come across affordable protein here, but it’s not that bad. I have no excuse. And because of this, I know that Jesus loves me for He hath placed street food vendors all alongeth my road. The lifestyle of a bachelor is international.

Fo Shizzle.

In addition, I can’t sleep because of some anxiety due to massive amount of translating that I’ll have to start on soon. Oh, yes. Translations. After a year in a Francophone country, I’m going to have to start translating formal English business texts, into French. One would think that immersion for a year would have ameliorated one’s previous state of foreign language ineptness from, “I can barely say Bonjour,” to “Le programme sera enseigné pendant les soirs, plusieurs fois dans la semaine” but au contraire mon frère.



I just wasted 3 minutes on looking up how to conjugate the verb “to be”. You’re welcome.




My Togolese counterparts have the best of intentions, but they just don’t ever… make me feel stupid enough. They’re just… too gosh darn nice. No sarcasm intended. I know. “Why would you want your counterpart to make you feel inadequate? You masochistic fool,” you may ask. Well, because it’s true. Both of themJ. JK, but seriously, I am...both. Firstly, I would have rather had my counterparts correct me more severely early on so I wouldn’t make these ridiculous mistakes. Now, I practically have to circumlocute around my anus to try to say something that takes all of three words that I conveniently don’t know. Mistakes made, lessons learned.
You future Peace Corps stagiares, friggin’ do your Rosetta stone. Preferably past the “Bonjour! Je suis Americain!” section. Believe me, they know you’re foreign. Then again, that section’s useful because they don’t like the French. When you get here, you probably won’t either. Oh, if you’re Asian-American, you’re Chinese. Even if you say, “Je suis Americain,” they always have to add that you’re from China, so that sections pretty darn useless to us. They hardly ever interact with other non-Chinese Asians, so let it go. We’re the minority of the minorities (though most Togolese are familiar with Korea from the 2006 World Cup…hollaaa). For other than your own community and homologues, I advise that you be selective on convincing strangers otherwise. You’ll end up talking to every person on the road and before you know it, your whole day is gone trying to convince people you’re American. Most of the time they’ll just randomly say, “China” or “Chinois,” and stare at you. That’s it actually. Just that. For your sanity, know this. If you’re actually Chinese, you’ll be absolutely sure that you really are Chinese by the end of service. Shoot, even I think I’m Chinese now. Please refer to my "Les Chinois sont impermeable a S.I.D.A." blog entry for more info. Anyway, Secondly, we won’t go into my masochism here. I’m just saying I’m Catholic. Devout too. Who doesn’t like the occasional guilt trip to the confessional booth? JK again, but seriously. Who doesn’t? Watch out southern Baptists.


At any rate, I’m starting a “business school” with my homologue, Bernadette. This is the reason for the needed translations. Because texts for small businesses in French are hard to come by, and when they’re available, they’re expensive and scarce, I’ve decided to try to tackle this problem by picking and paraphrasing certain texts that are applicable to our entrepreneurs and translating them. Oh, yeah. That’s right. I’ve bit off a lot, but that’s okay. Because if this goes through, I’ll be begging you for money some point or anotherJ, so don’t pity me too much. Just a little bit would be nice. Our last meeting on Monday consisted of me giving her a one page rough summary of the organizational structure and procedures (which I spent close to 6 hours doing because it had to be, you got it, en Français), and her agreeing with everything that was on it. It made me self-conscious and a tad bit weary. I mean, I’ve been to planning meetings involving the e-board, and they discuss every option possible. Perhaps I’ll get the 3-hour meeting of my dreams when we take it up with the President, who knows. I just wish she disagreed with something. We even went as far as selecting the potential professors for the school, all within a 40-minute period. 40 minutes. Meetings in the States take longer than that. Anyway, I have another meeting next week with Bernadette to discuss the curriculum and the marketing strategy, so we’ll see.



I also met with my Bernadin (convenient names, I know), yesterday regarding a meeting to be had with my tailors. A meeting to discuss another meeting. Gotta love that ish. Like the previous meeting I described, I gave him a 4-page outline of the meetings key points and he just said that it was perfect. I mean, at least a grammatical correction would have been nice. This should prove to be an interesting meeting, considering that this is the first time all the potential members will be present, instead of talking one on one with me. I’ll also be asking them to give up time in their own shops to work for a newly formed company. Ha. Oh, yeah, and they have to find their own start up funds. Double Ha. If an advisor in the States told me I’d have to lay down more than a 200% of what I made that year for a business plan I’ve never heard, I’d laugh too. I’ll have to lay down the Asian persuasion for that sucker to fly. We’ll see. Though there are complications inherent in this project, out of all three I have lined up, I have to say I’m most excited about this one. I’ll definitely fill you all in on how this meeting goes. Interesting is probably going to be an understatement.


Anyway, my eyes are drying out and I’m sitting here wondering why Microsoft Word is underlining all my contractions in “grammatically incorrect” green. I mean, really. Give me a break will you? Maybe this is why I got a C in AP English. No no…maybe THAT’S why I got a C in AP English. That’s right. I’M ignoring your attempts to make me feel insignificant. Take that Bill Gates. You and your monopolizing, anti-competitive, pretentious, “I think you can’t speak English well, so I’m going to prove it to you by underlining crap in green, red, and ‘now available on Microsoft Word 2007, blue’.” software. By the way, thanks for the language/ research buttons under “review” available on the newest version of Word, Billie G. You really saved my tuckus with that. Oh, and spell check owns me. Fo rizza.

If you read me, read all of me

You know, for the average person, there are unfortunately only a handful of times where one is completely content with where one is, how one feels, and who once was, is and will be. Perhaps I may be speaking for myself, or perhaps I’m speaking with you. Who knows? Call it spiritual epiphany, call it enlightenment, call it “Zen”, call it “one with God’s plan”, or what have you. Regardless of the title, or the arbitrary religious affiliations that come with those titles, it is something to be cherished, pursued, and never forgotten. It is in these small, unbearably enormous, rich and serene existences where we experience absolute life, absolutely.
It’s where purpose and choice, options and destiny meet. It is one knowing that life is composed of the “less than optimal” choices one makes amongst infinite other imperfect possibilities, and that these choices are unequivocally and perfectly theirs. It’s where one knows that these choices makes one perfectly oneself. It is where one is content in accepting that these free choices and consequences are destined to serve a purpose one may never know.

Is that all? Is that how one “gets there?” I don’t believe so. In an extreme case, one can live in complete hedonism and nihilism and will inevitably feel emptiness. That person may never regret a single decision and may freely accept all consequences but still can be unbearably discontented. That person is perfectly who they are, yes, but perfectly empty. I believe that as long as all these “imperfect” choices are genuinely chosen out of love of others as well as oneself, one has no reason to regret choices, regardless of its consequences, “negative” or “positive”. This is all of our destinies. This is all of our purposes. When one starts on this path, one reaches joy and complete contentment that can’t be stolen, but only when one falls from this path. I can’t say that I know that these statements are true, but I have faith in them, as I do in my God. I guess that’s the same with everyone else. One may not believe in the same God or creed as I do, but one must at least believe in love. I suppose that’s what gets us there. Here, in this magnificent moment of “I don’t want to be anyone else, anywhere else, or in any other time” moment.

Why, you must be asking, is this volunteer writing about this and why is this continuing on for longer than we’re interested in reading? The answer is this; I want to write this because I want to remind myself of why I’m here and how I got here in the first place. I want to remember this and I want others to remember this as well to remind me of how joyful I was in love. I am writing this in hopes that particular people will read this, and to thank them for inadvertently helping me get there.

Get comfortable.

“Maybe you should take an inventory of why you’re here and what you’re doing here. I remember that you also have a lot going on at home, which you should also consider.”
That’s a rough paraphrase of someone that I very much trust. Another person, whom I regard highly, and a person who has my upmost respect had told me,
“Perhaps you should start looking at things in a different perspective,” another rough paraphrasing.

When I heard these statements, I, quite honestly, had two reactions in my mind and heart; alarm and dismay. Had I been seen as someone that is negative, a person that is here for the wrong reasons, a person that is closed minded and provincial? How differently have I viewed myself than this? Surely this has stemmed from something and for some reason.
I firmly believe that the way a person views another has something to do with, yes, the person being viewed. You may disagree, but I see it as a litmus test. Just because someone disapproves of you or your actions, it doesn’t mean that their perspective is invalid to you. In fact, it’s where one should begin. Now, the friends of whom I spoke, I trust, find me amicable enough, so the previous statement is not directed toward them, and I digress. I did exactly what they suggested to me. I took an inventory of why I was here and what I was doing, and I took another perspective of my environment and the culture around me. Allow me to share:

I came here because I knew this was my calling to do so. Whether I am deemed “successful” or not is not of any consequence. This statement is not some sort of metaphor, nor is it an exaggeration. There were certain events that took place in my life, and the life of my family that led me to enter the Peace Corps. My faith, for one, had parted unto me that the giving of oneself to another is the greatest form of love that could ever be expressed, nay, is the very definition of it. For this, I have done what I had done for my family the past years of my life before entering the Peace Corps. I had taken over the business of my stroke ridden father, working both a full time and part time job, taking care of my father, and going to university full time. I did all these because I loved my family and my God. He had given me strength where I could find none, and had relieved me when I could take no more. I am not embellishing nor am I boasting of any of this; in fact, I am omitting a great portion to spare you, the reader, several hours of your life. What needs to be said is that I had fulfilled my duty to my family and my God. During university, there was a question of whether I would graduate because of the load I took with my courses and my family business. Please believe me that it was by a sheer miracle that I graduated, and I vowed that I would do service for my God. I looked into various Catholic Charities and after prayer, found that none spoke to me. I then found the Peace Corps and felt strangely compelled to apply to a secular institution. When I was accepted, I told my father, and he couldn’t have been more proud. He explained to me that the Peace Corps had helped his village in Korea and that a volunteer had taught him English, helping him get into university.
He had given me his blessing to go and spread the gift that the Peace Corps had given my father.
Before I left, my father made me vow that I would complete my service well, regardless of all circumstances for an oath is an oath. These were my reasons and intentions to go; to serve my God, my family, and my country.

When I arrived, I was full of enthusiasm at the prospect of fulfilling my duty and purpose, and felt that sense of peace and content of which I wrote previously. I looked at this as an opportunity to give because of how much was given to me, and to please my family and God. As time passed, I felt more distant from my purpose and reasons. Reflecting back, I can tell you the moment I began to deter away from my original intentions. After my three months training, I began to fear. I feared the failure of living up to expectations, I feared isolation, and I feared that I was being abandoned by God; perhaps the typical experiences of a Peace Corps volunteer. However, in my fears, I failed to recognize my change in perspective. I began to fall under my own ambitions to counter the lost sense of purpose. I wanted to serve myself, and began to see the projects I had proposed as a way to do this. I began to think that I “deserved” this service, as if it was something to be won. I tell you now that this is no more motivating than to believe that you’re here for no reason at all.

How ludicrous.

I see now that it was folly for me to have even thought that volunteering was anything less than an honor and privilege to serve my God, family and country. Because of this, I saw barriers instead of opportunity, and deficits instead of surpluses. The perspective that I once had had all but disappeared.

After some serious self examination, by advice of my friends, I have come to view things the way things should be viewed; with green lenses rather than exclusively blue or yellow.
Though there is poverty in this country, generosity is abundant. It is cultural and expected that you offer to share your meals with your neighbors even when there is but a cup of food available. In villages people raise children together as they well should, and take care of each other. If one member of the family is successful, that member shares his wealth with his entire family out of his sense of duty. People take care of the homeless by feeding them at street food stands. They rarely ridicule them and pity them more than the average American would ever do. It is customary to ask the condition of almost every aspect of your life when greeting a friend before conversing on other matters…even on the radio.

Yes, there are faults, but so many positive aspects that I have failed to share with you, and the previous list is far from exhaustive. I hope that I will be able to share a more balanced view as I should have done before.

Now I tell you the reasons why I wish to stay. I am staying because I now see God where I should have seen him earlier. I wish to stay because I have yet to complete the work I had set out to do. I wish to stay because of the priceless friendships I have forged. I wish to stay because of my oath I had taken. I wish to stay not to promote myself, but to promote the potential in another person’s life. I wish to stay not because I love the Peace Corps itself, but because I love what the Peace Corps represents.

Regardless of what my future holds here in Togo, I am content because I have finally come to be who I should have been, a grateful servant. Thank you.

Michael

strength in numbers

So folks, it's been quite a while since I blogged and I'm sorry. I really am. I could make the excuse that I've been so ridiculously busy that I haven't had the opportunity to sit and write, but honestly, I've had tons of time sitting and, well... sitting. Infact, I've been sitting and doing exactly that for quite some time. I don't know what to tell you. One would think that the life of a Peace Corps volunteer would consist of more than just sitting, and one would be absolutely correct in assuming so. There's laying in the hammock too. I mean, a nice hammock. The type that wraps you into a cacoon and never lets you go, kind. The kind that invites you to read over 500 pages in one day and because it's so inviting, you do exactly that. I've covered just about 20 books, and I'm the one that hates reading. But there are more things that Peace Corps volunteers do, for sure.

We volunteers( by "we", I more than likely mean "I exclusively") like to chase live stock. From my previous blogs, I've already desribed this almost innate yearning to kick goats and chicken into little puff balls of feathers, but generally, it's more or less to get them away from drying foods like corn and yams. I, however, had reached a new level of boredum. I have been known in other volunteers' villages to randomly chase baby goats and pick them up. Though this little hobby has crowned me with the honor of being the village idiot, it also put me at risk of some serious physical injury (Of course, I couldn't do this in my own village. Oh, no. I've got a professional image to keep up. I chase and scare children with my karate master skills).

Please, don't do this at home with any of your local live stock, vraiment.

I, being the easily amused person I am, one day cornered a baby goat and coaxed him into calming down with little leaves of moringa. It was easy enough. Really, it was like picking on the fat kid in dodgeball, and then making up by giving him a hostess cupcake. It's true. I know this because I was that fat kid, and all it took was a twinkie to forgive and forget. Never underestimate the power of foods with the shelf life of 20 years. Trust me. I snuck up on him like the ninja I am, and picked him up from behind. For about 5 seconds, it was all soft and cuddly until the little twerp realized that it was being held by a potentially protein deficient human being. It started to yelp and scream and squirm for dear life. I'd say it was cute, but that would make people think I was weird, and then call P.E.T.A. on me. Those terrorists. Anyway, I tried to calm it down again by speaking in the high pitched, " goochi goochi gooo" voice. How embarrasing was that? Here was an american college educated economics graduate, talking to a goat like a moron, in front of Togolese that don't play with their food. To them, it probably looked like I was trying to pet and talk to a happy meal hamburger. My village idiot crown was just then encrusted with diamonds. As I happily made a fool of myself, I failed to notice the large amount of congregating goats slowly approaching me and my new found happy meal friend. Well, crap. I can't tell you how intimidating it is to be backed into a corner, holding the child of a community of about 15 to 20 pygmie goats, and them staring you in the eyes with hooves scraping the ground. Needless to say, with a gaped mouth, I slowly bent over to release the calf. As it scurried into the center of the mob, I bolted getting butted a little bit on the way out. The villagers couldn't stop laughing. I have to admit, it wasn't the first time I've been chased by an animal here, and that is vrai ca. I got chased by an angry steer once, but I'll get to that in another post.

Yes, the government sent me as a representative the peaople of United States of America. Can't you tell how great of a job they did with attracting and filtering candidates? Be proud. 1/3 of applicants get interviews, and even less take the position. The statistics aren't on the side of prudent decision making that's for sure ( we had a trainee that didn't like to touch other people, handshaking included, didn't like talking with people, and didn't eat anything other than synthetic foods that weren't the color brown or green. I mean, the person had a diagnosed case of scurvy before coming to Peace Corps for God's sake. Seriously, people...).

At any rate, there are really other things that I do that have some sort of meaning and significance to my existence and those around me. Or atleast that's my hope. I'll share some good solid ones but not quite yet. I'll write them in the next blog. I've got to go eat some dinner before I pass out. I hope it's goat.

Allons y?

This is a vast and, en general, a difficult subject to describe because one has to feel the emotions and the live experiences first hand in order to fully appreciate the typically 3rd world phenomena called the bush taxi. That being said, I'll start with one form of travel, and then proceed to the next, and hope that you have fun reading.

1) The 8 seater: This may lead one to believe that this vehicle would be classified as a minivan or even an S.U.V. Nay, this is actually a 5 seater, usually a hatch back or 4 door sedan built in the 1990's or late 1980's. When flagging for one of these bush taxis, you get a response that all taxi drivers give, no matter what the vehicle. moto, 8 seater, 11 seater, it doesn't matter. It's the flip of the wrist and the look as if they're doing you the favor. Then they ask you or tell you where you're goin, and if this coincides with the place they're headed, then voila, you got yourself a taxi. Because you're white, you have to ask before entering becuase they generally triple the price on you after the service has been given and will fight you for it ( For you, oh future tourist, it's a happy meal for you but for me, it's feeding me for 2 weeks. So don't mess up my economy by not hagglin' aiight?! Thought i'd let you know). Trust me, that's no fun and can be totally avoided. Anyway, you look into the car and you see that all the seats are full. Where will i sit? you may ask.

Within the crook of a person's armpits. Oh yea. You get to experience a part of true african culture, all cozied up in the armpit of a person that doesn't believe or know of deodorant. Yes, this is more cultural sharing than any center in the world could provide. Another option is straddling the stick in the middle becuase you're sharing a seat with a passenger in the front. Or better yet, sharing a seat with the driver himself. All in all, it's gonna be a really crappy ride. So you now count out that there are 8 people in this tiny 5 seater, hence the name the 8 seater.

Welcome to Togo, people.

2) The 11-14 seating van: Only here can I get pee'd on, pooped on, and then puked on, all within 15 minutes between the first event and the last event. Oh yes people. The pro's of this van is that you do get your own seat, or atleast there's enough space for you to trick yourself into thinking that you have your own space. The con is that anything, quite literally, anything can be placed under your seat, or the seat infront of you. In my case, a goat, a few chickens were placed infront of me. Yup. You got it. A kid puked on the floor and that splattered on my foot, the goat then pee'd on me, and the chicken followed suite and dropped a nice deuce. I couldn't even be mad. Like...really? That JUST happened, and it happened my foot. I'll remember this for the rest of my life.

3) The moto: Now, this can be a three, quite possibly a 5 seater. This depends if the driver is carrying two kids and a woman with a baby on her back, which I've seen happen way too many times. The way you get one of these death traps is if a moto driver says to you, "allons y" or "On y va?" which means, "we're going there?", to which you reply, yes. I can't even tell you how many times i've had fun with this one. You all have to understand that moto drivers are a dime a dozen here. They pass you and beep at you and ask over and over again. Even in the driver infront was rejected by you, the next one will beep and ask the same thing over and over and over and over and over again. The best is when you're in a group of 5 foreigners, and they try to pick you up. We're like... you wee little moto are going to take all 5 of us? Dude, stop dreaming. They even break their necks trying to pick up foreigners becuase they extort them. Anyway, you should never ride without a helmet, so you won't ever have to worry about riding one unless you bring your own helmet.

All in all, all these vehicles have no shocks. You feel every bump in the road, and trust me, there's a lot of them. Your butt hurts on every vehicle after the ride is over, and if you're lucky you won't stink. Next, there are no lines and people drive on the wrong side of the road. Very frequently. It's no wonder that car accidents kill almost as many people in Africa as AIDS. SO, moral of the story, you'll have an interesting time on the road, but is getting pooped on worth death? Quite possibly, yes.

$4 to my name...

If you all visit, you'll all walk on unpaved pothole filled dirt paths and by all of these houses that are made of concrete with tin roofs, some homes with thatched roofs and even some adobe huts. Most these people can't afford to buy these homes so they go on leases. Most of the people never finished school, so really make what their businesses bring in, and generally, it's not a lot. So, you'll also see small crops of corn being grown right outside of their homes. Shoot, even I have a crop of something or another growing on the side of my house, though it's not mine and I have no clue who it belongs to.

Property rights here are really non existent, so you have to make sure EVERYONE around you know what's yours and what's not. In fact, you'll see chicken and goats running around being all free range (for all you P.E.T.A. members) competing for whatever food they find. With malnutrition being a problem, you'd think that you could just pick up a chicken and take it home.

Oh no my friends.

The owners know what chicken is theirs. Quite literally, the neighbors can look at a chicken out of dozens and say that it's not theirs, or even tell you who that chicken belongs to. I remember trying to kick a goat away from my meal that I put on the ground and the rice lady said that it was some dude's goat that lives across the street and that he'd get mad. I was like... really? he'd know if I kicked his goat? How well do Togolese know their animals anyway?? Apparently way too well. Anyway, the point is not to kick goats and chicken no matter how tempted you are to see feathers fly, because someone will find out, and tell on you, and they'll sic a sorcerer on your butt to place a spell on you...well maybe not a spell, but I digress. The point that I'm trying to make is that they're poor. Dirt poor in fact. So poor that they go to the measure of memorizing their flippin' live stock's face. The richest person in my village isn't me, because I'm flat broke (end of pay period anywhere in the world means being broke, especially for a volunteer). It's the government workers and his cronies that drive around in cars, have blackberry's and fancy suits paid for off the backs of the average villager. It's the military that walk around town with guns, as if they accomplished something more than extort the villagers by forcing a bribe system.

Anyway, in lieu of me finding out and being outraged at the corruption, coupled with having $4 to my name, I decided that I wanted to see if I could really live off of less than a $1 a day for a week. Well, more like forced, but I'd like to think it was a choice. The days still consisted of my regular activities of going to these places and talking with people about everything, and eventually getting nothing done. These seemingly pointless activities, however, made me walk around 10k a day. I started with the intent of not even using my fridge, and realllly going for the authentic feel. " HA. Stupid Mike," you would say, and you would be right. After the first day, I pretty much gave up on the prospect of adhering to a "no-cold-drinks" policy. Besides that, I really did live in poverty (besides the 6 rooms and stuff. I mean, can walls feed you? NO. So my mansion doesn't count either).

My diet consisted of rice.... a lot of rice. In fact, rice three times a day. If you're thinking that I should be used to that...i can't even get offended, because it's true. BUT, the difference was the protein. Most Africans can barely afford to eat meat, so I too deprived myself of the meat. This meant rice, with beans, spaghetti, gari(dried and pounded yam powder) and oily sauce. This was for about a small cereal bowl's amount for 100 F, which is about 21 cents. So that meant that I ate everyday for 60 cents a day for almost exactly a week. I think I lost around 3 lbs this week. I still had to walk that lousy 10 k a day and felt like dying every time, and i couldn't blame me being out of shape on it either. When I got home, I wasn't even able to function. Cold water with crystal light, and sleep kept me sane.

Mind you that most Togolese go through the same thing, BUT they not only walk the 10k but also have to work the Field for food, and they don't get cold crystal light lemonade. They eat a corn paste that has less nutritional value than the rice that I ate. They amaze me in every aspect of their physiological ability to survive. No wonder they sleep for 2 hours at noon.

Anyway, when you hear that people have to earn more than a $1.50 a day, they're absolutely right. I just was forced to experience that this week because of my brokeness. It stunk. Like really stunk. I saw meat and I salivated. I consider myself incredible lucky to be an American who has the option of going back to a country where I have the possibility of pulling myself from poverty. These people really don't. As a Togolese friend of mine put it. " You chose to be poor. We were born and will stay poor."

I hope that even in the midst of the economic crisis, you can still appreciate the endless opportunities and possibilities we have and don't have to live off less than a dollar a day. Also, appreciate that we all don't have to memorize the faces of goats, and that we don't have chicken running around that are tempting to punt. Take my word for it.

God bless the United States of America.

Next Post: Togolese Public Transportation

McCain? Il est qui?

As I was walking around my town, just soaking up the Togolese, exhaust saturated air, I was approached by one of the younger people of my town. Probably no older than 21. He and I discussed how I was American and how things were different in both our backwards world. He asked if I liked hip hop. 50 cent and Akon to be specific. I asked if he knew or understood the meaning of some of his lyrics, and when he said no, I began to disillusion him from what he thought American culture was. Hey it's my job. I'm sensibilizing Togo. He then asked if I was voting for Obama.

Shoot, some people here think that he's already the president.

Me, being one of the few "conservatives" (more central than ascribing to any party) in a predominately "liberal" government agency, let alone being on the continent where the democratic candidate claims descendants, I said, "Bien sur!" ( of course!). I then asked him if he's heard of McCain. The response was , " McCain? Il est qui? Il est le Blanc n'est ce pas?" (McCain? Who's he? He's the white man right?). I then concurred and explained that he was in fact the candidate of the opposing party, the Republicans. This was approximately 2 months ago. Today, the day of the election, was an amazing sight. When my fellow volunteers and I were walking around, they chanted,

"OBAMA! OBAMA! OBAMA!"

And of course, we chanted with them, not to offend. Well, most of us chanted because we genuinely loved Obama. We then continued to go to Al Sultan, a Lebanese restaurant and saw that even the Lebanese were captivated by the U.S. Presidential election. Whenever a news flash came across their television screen regarding the elections, silence fell upon the entire restaurant, and the hummus went cold. Obama must win. It wasn't said, but rather felt.

Whether or not one's political leanings is "left" or "right", we can not deny the rhetoric that these marketers have pushed on us regarding the "suaveness", "savvy" and the "forward thinking" of Obama.

"It's time for a change." And according to them, he's the only one who can provide it.

He, himself, never needed the assistance, as he was and is fully capable of captivating an audience. Regardless, we can not deny the infatuation of the nation, and more importantly the infatuation/biasedness of the media.

Even in Africa, people revere him as a demi-god, and hope for Africa itself.

I have to admit, I, though leaning ever so slightly to the right, had fallen under the spell of what is "OBAMA." Despite his view on abortion, despite his socialist views, I like him. I genuinely like him. This is why I'm happy that I never will have a chance to vote. This is why I'm glad that here, in Togo, I won't be able to choose a person based upon me "liking him." Because, honestly, I would have felt horrible for voting for Obama, when I know I don't agree with the most important issue that lies in my heart, and I would have felt guilty for not choosing the only African American that ever had a shot for the Presidency.

Either way, Obama is the president here in Togo, and it'll be difficult to explain why he lost, if he doubtfully does.

Either way, who ever wins, history has been and will be made.

Les chinois sont imperméables aux S.I.D.A.

For all you french speakers out there, you already know what the title means, to Spanish speakers, I'm sure you can muddle your way through the translation, and to those that just can't figure it out, I'll explain in a bit...or you could just google it. Anyway, this entry is dedicated to all the Asian American volunteers in Togo, which amounts to about...6 out of 100 people. The myths about the "chinois", which means "Chinese" if you haven't deduced that, is quite large here. Let me display these wonderful myths apropos the Asia man:

Myth #1: If you're Asian, heck if you just look different than white or black, you be chinois.

In fact, it's not much different from the States. If you look Asian, people think you're chinese. Plain, simple and frankly inescapable. It's to the point where my whitie volunteer friends, get chinois too. Shoot, my friend David got chinois, and he's like have british, half southern american. If you're realllly chinois and with a group of whities, they'll say "chinois" more times than they'll yell Les Blancs (Granted, I get " le blanc" as well, oddly enough). When I attempt to share the wonders of the U.S.'s cultural diversity by explaining that I'm a Korean American, they still don't respond and still think I'm chinese....that is until I drop the "foot ball bomb" on them and tell them to recall the last World Cup, when Togo was decimated by South Korea, first round. They remember that....quite easily, actually. Anyway, everyday, I get bombarded with, "chinois, viens!" or just plain ol' "chinois!" so they can grab my attention. Funny, once they grab my attention and walk away, they proceed to run away from me in terrifying fear. Even 20 some year old women run from me like the plague, which leads to my second myth.

Myth #2: All chinois know karate.

Yes. All chinois know karate, an ethnically japanese martial art. Oh no. It's knowing karate, before kung fu. Not only know it, but are experts. But you know what? That's not too different from the States either. In the States, they at least know it's Kung Fu and not Karate that "chinese know." Perhaps the women run from me because they believe I would judo chop them to the head for altering the course of my very important destination to nowhere. Perhaps it was my face, ironically, just like in the States. Who knows. I digress. This also, leads me to the third myth.

Myth #3: All chinois are related some how to Jet Li and Jacki Chan.

Okay, maybe they don't actually believe that, but I'm gonna try darn hard to perpetuate this one. "Why on earth would you go out of your way to try and perpetuate this ignorance?" you may ask. Well, dear readers, because it's fun. It gives me an outlet of practical joking, and perhaps, they have fun with it too. When people come up to me and ask, " Connaissez-vous Jet Li??", I say, " Mais, Oui, mon frere, Nous somme des cousins!" ( "You know Jet Li?" " Why, yes, my brother, we're cousins!"). Of course they don't believe me. I take advantage of their age old " All y'all asians look alike" stereotype and say, " I mean...look at my face. We look alike don't we?? He's my father's brother's son." They always want some proof, after saying that was chinese minutes ago, that I am in fact chinese, by asking me to say something. They first thing that comes to my mind? " Knee-how". They lose it. They, of course, start laughing and are astonished at my fluency in the chinese language. They begin to believe that I am in fact, the cousin of the legendary, Jet Li. I mean, really, I'm not lying. In the larger scale of things, I really am some how distantly related to him...like the orangutan is related to the chimp.Anyway, I could have pulled this stunt in the States too, and the people that would ask me if i knew Jet Li probably would have believed me. I know...childish Michael...childish... but you say that to my face, I'll get jackie Chan to come get you.

Myth #4: Chinese are impervious to A.I.D.S.

Yup. You guessed it. That's what the title of this entry means. I can't get A.I.D.S. Ever. It's probably something in my blood. Or some sort of ancient acupuncture technique that prevents me from contracting the deadliest S.T.D. They probably think that we want to keep it to ourselves, because the chinese aren't already providing 75% of what Togo consumes. This amazing statement was made on AIDS Ride, oddly enough, when I nor Ruthia (The other korean) weren't around. Not even once, but twice in different villages. We chinois got mad street cred. Of course, that's one myth I can't morally perpetuate. So the other volunteers put that one to rest. Oh, Togo....

Anywho, I'll update y'all on more myth's that I'll be conquering....or making, when they present themselves! I miss you all......again! And God Bless!