Test Day

This morning we had our mid-training language test, and the day progressed into a real turning point for me in general.  In preparation for poste visit, I needed to buy a small charcoal stove to cook meals for the week.  I think when I move to Mogou after swear-in, I’ll really live it up and get a gas stove, but just for the week I’ll get by with charcoal. So this afternoon, after my Gangam lesson, Maman sent me down to the route with Valerie, one of the domestiques, to buy said stove.  We got to the road and Valerie turns to me and says, “Ok, do you want to go visit my school first and then get the stove, or get the stove and then visit my school.” “Visit your school?” “Yeah, it’s right there, and all my friends really want to meet you.” “Um, ok, school first, then stove?” And off we went. It’s a small private school, and not all the students have class Tuesday afternoon, apparently. But those who were there were, indeed, happy to see me. “Ahhh Valerie! Make her say ‘my name is’ again in Ewe!” “Hélène, you must give me your bandana! I want this. You must give it to me! Please, we are such good friends! Ahh what’s this? (my antibacterial hand gel) And this?? (my watch) And this! (my hairtie) No really, give me your bandana.” I looked to Valerie for help, but to no avail. “Hélène,” she called, “come meet this guy and say ‘my name is’! He’s from Cote d’Ivoire.”

After about 20 minutes of that, we rounded up a posse and headed off to get the stove. Valerie decided she would haggle for me. Before we left, Maman had told me not to pay more than 2 mille (about $4), so we agreed that was my highest price. On the walk over, Jacqui and Agathe (Valerie’s friends), kept up with the questions. “You must buy me that coconut! And that meat on a stick! Or just give me money. Yes, you must give me money.” All these weeks of practicing our canned lines in French finally came in handy. “Actually, I’m a volunteer. I’m not paid. I don’t have very much money… I only have enough for a stove.” So then they decided they would just call me. Or stop by the house, cuz we were friends now.

We got to the stove store, expertly disguised as a motorcycle, bike, and car repair shop. There was a group of about 5 teenage boys welding a small stove, and then around 5 men sitting and talking under the tree. Valerie asked about the stove. “Oh yeah, they’re almost done with one! It’ll be ready really soon. Please, sit and wait!” They brought out a chair. The guy in charge, Koffi, started off. “Yovo! What’s your name? Hélène? Oh that’s great! Are you married?” I told him yes. “That’s ok! You can get a divorce and marry me instead!” “Ok, Koffi, but you need to be able to cook me American food. Hamburgers. Do you know how to make those?” “Oh, sure! Anything for the daughter of Obama! Where are you from?” “Wisconsin.” Confused look. “Chicago.” “Oohhhhh! Chicago! You really are Obama’s daughter! I’m so happy you are my wife. Hey you! Come here and meet my new wife.” It continued on like this for an hour. I was renamed in Ewe, and I explained who I was and what I was doing, including explaining Peace Corps, Girls Education and Empowerment, and my poste in Mogou. I met at least 6 or 7 of Koffi’s “brothers,” (hopefully) politely refused a coconut, yams, and beans and rice, argued in favor of Chicago versus Texas, and tried to understand this one guy’s opinion on Washington’s supposed anti-agriculture policy (?? “They see the tomatoes and say ‘Go away! You are from Africa! All of the produce is expensive. But in Texas, they like tomatoes. Same with the corn. But Obama, he is like Mandela in South Africa. He will help the tomatoes.” ???)  I kept looking to Valerie, expecting her to react like one of the other stagiaires would, but of course for her this was all normal, albeit with a few more Obama references. And I realized that this was about to be my normal, too.

Finally, the stove was done, and the tallest kid brought it out to discute the price. “4 mille.” “What! No way. Deux mille,” returns Valerie. He won’t budge. My hubby Koffi comes over to save the day. “What will she say, when she goes back to America! Those Togolese, they were so mean, they charged me very high prices.” “But this is a quality stove! And I rushed to finish it for her!” “So she will take this stove back to America and tell everyone there where she got it, and you will have a good name for yourself. You can’t just charge her more because she’s a yovo! I see that all the time on the street! Some yovo walks down the street and all the vendors say ‘aha! I will make him pay double!’ This is not good. She will take her stove to America and tell everyone that the people of Togo are fair. Charge her deux mille. Ok? Ok wife, give him your 2 mille.” And that was that. I said goodbye to everyone and we hauled the stove home.

Maman gave the stove her blessing, told us we did a good job, and then actually let me help cook dinner. She had me build the fire and cut all the veggies, which would have been simple except they don’t use cutting boards. Everything is into your palm, and it was doucement! doucement! all over the place. Maman had fun laughing at me, I learned how to make a dish, and everyone was happy. Major success. On to poste visit! On va voir…