The end is nigh

Well, here we are coming to the end of our time here in Togo. All the seminary teachers, most of the students, and various others have gone to a meeting, meaning that we are pottering around, generally lazing. For example, as I sit here, our cook, Clarice is doing the washing up. So I guess that gets me onto point number one of tonight’s lecture and that is….

It feels very un-English having someone do the housework for you. Neither of us really felt that we could issue orders, and as a result she got away with murder. If you do ever get round to reading this, Clarisse, even though we do not know what it is, we know exactly how much ‘Eau de Javel’ costs, but your food was just so yummy...

One should always punctuate a lecture with a witty anecdote in order that one may spot the sleepers as they do not chuckle, particularly useful in English lessons.

So here goes. As part of the course, the students are being taught some hymns by an American, from America, called Jonathan. Apart from being American (hey nobody’s perfect) he is good company and has taught us many new and fascinating ways to say old words, and also a killer new card game. But aside from that, a couple of days ago, he started to get some spots on his hand around the webbing where the thumb is attached. Over time the condition continued to worsen and so we consulted our copy of ‘Where there is no doctor’, decided it was an allergy with nothing to be done, so went to bed. Fast forward to now, and the rash has quite clearly been caused by shaking hands with the guys here, which one does maybe 100 times a day. Surprisingly, given the bad behaviour of his hand, Jonathan is not racist in any way, shape or form.

Moving swiftly on before I get myself in trouble, the difference in behaviour between boys and girls becomes apparent in slightly surreal experiences such as living in one of the poorest parts of the world (although one does have to wonder how they measure ‘nothing’ to decide that there is more of it here than elsewhere). On Saturday, Joanna went shopping, whilst Edd relaxed watching old Westerns on video. When I say shopping, she was accompanying Charlotte, the wife of Basil and one of our new friends here, to the hospital because she had malaria, couldn’t go to the toilet, and was just being in general very sick. This took many days, and many miles of walking in the heat, as the healthcare here is atrocious. Basically, you have to pay for everything in advance, the problem being that they decide what you need as they go along, so it is not just once that you need to pay, each time involving queuing or waiting which is great when you are sick. Then they prescribe you with something that has lost its effectiveness (for example she was given quinine) or something utterly useless and unhelpful (such as cough medicine, great to drive those tiny little parasites out of the blood) along with an unnecessary injection. One can’t help but suspect that the doctors are incompetent, and prey on the ignorance and cupidity of the people here, who really cannot afford to pay. However the clinic was not really as bad hygienically as one would have supposed.

An example, another friend’s wife was told she needed an abortion immediately or she would die, sentence being duly performed. We are still none the wiser as to why she needed the abortion, suffice it to say that they are subsidised here (all charities are good, no?), our friend and his wife could never have afforded it themselves, and they are both very upset about what has happened.

But what really struck me in all of this has been the gratitude of the people we have helped (other people have thanked Jo as well), all for a measly 5 dollars. And having done it I don’t care if they get dependant. I would rather they rely on us for prophylaxis than sit at home, quietly dying as the drugs are too expensive (Basil already skips meals as he can’t afford to feed his family).

As James is here again, Espoire, a protégée showed us round some new churches in inaccessible places on Sunday. One of the cute things about the villages we go to are the children, with their little pot bellies, sticky out belly buttons that could remove your eye from 20 paces, and stick thin arms. Visiting the churches, one is always struck by the joy exhibited by the people, for example the old doddery lady dancing up the aisle to put her mites in the collection, bum wiggling furiously in the Moba way (Jo got in on the action this time too), and the welcome we get. We are always well fed, this time with rice patties, pintard and the best Sauce Arachide (not related to Arachne in case you are worried) we have ever tasted. But it does sum up the people here that whilst they themselves can’t afford to eat meat, and suffer as a consequence, they give it to us with joyful abandon.

Seriously though, I have been learning how rubbish history, as we are taught it anyway, is. I had always thought that Napoleon went to Egypt because of something like an insatiable greed for power, but now I have been corrected. Napoleon took his armies to Egypt in order to chisel the nose off the sphinx. You see, it had been made by black people, and so had a black mans nose. Napoleon was properly scandalised by this, and so in order that people not realise that black chaps are capable of actually doing anything performed the most famous act of nose mutilation in history.

Anyway, sometime during our rides out to churches, our walks to the hospital or our re-education, we suddenly realised that we shall miss this place, with its beautiful desolation, and its hospitable and dignified people. I think one day we may well return.

Allow me to end with a poem…

Oh Chapaleau, we love you.
When we first met, you were not nice
As you tasted of silage,
But now you taste sweet
And make us wobble on our feet.
Oh Chapaleau, we love you.