dirty shoes

Since my parents were only going to be in Togo for about twelve days, I knew I was going to have to do some planning. Somehow, in less than two weeks, I had to show them what my life is over here. I needed them to understand my fierce love for Africa, my deep heart for her people. I needed them to experience all this place has to offer, and I had to make sure it happened in a very short time.

Oh Africa. You so seldom disappoint.

This past weekend, we headed north to Kpalime, a scenic two-or-so hour drive from the ship. It was a short trip, as road trips in West Africa go, but it seemed that everything was conspiring to make sure that my parents got more TIA (This Is Africa) in two short days than I've experienced in over two years.

Here, I present to you a number of experiences that kind of explain why I love this corner of the world.

We called ahead to book a van to transport us, agreeing on a price per head. As is customary here, this did not exactly go as planned. First, we had to go to the bus station, which actually looked more like a petrol station, if the pumps were any indication. This was for three reasons: a) We needed to speak to the actual owner of the car to argue for half an hour about the price. b) We needed to get gas. Doing this was not possible during the argument with the driver, but had to be taken care of fairly slowly afterwards. This is typical c) We needed to pick up a Wingman. This becomes more important on the return journey. Stay tuned.

After being informed that they were asking a higher price because there were empty seats, we in turn informed the owner that we did not mind the seats being filled. He then proceeded to inform us that this was, in fact, an impossibility, since the car was unable to stop once it had started. (Keep reading to see why this becomes rather funny.) In order to get the originally agreed-upon price, we had to also agree to having two strangers in the van with us. This was no problem, as we were ready for an adventure. We packed them in and set off on an uneventful journey northwards.

Upon arriving to the hotel, we were greeted warmly and began to search through the book in vain for our reservations. It was starting to look grim, until I realized that Celine et Sandra was actually just a fancy way of saying Philip Chandra. It's practically the same, right?

Now, the third room, the one that should have only been available on Sunday, (two on Saturday, one on Sunday, remember?) turned out also to be available on Saturday instead. However, we were told we could not have it because the hotel across the road would be expecting us, and it wouldn't be very nice if we didn't stay there. We were allowed to have it on one condition; that I march directly across the street and explain to them why we were bailing.

They didn't actually care.

When I had made the reservations, I made sure to mention that we wanted to put two mattresses on the floor of each room. They had agreed to this, and even made a note in the book, next to Celine et Sandra's reservation. However, we were informed at check-in that calling ahead and requesting mattresses was not okay. They correct way to go about this was to book too few rooms and show up with too many people; these extra people would then be given mattresses. The advance warning made everything far too complicated. Naturally, this resulted in an argument. Which I had to carry out in French, sounding for all the world like a three year-old with terrible grammar.

We then decided to ride zemidjahns up the mountain to see the view. My mother somehow agreed to this, proving that Africa does indeed make you crazy. We learned that it is possible to take a self-portrait of you and your driver while navigating rutted roads at unsafe speeds without crashing to your death. In fact, it's possible to do this with all three drivers you might have over the course of a weekend. (I'll get to the part about Liz and I being on the same bike in just a moment.) When at the top of the mountain, my first driver (the one in the red shirt) asked to take a photo with me. He then proceeded to lean in close and get a good handful of my rear end, despite having been told all about my Husband of Joy on the ride up. This particular driver looked more than a little afraid when it was pointed out to him that the biggest guy in the entire group was, in fact, my father. The rest of the drivers thought all of this was the funniest thing that had ever happened. I felt slightly uncomfortable all around.

The clouds had been gathering as we rode up, and it turns out that refusing to take the Yovos back down the mountain while the rain starts to fall is a somewhat acceptable method for extorting more money. It also turns out that we're more stubborn than they are, and we rode triumphantly back to the hotel and paid the originally-agreed-upon price with only another half hour or so of arguing. (Are you keeping track of the arguing time? It's starting to add up.)

We settled in back at the hotel to soak our feet in the pool and enjoy a delicious dinner and a football game on a small TV. Watching England and the USA tie in their World Cup opener is, unfortunately, not terribly fun when the power goes out for a while in the middle of the match. This is, however, to be expected in Africa, and we counted ourselves lucky that we didn't miss either of the goals and that the place looked lovely by candlelight.

The next day dawned overcast and relatively cool, so we decided to hike to a waterfall. Now, something you may or may not know is that, when taking zemidjahns to and from a hiking point, it's not necessary to have enough zemis for the number of people riding them. Putting two on each one is no problem, except near a police checkpoint. Here, you'll be dropped off around the corner while your driver speeds away, calling over his shoulder, Just walk. Stopping in the middle of a village to find more zemis is a good idea, especially on Sunday. This is when babies are at their cutest and the most goats are roaming around.

Later in the day, just after lunch, when a driver arrives at the appointed time to head back to Lome, this is shocking. It also somehow garners him enough brownie points that he can do whatever he wants during the rest of the ride. Which is where the Wingman comes in. His job is to sit next to the sliding door and slide the door open and closed each time we stop to pick up another passenger. (You'll remember, please, that this is the van that was "unable to stop once it started.") On this trip, the Wingman had to open his door for a total of eight extra passengers. Counting himself, the driver and the ten Yovos, there were twenty people inside a smallish minibus at one point. Twenty. Nevertheless, we arrived back at the ship weary and squashed and filled to the brim with Africa.

I am so glad my parents got to live all this. When they go home tomorrow, I hope they settle into their seats on the plane and instead of feeling cramped, look around and revel in the space afforded by not having anyone sitting nearly in their laps. I hope they hesitate in the supermarket and wonder whether they can haggle the price down just a little. I hope they move to lift a stranger's baby from its mother's arms before they remember that it's not okay on their continent. I hope they turn on their shower and eat their dinner and can't help thinking of all the little ones who are going without the comforts they enjoy every day.

A little boy in Zambia once told me, totally unaware of his own wisdom, that the dirt in Africa never gets off your shoes, no matter how hard you scrub.

I hope their shoes stay dirty for a long, long time. Because mine are never coming clean.