I Spy Something Red

I woke up this morning with a start - the heavy breathing, instantly cognizant type of start where you aren't going back to sleep for a long time, if ever, and something ridiculous is going on in your head. I ate Indian food last night. I didn't drink. I swam in the pool all day and was exhausted (living in paradise is taxing). Nothing done to keep me awake. But, in any case, I woke up thinking about minibottles. As a quick reminder, in 2005 SC was the last state in the nation to legalize 'free-pour' (SC is the only state in the nation that needs a technical term for pouring alcohol from a bottle - wow) - eschewing the airplane mini-bottles for the accepted set-up found in all 49 other states and a few territories.

A Bartender's worst nightmare

Now, I'm sure any of you from outside the Palmetto State are thinking this is a no-brainer, right? Well, actually, no, because you see, by changing the law that forced restaurants to serve alcohol in mini-bottles, you were hitting someone in the wallet - namely the makers of the bottles themselves. So, in true political fashion, the manufacturers (who didn't even live in the state) hired a couple of lobbyists who fought like mad to keep mini-bottles in. Their argument? That if we changed to free-pour, someone was going to get a weaker drink. Seriously, that was it. And you know what? It almost worked.

You see, mini-bottles have a regulated 1.7 ounces of alcohol per bottle. No fibbing possible. So, as the lobbyists logic goes, if, on the free-pour system and bartender likes you, you'll get more, if not, then less. This was their tactic. Scare the locals into paralysis on the logic that sometime, somewhere, someone was going to get an unfair deal. They, of course, never mentioned the fact that drink costs would drop, the huge reduction in waste, or the benefit to the bars and restaurants that would result due to the tax structure. Nor did anyone bring to mind the impossiblity of making, say, a Long Island Ice Tea with mini bottles - $15 dollars for a drink in rural South Carolina? Yeah, that pleased a lot of folks. I'm glad to report that today we drink out of big bottles like big boys and girls.

Not Scary

So, why exactly was I thinking about mini-bottles before dawn? Because it came to me that mini bottles are like privatized healthcare. I see a strong resemblance between the mini-bottle lobbyists and private insurance lobbyists - shove enough fear down the everyman's throat - spit enough hellfire and brimstone to the most demoralized American demographic, and there might be a shot at keeping things the way they are. And whats the #1 sure-fire way to make any mother-loving, hard-working American recoil in disgust? THE RED SCARE.

Hey, that looks like fun...

Now listen, I'm not much of a polictically charged person. I like low taxes and grilling on weekends like any other guy. But I am positive that healthcare can be done better in the states. I don't have any proof - I'm not an expert and I don't have an over-estimated sense of righteousness that comes from watching 24 hour news stations. I can't regurgitate facts or percentages. I just, in the most American of stereotypes, feel it. I don't trust a company whose only way of making money is either A) Raising Premiums or B) Denying Claims. And I sure as hell don't trust people whose best argument is based on fearmongering and paranoia. Listen to Matt, here, everyone - NO ONE on Capitol Hill has their thumb on a direct line to God or Allah, or the All-Being, or the Borg. No one is getting assimilated. They all are just as clueless as us, maybe with just one large difference - their health-care is free.

Not Real

But either way, I'm not worried - I've got my long-term plan figured out. When I get so old that I become a burden, I'll just kill somebody. At least then I'll get nationalized round-the-clock care with free health benefits. I guess only criminals deserve the dirty commie-run free health care.

Motorcycle Diaries

I can't say that it hurt all that much. In fact, pain hasn't really been a factor in all of this. It's been more time and inconvenience, and above all, money. The sheer amount of money that has been spent on me in the past few weeks is (at least to me, who's perspective is admittedly a bit skewed) staggering. In short, crossing the street in front of my quartier a week or so ago, a motorcycle hit me and sent me on an all expenses paid vacation to South Africa. I didn't even see him coming. Just one minute I was standing, and the next minute I wasn't. The law of mass tonnage in action, me on the receiving end. I got some pretty nice gashes and chipped my left tibia. While I made out lucky with a pretty minor set of wounds, PC was worried about a bone infection (which I didn't even know could happen), so a few days later I was in a hired car going straight to the airport in Accra. I was flown first class because, as I was told, I needed "room for my leg" and spent 8 hours gorging on wine and caviar (not an exaggeration - the ticket cost over $4000USD, you'd better believe I abused those stewardesses) (and, hey, since you're here, fun fact - 'stewardesses' is the longest word in English that you type solely with the left hand).

Yeah, well, you should see the other guy. Yes, that's a bath robe.

Fast forward a week later and I'm in the lap of luxury. In exchange for a couple hours of surgery I've got hot showers, tea and sherry in my room, A/C, personal drivers, heaps and heaps of bacon for breakfast, $20/day per diem (!!! more than double what I make in Togo), malls, restaurants, movie theaters, and great wine. I'm here with a few other invalids from across Africa and we are having a blast.

Pretoria, The City of Jacarandas. Known in PC circles as Paradise.

Pretoria is, seriously, as pretty as these photos (which I stole from the net.. the doc here dropped my camera on the first day and broke it. He doesn't know that, but what am I supposed to say - "thanks for saving my leg and all, but really, you're gonna need to replace that"?). There are a few euro-centric idiosycracies I've run into - driving on the other (read: wrong) side of the road, silly English (a local bakery was promoting "ass. butter danishes" the other day. Taxis here have signs that read "please don't bang the door". You know it's funny!), and hardly concealed racism. I'm going to go out on a tiny limb here and say this is probably the most racist place I've ever spent any time in. And I'm from Laurens, folks - that's saying a lot. The Boers (read: Whitey) all speak Afrikaans, which I've heard called a child's version of dutch, it's degrees of separation consisting of dropping all gender, most conjugations, using ridiculous vocabulary (foregoing all of the wonderfully colorful dutch cuss words), sounding even more disgusting than Dutch when spoken, and being even easier to make fun of than Flemish, Dutch's other bastard relative.

But, even being back in the 1st world gets old after a while. There's only so much you can eat, so many movies you can watch, only so low that the A/C can go before you get cold and want to go outside. So, it's been fun and hopefully I'll be back in Togo by Monday. I've got a bit of work and healing to do before I head out to Sierra Leone on the 14th :) So don't feel sorry for me, I've been recommending that all of my friends go play in traffic - the righteous scars I'll have are only the tip of the perk-iceberg.

English 101

During last week's visa-trip to Accra, a small bit of bile I had been carrying around in my inner monologue of hatred since I had arrived here was added to in copious amounts and is now, not without a certain relief, overflowing onto these only-so-recently angel white pages. The cible of my ire today is what seems so charming and provincial to the first time visitor to post-colonized West Africa – the version of language you hear here. In case you missed your pre-requisite 2 seconds of African history, it goes a little something like this – many years before the invention of olympic curling and dance-offs, the only way for a country to flex nuts was a good old-fashioned subjugation – thusly, bored white people (namely Brits and Frenchies*) banged their heads together and decided to go slaughter some folks who had the one thing they still lacked - melanin.

*but then, lets not forget the Germans, Italians, Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch, or the bastard-whipping-boy-of-Europe, The Belgians, who turned out to be the most sadistic fuckers on the continent. With their entire national identity based on chocolate, waffles, and regularly servicing both France and Holland orally, they instantly took a shine to the idea of being at the top of the food chain, even if only in asshole-of-the-asshole-of-the-world, The African Congo. They added an almost zealous fervor to their slaughtering and slave-herding that their big brothers in Europe never seemed to grasp.

Seriously, Belgium, where's the bad?

While theories differ on what drove lesser European nations to colonize the dark continent, it is commonly accepted that the English were trying to escape from their cuisine, while the French were trying to escape the French (“for God so loved the world, he created France. To prove his sense of humour, he created the French.”). When asked for comment on exactly why England was laying claim to vast swaths of the African coastline through bloody and dictatorial means, The King of England went on record by saying, “'cause hey, fuck 'em.” Fast-forward a few hundred years and a few imaginary lines drawn on a map irrespective of language, tribe or religion, and you have the celebrity-philanthropist-wet-dream-cluster-fuck that is today West Africa. And, just to make sure the ungrateful natives wouldn't forget who descended upon them like the hand of god and laid the five-finger bitch slap of colonization across their broad, black asses, the whites left them with decent roads, inferiority complexes and western languages. Europe: 1 Africa: 0.

That catches us up to just about last week, where my hatred for an as-till-now innocuous word boiled over and made me go get drunk. This word, one of my new scapegoats for all of my problems here is, drumroll please, – Somehow. Now, I know you were expecting something much more obvious, but this is the word that makes me grit my teeth every time I hear it. Understand that I'm not a linguist or a lexicographer or even a very good talker of the English language, so I can't exactly tell you how this word is used incorrectly, it's simply that every time I hear it, I know it shouldn't be used that way. Par exemple –

Q: So, I guess you're pretty excited about leaving for your big trip tonight, yeah?
A: (After considerable pause for epic effect) Yes, somehow.

Is this exactly wrong? Couldn't say. Here's another.

Q: Well, you don't speak English perfectly, but you do understand a bit, right?
A: (Again, pensive pause) Somehow.

And its not just the butchery of the word, its the pronounciation. It sounds like some type of Indian greeting with heavy accent on the end – sum-HOW.

While in Ghana, I noticed that ALL the volunteers there have picked up this most annoying of traits – to wit, a text I received from a friend who was late -

Hey, I'm sorry it's taken so long, we just left. I'm still coming, somehow.

...WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?????? (also, that's what she said)

Another annoying habit everyone does here (in French and English) is using the catch-all response, too much. Did you enjoy the party? Too much! Did you like the food? Too much! This can be used in an active sense as well – I like it too much! In French, this becomes the highly abused phrase trop meme – meaning something like 'too much, even' or to express a general 'too muchedness'. I'm not 100% if this is common, proper French, but my bullshit-o-meter doesn't believe it is, so just to be sure I NEVER say it. The word too here loses its connotation signifying an over-abundance and gets denigrated to doing the job that countless number of adjectives could take care of – Is he a good person? Oh, he's too good. How was the trip? Too fun! Would you like to shove a screwdriver through your temples now? Too much!

And one more point of contrition for me here – small. Meaning 'a little bit'. I have to go out small, I'll be right back. I want to play your guitar small. Can you give me small time, I have to make a call. Listen to me well, present and future travelers of Anglophone West Africa - if you come here and say small instead of 'a little bit', it doesn't make you integrated, it just makes you an asshole. You ever known someone who said “ciao” instead of bye or keeps their phone on military time in America just to show they've been to another country and 'oops, I still haven't gotten used to the American system after my trip'? Yeah, you're like that guy – go fall on something sharp.

Well that's it for me today. I gotta tell you, I think I've drained my hate for the day and I feel better....somehow.

Visas from Sierra Leone

ETA: December 2009

Just got back from 3 days in Accra and I am now convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Togo is in all actuality, quite a shit hole. Don't get offended, I still love my little Togo like an abusive father, and the folks here are as nice as they know to be, but the difference just 3 hours away is staggering. What gave me this epiphany? Salsa dancing. I went salsa dancing. True-to-life Latin Quarter salsa dancing. On a Wednesday night. Actually there is salsa dancing somewhere in the city every night of the week, I just happened across one of the best nights to go. Huddled around a glittering deepwater pool in a classy hotel atrium, we all danced to incredible music and ate great food until midnight. The best part was the fact that it was damn near 100% Ghanaian. The white people were the ones who didn't know what the fuck they were doing - and the locals were GOOD. Good like we think of homemade vanilla ice cream on a summer day and sex on a Sunday afternoon. I have been to quite a few salsa clubs in Latin America and these guys were WORLD CLASS. I went expecting something interesting at best, and ended up being completely shocked. I couldn't help but stand there, enthralled, the ebullient smile of a smitten teenager stuck to my face the entire night. Pictures of this exist, but not on my camera - I'll get them soon and put them up, because I really feel like even you in comfy yovo-land would be impressed.

So, it was then I conceded that, yes, Ghana wins. There is a tangible difference in the air when you are in Ghana - you read headlines in one of the 10 different daily newspapers (Togo has 2, who choose their words carefully) of rapists tried and convicted beside restaurant reviews. Sure, the city is ugly as hell and almost as hot, but Ghanaians are proud of their country and think in a worldly fasion, and I can't help but see it through rose-colored shades. I mean, come on, they actually speak a proper language there - here, look at this handy visual aid -

Exhibit A: Countries where French is useful

Exhibit B: Countries where English is useful - HUZZAH!

In other news, work is going well, with my projects starting to wind down - Prosper, my zoo guy is opening a bakery in Kpalime and a Mushroom farm in Lome, and Charles is hawking gadgets across Lome like a true hustler. People are making money, and I feel a bit accomplished. So, all is well there.

This is a normal work-day for Prosper.

After the new year, I'll pretty much be out of here, with only 4 months before our COS (close of service) conference and then just a few after that before I get lost in some other forgotten corner of the globe. Yippee. Heres a random photo to send you home with.

Claude, my favorite kid on my street

Exclusivity

Welcome to the club, bitches

So, yes, I did finally bend to the will of the mighty US Government. Turns out, I'm a coward. So now every time you need your fix of cynicism you're going to have to log in. Cry me a river. This was, logically, simply the next step in my dominance of the blog-o-sphere, where, just as any great restauranteur will tell you, the more popular you get, the more exclusive you become. If you are reading this, you're a part of the club. You're in. You get it. You understand what the hell I mean when I italicize haphazardly.

Exclusivity brings with it a great advantage. I can now say whatever the hell I want. Watch this - to prove my point, my favorite joke--

Q: What's the difference between your mom and a typewriter?
A: Your mom's a whore.

ZING!

Now, I will be posting some work progress here in a few days, but I want to hold off until I gather some really nice photos for everyone, so in lieu of that, I would like to address something that has been brought to my attention recently and ask everyone in the states to kindly SIT THE FUCK DOWN! What the hell is going on over there? I really try to avoid news over here, but Jesus, its made to sound like the US is ripping itself apart - let me tell you, that time you are alluding to where everything was better never existed, no one has any idea what they are talking about, no president gets it right all the time, and you are all still the fattest, richest, most privileged people on the planet! Yes, Obama won the Nobel prize, no, the world is not ending, yes, I do have to buy my homologue a steak dinner now because I didn't believe him when he told me and I made a stupid bet. Now would everyone please just go open a bottle of wine, jump into the sheets with someone nice and calm the fuck down? I swear, I leave you guys for a year or so and it all goes to shit...

So in that vein, here's to a new, unleashed Determined to Tan - now with more fucks per sentence (fps) than any other reputable news source on the planet.

Customer Service

Coming from the west, we are bred to have an overly-developed sense of service and quality. This can be one of the main contributors to the fact that outside of our borders Americans can be perceived as demanding, boorish, uncultured oafs. Sure, the French are snobs, Germans androids, Dutch druggies and Brits drunkards, but those are all in their own way, sort of endearing. Our customarily accepted belief that the customer is always right and we pay only when we are satisfied is not quite held to the same gold standard throughout the rest of the world, Togo standing apart as a brilliantly blazing bastion of ever-augmenting apathy in the wide world of falling standards. This holds true regardless of the type of service rendered – if you enter someone’s establishment, your money instantly becomes their money. Lets see some examples –

Taxis – It is of absolutely no use asking if a driver actually knows the location of your destination. He will lie through his teeth to make sure that you get into his taxi, and then once he drives around for 20 minutes he will be forced into the position of having to ask other taxi drivers for directions, who, a priori, will lie to your driver. You will eventually arrive after an obscene amount of time and wrong stops, where forthwith the driver will demand through equal levels of wild gesticulation and banal excuses that you should pay him more than you agreed upon, because, mon frere, gas is expensive.

General services – Someone wash your clothes for you but rip holes in three of your shirts? C’est l’Afrique, monsieur. Fix your shoes and now they are more uncomfortable than before? C’est bien fait! Buy absolutely anything at the marché and have it break a few hours later? Du bon qualité. Anyone remember Coiffure Wait-and-See? A hair-cut this incredible doesn’t have to only be a one-time occurrence! Simply ask any street barber if they have ever cut white-hair before – if they swear on their mother’s grave that they have, you can be absolutely assured that you will receive an as-of-yet un-fathomable act of styling prestidigitation, destined to win you fame with your friends and rejection from the opposite sex! That’ll be 200CFA, monsieur.

There was a monetary exchange involved with this

Restaurants – This one goes without mentioning. Let’s not forget the Brochette Fiasco of Fall ’08. Now that was way back and my French was still a bit shaky, so I simply chalked it up to yovo-error on my part. However, well into my 2nd year here, I am now convinced beyond any reconciliation that the majority of servers who wait on you here are either idiots or just incredibly malicious, paying the white man back for colonization, one eff-ed up order at a time. Honestly, all the evidence I’ve seen points strongly to the short-bus hypothesis. Take, for example, the countless number of times I’ve been to the local cafeteria across the street from my house. I order the exact same thing every time – an egg sandwich with two eggs, mayonnaise, onions, and tomatoes. That’s 4 ingredients for anyone not following too closely – I swear on my life it is NEVER right. N-E-V-E-R. It’s especially tiring when I’m there alone and they bring me 2 sandwiches with one egg a piece. Or, my personal favorite - me, Steven, and Rayan ordering coffee at a nice-ish restaurant here. We asked the waitress if the coffee was filtered or instant – to which she assured us it was real, filtered coffee and then went on to tell us about how she makes it fresh every morning and that she herself won’t even touch the instant stuff. Satisfied, we ordered three cups. You want to take a guess at what she brought out 10 minutes later?

3 CUPS OF TEA.

I couldn't make this stuff up...


So, this leads me back to dinner two nights ago with friends Joe and Bree who were about to leave for a nice European vacation. We went to one of the nicer restaurants in Lomé, where we ordered a steak and 2 pork chops and were promptly served 3 steaks. When we sent it back (which was an absolute first for me here, by the way), instead of actually making the order right, they decided to tell us that, no, we were wrong, the blood-red flanks of charred cow in front of us were, actually, pork chops. Silly yovos….

The bastards tried to call security on us when we left without paying. Thankfully the owner arrived right as we were getting heated. What did he say? A man who’s been in the restaurant business for over 15 years and is used to the idea of customer service? And I quote - “Pork chops shouldn’t look like that.” We took the bottle of wine with us.

Yeah, whatever...

NO ONE CARES

Based on a True Story

So, why would I use a public space such as this to criminalize myself? You’d think that theoretically, with the entire world having access to my writings, I would find it in my best interest to talk about what an impact I’m having here and how much good I’m doing. Hell, this can be read by future employers, girlfriends, girlfriends’ parents, senators, parole officers, etc. Why would I make myself look like such a dick all the time? Well, there’s a long answer, and a short answer – I’ll give you both since you obviously have the time, but, in the name of brevity, just in the off-case you do actually have something more pressing to attend to, the short is this –

Eat me, I can write whatever the hell I want.

Now that that’s settled, run along and get that kettle you left boiling on the stove. For those of you with a more flexible schedule, we’re gonna dig deep and root around in the psyche of everyone’s favorite adorable emigrant southerner.

First of all, maybe I was never too clear about this, but this is ENTERTAINMENT, people. I’m not fact checking and quoting reliable sources – in fact, there is so little ‘fact’ floating around on this blog that the only thing of value you could realistically think of doing with it is maybe, I don’t know, start a hunt for WMDs (zing!). No, seriously, though, real life is pretty damn boring – you wake up, you go to work, you go to sleep, maybe you cuss a few times along the way cause someone cut you off on the interstate – snooze fest – who the hell wants to read about that?

Your Life

These are real situations, real scenarios, just incredibly embellished – just like what we learn in school about Pocahontas, Christopher Columbus, The Alamo, The first moon walk, The Civil War (Thats The War of Northern Aggrestion where I come from), The Revolutionary War, Lincoln and Emancipation, etc. - its based on true events, but its been spiced up and moved around and warped a great deal to make it work for us.

Yeah, not true

The rule of numbers comes into play here as well – only interesting things seem to happen when I’m off being free and wild, the one time every few weeks that happens, so of course I’ll write about that and not the weeks of boredom. So, when I talk about drinking from sunup to sundown and doing nothing of value for weeks on end, is there a grain of truth in that? Yeah, sure, I probably had a few beers down by the beach on a Sunday afternoon and woke up late on Monday. So why so obviously overdo it? Follow me to point #2 –

NO ONE CARES. Now please, say that out loud for me. Say it one more time for good measure. Internalize that one, it will serve you for the rest of your days. No matter how interesting my life is, no matter what kind of incredible things I am doing, no matter what kind of massive mental and spiritual changes I undergo from my various travels, it doesn’t matter to anyone. Think about any movie you’ve seen where the square family shows slides from their family rafting trip to dinner guests and everyone is squirming to get out of there – ITS ONLY INTERESTING IF IT HAPPENS TO YOU. If something doesn’t directly involve the ego of the person you are talking to, 99% of the time, their eyes will glaze over after about 5 seconds of you talking about your life. How do you avoid this confectionerisation (Im making it official, Steven!) of the masses’ ocular capacities? Simple – leave ‘em laughing. Also, pictures help – everyone likes a book with pictures. No one wants to hear about the boring computer class I had or the incredible cultural exchange I had buying tomatoes in the market. However, throw in a bit of general rapscallionism, a couple shakes of banditry, and a healthy dollop of villainy and what do you have? You have the much more entertaining story of a 6’4” sunburnt white-man chain smoking his way through aisle after aisle of piss-smelling stalls, carrying a glass of scotch and cussing because he can’t find a proper tomato in this god-forsaken country full of god-forsaken shitty vegetables.

YES!

See? Pulitzer here I come. And still the post goes deeper - Onward to point #3!!!

THE MARTYR COMPLEX. I have read that there are 4 types of people who leave everything they know and move to beat-up parts of the world to do whatever the hell they do there – Mercenaries, Misfits, Missionaries, and The Broken Hearted. I have only been here for round-abouts a year, but I will stand by that one 100%. Each of us are running from something, in our own ways, but most of us no more so than anyone else back home – its just blatantly obvious with us. Everyone has their drug, it just depends on how wisely you pick your poison - cocaine habits, shopping addictions, reality TV, constantly building additions onto your house, these things can be covered up or are seen as relatively normal back chez moi. For us, however, its kinda hard to cover up vanishing for years on end to live in mud huts. I don’t know, I’ve never done cocaine, but I would guess it probably beats the mud huts some of the time, so I can’t judge too harshly. We all fall on the MMMBh scale in some way – some come here to help, some come here thinking they want to help, and some come for lack of a better idea. To this day, I get emails talking about ‘how much good’ Im doing and that I don’t have any idea how many lives I’m touching. I won’t say that’s a complete fallacy, but I want to set the record straight here and for the rest of my life – I AM NOT A DAMN MARTYR!

No.

I am here because I want to be here, because I enjoy what I do, because I’m having a blast, because I find it way more preferable to, I don’t know, being a bank teller (no offense, bank tellers, thank you for all the free suckers). My job here is business advising, which can logically lead to ‘helping’ others, but that’s a happy side-effect - anyone who says helping people is their only goal is most likely lying to you. People do what they WANT to do in EVERY situation, based on what is better for THEM. And, as a side note, I never, ever, EVER want to get lumped in the same category as missionaries here. If that means I go to the other extreme when I talk about my work here, then so be it. I won't delve into my missionary rant here, though - I’ll save that for only the truly initiated.

So there you have it – no longer any need to worry about my mental or liver-al health. And not a moment too soon, either – I’ve got a full day of hugging African children, helping elderly women cross busy streets, facilitating those Israeli-Palestinian Peace Talks (again), and at 3 I’ve got my local alchemy group – I’m teaching local artisans how to turn trash they find on the street into gold bullion. And then I’ll probably get drunk.

BUSTED!

Proud board member of the West African Young Professional's Club

UPDATE: Soooooooooo, turns out people read this. People like, A) My mom (see mom, I do read your emails) and B) Relatively powerful, career-ending types of people. So even though I have not been at all forced by the man, I feel I should mention that even though I've got this HUGE disclaimer over here (far right, people, far right------->) and most people really appreciate a good dose of cynical sarcasm, The United States Government was born out of blood and spirit, not satire and wit, so, in clarification, don't worry, put the pens down, no need to write your local congressman! Peace Corps does good! We have fun and change lives all at once! Yes, I did almost break my ass-bone swan diving from my bed which was partially related to a run-in with a bottle of wine, but that could've happened to anyone! Seriously people, don't worry.... maybe one day I'll write something truthful (read: boring) about the kind of work I'm doing.... I don't think it will be a record-breaker or anything, but this is the dark side of being so damn funny.

Things Break

The wine was of a particularly alcoholic sort, the 14% standing out in stern, bold numbers across the back of the bottle. Stellenzicht, a shiraz, brought back to me by Rayan from South Africa. I had never heard of it, but the row of shiny stickers across the front assured me that what I was drinking was a quality bottling, having won some minor awards at some point in the past. Rayan had just spent a fairy tale 2 week vacation at the bottom tip of the continent and brought me back wine, chocolate, and season 5 of The Office. A good friend, indeed. I'm staring at the almost empty bottle right now, slowly sipping the remainder and thinking about how the more alcoholic a wine is, the faster it oxidizes to vinegar. The dregs are pretty tart. Yesterday, the bottle was full and season 5 was unwatched. 11 hours of straight viewing brought me to the season finale, took care of the chocolate, and put a large dent in the wine. I stumbled into bed near midnight and dreamt of characters from The Office.

We are told our anti-malaria meds have a few side-effects, most of which are easily manageable, the rest which are a little less manageable. Suicide is a big one, and delirium sits pretty high up there, with minor annoyances, like hair loss, seizures, depression, anxiety attacks, restricted blood flow, loss of libido, itchiness, bed-wetting, and disturbing dreams bringing up the rear. We wouldn't take them if Malaria wasn't such an SOB of a disease. Last night, I was lost in an office complex, hung out with zombie-Jim, and went on a date with Pam. Steve Carrel made an appearance somewhere and I ran someone over with my car. They died. Do I blame the malaria meds? Maybe. Half-way through my dream-date with Pam, I had to take a dream-piss. A bathroom appeared that wasn't really suited for anyone and I ending up pissing all over my pants, which woke me up, because most anytime when I'm dreaming of pissing now, I'm worried about pissing the bed. Its not so much the wet mattress or lack of sleep that bothers me, even though those aren't at all pleasant - its the shame of pissing yourself when you are damn near 30 years old – its a humbling experience.

So, good news is the bed was dry. I was able to piss in my bathroom, which I am positive is one of life's nicer pleasures. The bonus is that in my drunken torpor I remembered where my ukulele strings were, which I had been searching for for months. In the ukulele bag. Where any normal person would keep things like ukulele strings, and for sure, the one place I didn't look. Do I blame the malaria meds? Maybe. I was pleased with myself. Navigating my way back my room I almost felt like dancing, an empty bladder, the satisfaction of solving a super-sleuth mystery and the anticipation of re-stringing my uke eventually leading me to jumping back into bed with a certain gusto. I hopped up, vaulted off the foot-board and, turning in mid-air gave a little shout for joy. A bottle of good wine, season 5, uke strings, and I could sleep as late as I wanted. Things were looking pretty great for Matt.

Now, two things happened when I missed the bed. I broke my iPod, which was resting beside my bed and on which I landed squarely on top of, and I broke my coccyx, which was resting at the base of my spine and was rammed into a solid slab of concrete as I fell 5ft solidly on my ass. I couldn't really move for a long while. It felt like my legs had fallen asleep and were being beaten with sandpaper-covered mallets as they were waking up. If I was a horse someone would have given me the nicest apple they could've found and then shot me in a pasture. So, just to let everyone know, I'm positive that Africa is going to kill me. Do I blame the malaria meds? Maybe. Do I want to leave? Nah.

President's Get to Have All the Fun

Had the opportunity to sneak over to Accra and see President Obama Saturday. He spoke at the airport for about 15 minutes and then took off to be fresh and new in Washington on Sunday. Its not the first time that I've been to a speech of his, but this one was special because A) Im in Peace Corps, which gave us a special place we could stand right up front and B) Its freaking West Africa – All in all I can count about 8 hours of travel and waiting just to see this cat for a few minutes. I was at the border by 6am, greeted by a light drizzle and a street pastor screaming verses at us in Ewe. 10 minutes after 6 the wooden slats that the 'gate' consisted off were slid to the side and a shit-show ensued of people pushing, cussing, and running as quickly as they could to be the first to cheap transport on the Ghanaian side. I was about 15 people back, watching the guards dishing out 5-finger hooker slaps to young guys trying to sneak past them (I could hear the slaps...ouch). Now I've been here a while and I try as much as possible not to abuse the whiteness. I live cheaply, I say Im half Togolese – hell, I've been able to cross the border without doing paperwork just by showing my residence permit, which hardly any whitey has. However, with rain encroaching and my patience waning, I played my trump card - I held my passport straight up in the air and as soon as the guard saw that blue-bound-beauty he pulled me to the front and let me through.

America: 1 Africa: 0

I changed money, found a bus and was on my way in faster time than it normally takes me to fill out paperwork because I showed my passport to any guard blocking my way and looked like I had somewhere to be.

3 hours in the tro brought me to Accra where traffic was horrendous, nearly gridlocked the entire way from the outskirts to downtown. I met up with friends, got the embassy where I finagled a ticket for myself by insisting that Peace Corps volunteers, no matter their country, should be able to go (truthfully it was only for Ghanaian volunteers, but hell, I live closer to Accra than the majority of them). Taxis, buses, lines, waiting, security checks, metal detectors and more lines and I finally got to the tarmac. The tarmac where we waited for another 3 hours until he arrived. With all this time to pass, it was interesting to watch all the official-looking people running around fixing things and arranging everything perfectly for the speech - I watched, I swear to god, the two biggest, meanest looking mofos wearing black suits with guns strapped to their waists spend 20 minutes clipping a tag from on of the flags so it wouldn't show on camera – I expected them to like, drop kick something and bench press the podium - a bit surreal. It was a dramatic scene with Air Force One looming in the distance, more suits running in and out, letting us catch glimpses of the interior. Obama showed up by helicopter from Cape Coast, the old slave fort, said his bit, and then took off. He seemed exhausted, which, considering he'd been in something like 6 time zones in 3 days, is expected. He did praise the PCVs there for all their 'outstanding' work that we are doing. And you know what? He's right - we should be thanked. Im frigging incredible.

Was it worth it? If you've been sticking with me for a while, then you'll know that worth is quite the relative term – however, looking back, yeah, it was worth it – Im always appreciative of a good story. And you know, seeing all that organization and official scurrying-about of everyone almost made me envious of folks with titles and money and power and all that. Almost, you know. Sleeping late on weekdays is still nice, too.

Im a Badass

I am aware that possibly no one will have any idea what these are about, but Im putting 'em up anyway - from Street Fighter 3. Undeniable proof of my near deity-like power. And you guys thought my college education was going to waste!

Standards and Practices

How do you judge someone's worth? (and yes, I'm quite aware of the painful cliché that is starting a discourse with a nebulous, quasi-rhetorical question. eat me.) Is everyone worth the same as everyone else? If my five beans are black and your five beans are white are they equal to each other? (The black beans are bigger, the white beans look great in flannel, it cancels out) I'm sure all of you reading would say yes, one human life is just as valuable as another, but then again, most of you are white American Christians, so that needs to be taken with a large crunchy bit of sea-salt. Our WASP-y world view leaves room for plenty of conscience-free judgment. We have newer cars and larger houses, pristine lawns and ridiculous business cards. Even our ironically oft-trumpeted modesty more often than not just ends up being a sickening version of sycophantic vanity tailored for the religious crowd. Even those that never ended up with the women, money, or fame have their own hat tricks when it comes to self-evaluation (read: self-inflation) – we call em 'scruples' -

Scruples

they may not be rich, but by god, they always stayed true to themselves and a man's word is worth all the money in the world. (Actually, its not, thats stupid as hell, but some people need this kind of crap to sleep at night) Tied up in all of that are multitudinous ways to judge someones value. Now me, I come from the deep south - I like my tea sweet and my women sweeter. I have a cute accent and know how to say yes sir and yes ma'am. Down where I'm from we identify with the hard-working farm boy, the every-man, the Joe Plumbers out there. We even have a word for everyone that doesn't belong with us – 'elite'. If you are too rich, too educated, too worldly, or in general can in any fashion make us feel inadequate, you should go-back-to-where-you-came-from-right-the-fuck-now-and-
dont-let-the-door-hit-you-on-the-way-out. We will in no way vote for someone smarter, more charismatic or better qualified than us for any position of power in what has to be one of the most brilliant failures of common sense, ever.

To get back on track, what do we use every day to silently judge someone's value in relation to us? Well, for starters there's money. Everyone loves money, right? Leaving the states over a year ago, lots of people balked at the idea of coming here because I could have just stayed in the states and made money. (As a quick aside, do you know what the US has? Answer: Everything.)

Exhibit A: Everything

And looked at from across the pond, we make absolute jack nill – what could you do with $250 a month? Not a lot, thats what. However, conversely, we live like gods here, being paid around 10 times what Kossi Q. Publique makes here in a month. Still with me? Lets look at education – the vast majority of us here have a simple bachelors degree, what has become in the states more a rite of passage than an accomplishment. Everyone goes to college, and it means absolutely nothing anymore – so, again, from the states, no big deal – we've proved we can fill in bubbles with #2 pencils in between hangovers and frisbee-golf. Yet here, we are looked at as 'professionals', 'experts', and 'consultants' – folks here fight their whole lives to get a degree from a university that would be laughed at on any other continent. What about the importance of your job? I've seen women who stalk lawyer bars and med-school libraries to try and find a rich man. We call that a 'pre-wed' degree. Viewed from the states it looks like we sit around and suck on the massive US taxpayer-teat, whereas here we all know the truth – were promoting cultural exchange and building capacity. Its almost like saving babies and being productive, just different.

Me, last Tuesday

Well, the whole point of my diatribe today is that I've hit another wall here. Peace Corps has plenty of people across the board who would like to see it disbanded – they argue its a bloated, unproductive, nigh-useless organization. Peace Corps, in beautiful shades of Darwinian self-preservation, argues the exact opposite – we A) have a major impact on a grass-roots level where other organizations don't reach and B) we promote better understanding of American peoples and culture throughout the world while enriching our own lives. Even though I'm a miserable curr 99% of the time, I have to agree that we do work in places where other groups don't go, and we have a much more lasting effect. However I'm starting to put some pieces into place in my head and some bits aren't adding up. And it all comes back to value and worth.

Now, hypothetically lets say my name is Marcus and I work for a completely fictitious organization called the Corps of Peace. I'm a surgeon working in a developing nation getting paid next to nothing, my opportunity cost just for being out of the US alone damn near able to pay off the country's external debt. Now I am contractually bound by CP to take medicines that will prevent various ailments found where I'm working. I have known that from the first day I set foot in the country that were I to ever not take the meds, I would be sent home. Fair enough, right? Well now lets say that I am very sick for two days and can keep no food or liquids down. Hey, it happens. The unfortunate corollary to this is that I can't take meds for two days until I can start to hold anything in my stomach. Then, lo and behold, hot damn, I get the sickness that the meds were there to prevent in that very two day window when my immune system was already beaten up. Where do you think this is going? Im going to get released because I didn't take my meds, right? Right?

Actually, no. What I'm doing in the country far outweighs the silly fact that I threw up two days of meds out of over a year's worth and then got sick. It's unfortunate, but it would be such a waste to send me home and leave all of my work here unfinished. And why would I be kept in country after I technically broke regs? Because I am worth more than the inconvenience of a bit of medical treatment and maybe a stern talking to about what to do the next time I'm losing the lining of my stomach to the rich African soil. Lesson learned, I go back to work doing what I came to do. But, that is the Corps of Peace and we are the Peace Corps, and let me tell you, its not just the name thats different – we're actually serious when we say we will kick you out. Whether intentional or not, you broke contract. We're bad ass, and we will punish you. Now go back to the land of cheesecake and bacon and think hard about what you did while you take a hot shower.

That'll teach em

Is it because we aren't worth forgiving a technicality? Or is it because what we do here really isn't worth as much as I'm making it out to be. Hmmm.... Maybe I should ask some of the PC big-dogs, the folks that have worked here for decades and have their retirements and 401ks coming soon, if they would pay me out of their own pocket for what I'm doing. Those dedicated people who, over the years, have seen what good PC can do and believes in it 100%, enough so to devote their lives working for the organization - I wonder if they would write me a personal check. I'm beginning to guess no. I wonder if any of us would be worth it...

Nothing of Interest

Matt likes poker. He may have a problem.

More than a month has passed, by far my longest spate of absenteeism since this little guy's inception. And for this month I have little by way of witty musings to show, but I do have some photos. Steven, my Monde-Touring Dutch compadre just finished up an 8 month journey through the outback, New Zealand, and Asia by flying into my humble abode, so for lack of something better, Ill throw up some witty captions underneath the photo narrative of his sejour here. Hey, no one hits homers every at-bat - cut me some slack.

Street race / bike show, Accra

We found a zoo. In Lome.

A Tiger Cat. Seriously, lookit that thing. BadAss.


Big Offshore made big waves in Aneho.

Come to think of it, we didn't really do too much... drinking, sleeping, eating. Maybe I can do some work now...

Yippee

Bush Existentialism

Language is the manifestation of a culture. Everyone has heard that language is 'alive', 'growing', or 'adapting' - an entity that is dynamic and evolving with the years. George Orwell understood this and made it a central theme in "1984" - ingsoc, doublethink and newspeak were invented to reduce the language to concise, specific words, limiting the ability to think about abstract concepts by erasing the means to express them. To find what a people hold dear, simply look at their most important adages or, maybe even more importantly, their most important curses. We've all heard how Inuits have '(insert-number-here)' words for 'snow' and then again just as many for 'ice'. When their lives depend on knowing the exact state of their environment, these are not just vital words, but extensions of their awareness they depend on for survival. For all of us coming from the Western world, its a bit harder to come up with ethno-centric terms, but they are there. I have searched through every other romance language plus Arabic and a few African tongues, and there is no direct translation for 'jilting'. Now what does it say about us as a people when we have a word for leaving someone at the altar when no one else does? Arabic has over 600 words for both 'sword' and 'god'. The Dutch have 'zwafflen', which I will not translate for the public, but, believe me, is absolutely side splitting and 'gezellig', the feeling of 'pigs in a pen' - cozy. The land of windmills and legal prostitution lacks, oddly enough, a word for 'sibling'. Portuguese, by far the winner of sexiest language on the face of the planet, has so many sex-based words I wish I had been born Brazilian - one of striking sweetness - 'Cafuné' - to run your hands tenderly through someones hair - and another of a special longing for something real or imagined - 'Saudade', a word that permeates the lives of Cape Verdeans. Think of the stolen words - 'siesta' and 'deja vu' - we know what they mean, but they both must be explained - a mid-day nap, for the Spaniards, and the feeling of having already lived through something, from the French. The Frenchies bring many fun ones to the table - 'tutoyer' - to eye someone scornfully, or (and this one is true for many countries) 'beeper' - to call someone and let it ring once then hang up so they call you back. Just to let you know, I LOATHE it when people beep me. HATE IT.

So where am I leading you this time around? We're going to jump over to Ewe, the local language here in the south that stretches from Benin to Ghana. Ewe, like many indigenous languages has a few quirks about it that we westerners find odd - there are no verb conjugations and only a few proper tenses - in Ewe you can eat something (present and past at the same time) - "me du nu", you can be eating something (present progressive) - "me le du nu", and, by using 'to go' to bridge the gap - I am going to eat - "me dza du nu". Now, if you've been following what I've been laying out for you here the past few months, you'll remember how the perception of time here is stretched quite far here - I'm guessing that is, in a large part, because of the constructs of the language. I'm over-simplifying when I say this (though not by much), but the common ways of expressing time are summed up in two words in Ewe - 'today' (egbe) and 'not today' (Etso) - meaning both 'yesterday' and 'tomorrow'. Now, of course, there are ways to express long periods of time, but it is important to point out that the most fundamental and common units of time are 'today' and 'everything else'. Think about that - In a place where there are only two seasons - dry and wet, one temperature and a lack of time-telling constructs in the language, how are we to bring about lasting change? Words like long-term become laughable when people focus only on eating today and leaving everything else until etso. How do you convince a horny 20 year old to choose between buying food or condoms, when hunger is real and now and AIDS is something that could kill you etso? How do you change long-held beliefs on the treatment of women and children, growing crops, or saving money when this is way things have always been done and you are just a happy-go-lucky baby-huggin yovo who is here egbe and gone etso?

I don't know, folks, I really don't know. There is, however, no word for 'boredom' in Ewe, nor is there much of a distinct difference between 'work' and 'living'. On top of that, there are lots of words for 'happy'. Maybe that should tell us something...

Ma Petite Raison d'Etre

I drank a mojito today for lunch. It cost me 4mil (4000CFA). Thats 8 dollars. I walked into the most expensive bar in Lome and spent 8 dollars on rum and mint and limes. Normally I spend 500 francs on food for the entire day. And that, my friends is the contradiction of my job. Yesterday I got in a shouting match with two taxi drivers because they tried to charge me 50 cents too much and today I spent a weeks worth of pay on a cocktail. At lunch. No, instead of lunch. Part of me says I should feel guilty for doing this in Togo, one of the poorest countries in the world, where a normal wage is 28,000CFA a month ($60). Its the same part of me I tricked into believing that I joined the Peace Corps to do some good in the world. To help people. To ease suffering and have a purpose to my life. Now, however, I'm pretty sure that I joined the Peace Corps because I had nothing better to do and was terrified of the real world. How do I know this?

Because the other part of me sat there and ordered a second one. And I don't feel guilty at all.

The 3 People You Meet in Hell

Just another day

Einstein is credited with summing up the theory of relativity in one succinct analogy - “Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. THAT'S relativity.” This has come to light here in Togo in broader ways that I first noticed. Not that I've been running around high fiving grills or chasing skirts relentlessly (although I never said I didnt WANT to chase a skirt...c'mon universe, throw me a damn bone here), but time seems to have taken on a different personality here. There are times, sitting at home, having already paced the path from my kitchen to the living room to the porch, sweeping neurotically along the way, that I start planning the rest of my day just to waste daylight hours so I can make it to dinner. Other days, days filled with beaches and travelling and laughter slide by much too quickly. Like a broken accordion, the temporal standards here move in and out, incredibly slow periods seeming like nothing in retrospect.

Any where I've travelled that is A) Tropical(ish) and B) Generally poor, where the local folks yearn for something more have two things in common – 1) They're big into Che Guevara Tshirts and Bob Marley music and 2) they all have a relaxed view of time. Things here a different from what we are used to. Folks here run on a dearth of stimuli. Sitting is important here. Talking – about nothing in particular – is something like an art form. Being quiet takes a precedence as the sun falls. Things take (you guessed it), time. Little things – taking showers, 2 hour taxi rides that are only that long in theory, meals, washing or drying clothes. The meeting you set at 3pm wont start until 4:30 because people were 'busy'. L'heure Africain predominates just about every single interaction or transaction you decide to attempt. So, coming from the western world, where not looking at a clock or a mirror for more than 5 minute spans can induce fits of rage and spasms, it is easy for me to tell you who holds all of the power here – those that control your time. These 3 groups of fine gentlemen (and women) can have your balls in a vice within the blink of an eye – (the corollary to this being they are the happiest groups here) -

1. Government officials – Ever been cruising down the interstate, listening to your favorite David Hasselhoff mixed tape, just to have some jerk-off in a beamer come tearing around you going 30 over, chucking burger wrappers out the window, nearly running you off the road? And you start to cuss, and I know what you are thinking – damn broads – but no, wait, is that a Government tag there? You'd bet your bottom dollar on it – So imagine that scene here, only (now stay with me) you are walking, with 22 lbs of yams on your head and a baby strapped to your back, on your 3^rd of 6 miles from village and that jerk-off is just the same except overfed, overpaid, and driving one of the ONLY beamers in country. Welcome to West Africa – where your perceived power is directly proportional to how incredibly overweight you are and where your actual power is indirectly proportional to how long you routinely force the populous to wait to fill out even the most mundane of paperwork - “My, my, govn'uh, you're looking splendid today! Are those new pants? You had to buy larger ones, yeah? My you've gained quite a lot of....wealth. Whats that? I need to sit down over here? But all I need is a form. No, the one right there – beside your hand. I mean, I can see it. Look, its not like you even have to really do anything. Just grab it for me. No, little more to the left, little more, no, too far, YES, thats the one. What? You need to get permission to give it to me? But there's like, a hundred of them just laying there.” The DMV is a playground compared to any governmental office here.

2. Gendarmes – Police. Keeping the population safe and secure by harassing whitey and fleecing taxi drivers. I must have missed the part in school where they teach you that a cold-war era rusting AK-47 slung backwards over your shoulder is your be-a-total-dick-to-anyone-you-please card. Believe me, gendarmes here go from 6 to midnight when they see a taxi full of yovos coming their way (If I have to explain it, you don't need to know what it means). “Whats that driver? You have 2 yovos in the back there? Well then I'm sure God has blessed you and you can bribe me with an even larger sum today than you did yesterday for me to not fine you for this... um... *crack* broken taillight here.” I have had a truck full of gendarmes come to a screeching stop in front of me as I was waiting to cross the road to ask me for my papers. ...TO ASK ME FOR MY FUCKING PAPERS - what is this, East Germany? Who the hell asks for papers anymore? Am I gun-running in the easter-bloc? “I'm very aware that my sloping brow and protruding lower jaw give me the air of the common criminal, but my fine sir, I'm doing nothing but standing on the side of the road. Yes, thank you for informing me that there is no common indicator of a criminal mind and that you must be vigilant. No, actually, I don't have my passport on me. Um, well sir I wasn't aware this was a police-state. Sir, you do see that there's like 5 other people standing around me, right? Yes, I'm sure this is a completely random stop. The way you swerved and left tire tracks as you braked was a sure-fire indicator of that. Where do I come from? I'm American. No, I'm not French. Oh, so you don't need to fine me now? You know, for standing? On a sidewalk? Oh, ok, well, yeah, see you later, boss.”

We May Never Know...

3. Bank tellers – The cream of the crop, the brightest bulb in the pack, the top of their class, and by far the largest tools of any shed I know of, the lowly bank teller that normally greets you with a smile and asks about your kids in the states regards you with nothing more than the most vehement of disdain here. My eyes were truly opened to this when I began to question why I was always bringing a Russian novel with me whenever I needed to go banking.

Dostoyevsky comes highly recommended

Anyone out there remember The Soup Nazi from Seinfeld? Yeah, Imagine that, except instead of getting kicked out, you're never able to leave. You'll be forced to live in a waiting-room hell. They know you need your money. They know they have you. Did their favorite soccer team lose last night? Heaven have mercy on you, my child – you won't make it out before dark. And heaven forbid you ask for them to give you some small bills instead of 10mil notes – imagine paying for bubble gum with a $100 bill in the states – do you know how useful a 10mil note is here? You might as well try and buy a steak dinner with your vintage PEZ dispenser collection – ITS ONLY WORTH SOMETHING IN THEORY. There's also a good chance you are standing in the wrong line. Sure, its the same line you've always stood in, but you know what? Its the wrong one. “No sir, just go down there *points* and they'll take care of it. *Looks to the left* Down there? Down where? Ma'am, all you did was vaguely motion to the left. Down there, sir. They'll help you. *Looks again* Yeah, look, you just pointed at Benin, could you give me a little more to go on than that?”

You wanna know the redeeming factor in all this? I saw a gendarme standing in a line at the bank the other day. Yeah, eat it.

Pant Suits and Pakistani Drupes

So, fire one - what do an African footballer, Ellis Island, and my future ex-wife(s) all have in common?

Boredom.

Its been a few slow weeks here in the tropics - I had a stint in Ghana and picked up some sort of Ghanaian death bug that has swollen my throat closed for nearly 3 weeks now. No white dots, no inflamed tonsils. I've been told its a virus. Drink hot tea. Here's some ibuprofen, call us if you have breathing problems. Yeah, call us if you are having trouble breathing, I'll be the first to let you know. Although unabated-swole-throat is a *minor* condition that only stops me from talking or eating, I've taken this opportunity to do absolutely nothing resembling work for almost 2 weeks and blame it on the malady.

You should really stop cussing me through the screen - jealousy isn't becoming of you.

So, being that I had an improptu vacation, I had to somehow fill my time with something that didn't involve drinking and ranting. This was daunting, daunting indeed.

Enter Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. SVU. Ess Vee Fucking You.

This is the stuff dreams are made of. A rough and tumble group of dedicated detectives solving sexually based crimes throughout the boroughs of NYC. Do I like NYC? Well yeah, sure, why not, I hear the pizza is excellent. Do I like sex? Hell yeah, getting warmer. Oh yeah, well how about ex-rappers and intense Asians kicking pedophilic ass? Yeah? Yeah? DAMN STRAIGHT, NOW WE'RE TALKIN!

Ex cop killer Ice-T, Ex funny man Richard Belzer, Ex drunk Dann Florek, Ex Marine Christopher Meloni, Ex wives Mariska Hargitay and Diane Neal and Asian par exellence BD Wong, who I didn't have anything funny to write about, but who's expression is so serious you'd better believe he's got a lot of ass to kick and the day ain't gettin any younger, you know?

There is nothing flashy here, folks. We're talking minimalistic camerawork dictated by intense pacing and a gritty motif right out of 1986. I could write a novel about the numerous strengths of this show, spending the first 7 or so chapters on any scene involving Mariska Hargitay, with a special nod to any scenes involving Mariska Hargitay running, and then the next chapter or so on the dearth of scenes involving Mariska Hargitay running.

No, they're not doing it, but if there's anything that's going to keep me praying, this is it.

I sometimes find myself waking up from my mid-day nap around 2:30 and wondering what to do until dinner time. In comes about 5 episodes of SVU, laying across my couch wearing nothing but pagne pants and a contented smile and then its off to eat a yam or two. And the months keep passing by... Seriously, though, whoever does the casting for this show is an unsung hero - mixing rappers with minorities, ex-military strongmen with independent, successful, pant-suit wearing models and everyone has guns and drop-kicks men who touch little boys. I'll be damned if that isn't some kind of satisfying.

The last thing you see before you die


Diane Neal, I would love to break up with you one day.

Now were going to change gears here and learn about the Togolese superstar and my close neighbor, Emmanuel Adebayor.

Exhibit A: The face that launched a thousand shots

Adebayor is a living legend here in Togo, born in Lome 24 years ago, he is the quintessential rags-to-riches story, rising from the slums of Togo at a young age to become the star striker for Arsenal. (If you don't know what Arsenal is, don't feel bad, I had to google 'striker') I have heard many, many stories of his unending wealth and omnipresent power from locals who all know him personally - some of his well-known feats-

- He was born in Ghana, but became Togolese after deciding that being Ghanaian would be too 'easy'

- His grandfather lived to be 130 years old. This is why Adebayor is so strong. Duh.

- Adebayor has sired 105 children.

- He speaks Mandarin Chinese

- He is near 7ft tall (a line was drawn over my 6'4" height - "Are you sure he's that tall?" I asked. "Yes," the cafeteria owner told me. "He's very tall. Too tall.")

- He likes coconuts.

- He can fly.

Exhibit B: Adebayor in mid-flight

So what ties all of this together?? A Togolese superstar (foot)balling out of control and a popular syndicated American crime drama? Freedom, my friends, freedom.

Adebayor's house. Wait for it... wait for it...

BOO YAH!

Its a Statue of Liberty with a damn soccer ball on it - her vigilant eye keeping watch over the tired, huddled masses that constitutes pretty much every Togolese I've ever met... these folks are tough. Look at it one more time, make sure you take in all of its resplendent glory. This is Adebayor's house, which is 5 minutes around the corner from mine. Only in West Africa does this make any type of sense. God, I love this place.

Well, anyway, I gotta get out of here - Adebayor just contacted me with his mind powers and wants us to take his rocket car to Islamabad for a long weekend. I didn't know this, but the dude loves cricket. And apparently Pakistani coconuts aren't all that bad.