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.

Dear George Lucas

Dear George,

I guess I just need to say what I need to say and be done with it. I've tried to start this letter a number of times, but keep erasing it all, trying to find the right words - I just want to be sure that I get this right. We've been through so much together, you and me and all my money, haven't we? I've been needing to talk to you for so long, but you've been so busy for the past 10 years making those 'movies' and counting all of my money (do you still swim naked through your vault like you loved to do?) and I got caught up with puberty and finding college kids to buy me alcohol and light petting and it just never seemed like the right time. Maybe if I had been braver, came to you with my concerns when they first arose we wouldn't be at this point. So, for that, I blame myself... but then again, we've never been too good at really talking to one another, have we? It's all seemed so one sided... I always feel like I've been sitting in the dark for hours while you told me the same stories over and over again. Well now look at us, after all these years and I don't even recognize you anymore.

The good ole days

I began to get worried way back in 83 with Return of the Jedi... Empire was so good and Reagan was in office and we were all flying high on love and the bull market. You knew the expectations were high, but you were so confident and sure of yourself that I fell under your spell for a third time. And you know what, George Lucas? You did it. The movie was great - critically acclaimed, moving, compassionate, lots of shit blowing up - I couldn't have asked for more, but looking back now, I can see where it began.

Yes. Fuck yes.

No - The first sign

But then, we started drifiting apart. Those few years after Jedi, well, there were some soul-searching quiet moments there, weren't there? I didn't hear from you much, but I was always there, waiting for when you'd let me back in. I knew you still cared for me, my parents always paid for the shipping on those Star Wars figures you kept sending me, and I knew when the time was right we'd be back together. Then, in 1986 Christmas came early. Or so I thought. You didn't send lightsabers and Millennium Falcons and a galactic struggle between good and evil. I know Harrison was away working on other projects, but, George Lucas, and I say this with nothing but love for you - what the fuck, man? 3 years of silence and you try to make up for it with Howard the Duck?

....seriously?

As the technology kept getting more advanced you let your imagination run wild. I stood by your side the whole time, George Lucas. When you wanted to print some more money and remade the trilogy? I was right there with you and sat through them all again, feeling like we were making our way back to where we once were. Even though you tried to gay-up Han Solo, I let it slide as mid-life liberal remorse for a gentler world.

Un-Gayable

And things were good for a time - I hit a rough patch and had to sell all of the figures you sent me through the years to pay for my first year of school, but I still had you, and you had my money and it was like 1977 all over again.

But let me get down to brass tax here, George Lucas, you know I've never minced my words --- things didn't last. The build-up to the prequels was unfathomable, the hopes and aspirations and dreams of our future together riding the wave of fanboys' wet dreams all over the world and all you had to do was do the same thing you did 20 years earlier. We're not talking a high dive or flying trapeze or a 50 year old running a marathon. All you had to do was tell the same story in the same way, and everything would have been ok. All you had to do George Lucas, was flash some lightsabers, cut up some aliens and show some shit levitating. And this is what I got.

Why?

I know that you and me weren't talking at the time, but was there no one you could run that one by? Did you let anyone read the script? Was it something I said? I guess you can see where this is going now. Over the next 6 years you threw shitty movie after shitty movie at me, expecting your old confidence and flannely-aloofness to charm me as it used to. But its just not enough anymore, George Lucas. We've changed, you, and me, and my wallet. Gone are the days when it will just open its bi-fold for you anytime you feel frisky. I need something more than a mere shadow of what we once had -- I need the real deal - I need a Darth Vader thats evil because he's a fucking bad-ass, not because he's a whiny 20 year-old with a crush. I need a hot heroine who will strip down, not put on makeup with a paint-roller. I need a rough-around-the-edges smuggler type who's willing to gamble everything for the girl. I need a Boba Fett that isn't the unadulterated brother of every storm trooper in the galaxy. I need Jedi who don't lay down and die when an old man jumps over a table at them. God, George Lucas, I don't even know what more I can say.

But just when I thought you had hit rock bottom, when I thought there was no possible way you could screw the pooch any worse, you pulled the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen you do. On the darkest day, in the remotest, coldest corner of hell, I suppose I could defend Jar Jar if I was really put upon. But in no way could I ever conceive how you could possibly consider this a proper move in our relationship. Worse than the time you whored out the franchise for the Holiday Special, worse than the Ewoks spin-off, and even worse than the idea that Anakin Skywalker crafted C-3PO himself, you went and outdid everything I thought you capable of -- I hope you're not playing stupid, George Lucas, you know exactly what I'm talking about--

Put em together and what do you get?



Ziro the Hutt. Or Truman Capote. I still can't tell.

A quarter century and 4 billion dollars later and the best you can come up with is a transexual-ish gay slug? What the hell, George? Can you name one character you've created in the past 25 years who hasn't sucked ass? Mace Windu (Samuel L Jackson? SERIOUSLY)? Count Dooku? If I can give you anything for when you walk away, its this - FILM A MOVIE WITHOUT CG AND IT MIGHT NOT MAKE SOME PART OF ME DIE. So, George Lucas, I just want you to know that we are done and I'm over you and I don't want you calling anymore or writing me or sending me your catalogues or trying to convince me that R2 can fly because we all no that makes no goddamn sense. I don't want us to forget the good times we had, but seriously, we're done now. I can't put myself through this anymore. So please, don't try to contact me or my money, we don't want to talk to you.

Until you make a Ziro the Hutt figure. I'll probably still buy that.

Ceci n'est pas une feuille vide

Or is it?

Just got back from a week in Pagala, near the center of the country, where my stage had IST (in service training). It was, in a very boring, bureaucratic way, one of the most surreal things I've done here. Take, for instance, this blurb from some training material -

Read the following phrases and say if they concern some projects-

2) A young man wants to visit his friend in the neighboring village. Early in the morning, he smokes some manioc tubers, puts them in his bag, takes his machete and leaves. Arriving at the village of his friend, he is informed that his friend went fishing. he takes the road and returns to his house.



...what?

(also, i can't turn off italics now. blast)

We decided to think of a few things more fun than IST - here, in abridged form

- Pinochle
- Orthodox church service
- Drinking urine
- Rolling in an ant hill after a sugar-water bath
- Ethnomusicology exam
- Death of a relative
- Special Olympics Curling Championships
- Dodging javelins


*sigh*
So, I've got fancy places to be coming up right soon, so I'll leave you with a bit of Lebanese-American wisdom-

"Hey man, why'd you have to piss in their oatmeal? Let them smoke their oregano."

No truer words have ever been spoken... well said... well said, indeed.