Kat debrancher-ed
I’m just not in the mood today. Seeing a man carrying 10 dozen eggs on his head doesn’t cause me to notice. I’ve seen it all before- let’s see you carry 10 dozen eggs, a saucer of milk for the puppy, and recall where you left the phone number for this week’s hostess for Wed playgroup. My French tutor didn’t show today. Not suprising since it’s raining so hard the avocado branches outside the window are a grey blur. I’ve been trying to penetrate two documents. The first is the two page instructions en francaise for cleaning the distiller. After painstaking research, I translated the first three lengthy paragraphs to read “people who don’t clean this machine will be sorry”. More work with the English-French dictionary led to Couper l’appereil ou debrancher l’alimentation electrique= “unplug it”. I’m not getting very far very fast. The other document I’m struggling with is in English. The handbook for preparing a contract for household help reveals all things bureaucratic here. It insists that I must buy a certain cahier at the little store downtown near Kermel market. Then I present this to a distant office whose administrator stamps each page of it before I begin its use. Then I record each payment…. and do what with the third copy of each receipt? The handbook goes on to say that a particular document must be sent by registered mail to the employee. That’s when I stopped reading. Registered mail? To what address? I’m not sure where Astou lays her head at night, but I’m sure it doesn’t have an address. It doesn’t have a telephone. Or a street name. Maybe not even a street. And what would the return address be? The villa next to M. Dji? On to plan B.


SOS
Today we heard a siren, then saw an ambulance, the SOS Medicine. This is unusual, the first one we’ve heard in a month of being here. I imagine that that’s because most people deal with emergencies with a little home triage effort. I wonder what the ambulance and team offers. Our new friends Vanessa and family were aroused one morning by the neighbor’s shouts and frantic beating on their door. They fled the house and found that an outside electrical box had caught fire, the flames reaching up to the second story. A crowd gathered with buckets of water and fire extinguishers to control the fire. A fire department was called, but never arrived. They relied completely on the courage and generosity of their neighbors. I’ve come to understand that a helpful crowd will gather.

Beacoup de pluie
For the first few weeks, I was not impressed with the “rainy season”. Our garden remained dry and dusty between pitiful bits of rain. This weekend the rain came. People have been saying that it hasn’t rained this much in 10 years. Yesterday was the third day of deluge. The streets were fleuves. The taxis pressed over far off the road and hoped for the best. Our colleagues report that their sewage systems have been backing up, causing all-day cleanup efforts. Roofs leak. The frogs return. Snails cover walkways. Bronwyn reported seeing knee deep water rushing into the front doors of fancy villas while the occupants made an effort to turn back the tide with mops and brooms. Allison gleefully floats her umbrella upside down in our “water” garden. After the rains subsided, “beaucoup de pluie!” was added to the usual ca va greetings. “A lot of rain” goes without saying.

Le chef
The garbage crew came in the morning with le chef de la poubelle dressed in a chef’s hat and apron over his chic black jeans and flip flops. The crew chief ‘s outfit was no practical joke- just practical, I expect. Bronwyn explains that in Togo and elsewhere, this is reffered to as “dead yovo” clothes. The outfits are castoffs, say, the clothes that can’t get sold at American Goodwills and are sent in bulk here for the Africans. The Africans imagine that the people who sent the clothes must be dead, why else get rid of good clothing? Sometimes they end up in odd places like a chef’s hat on the chef, or part of a Burger King uniform on a man in the bush in Togo.

Moyen
Before I left for Africa, I swore that I would not be one of those bleeding hearts who come here and adopt any old animal off the street. La Palabre, the embassy newsletter, was full of ads looking for good homes for a little kitty or doggie someone had found irresistible. It seemed odd to take such interest in the animals when the people were in need also. The streets here are full of scrappy dogs and cats. The breed of dog here is African Brown Dog. Everything about him is “medium”. He is moyen in size, moyen in color of brown. We pass by a dirt pile populated by a small pack of them on our walks. They charge out, yelping fiercely. Each is made individual by its own handicap- a torn ear, a bulge on a throat, running sores collecting flies. Tucker, twice their size and accustomed to two squares a day, nevertheless plays it cool. I keep him on the leash and carry a stick just in case. Allison is instructed not to touch, that dogs without owners may be sick. The pack has allowed us pass each time, content that they’ve kept us in line.

Mignon
It was not concern for animals, but concern for our safety in our fiefdom here that led us to thoughts of keeping a pack of dogs ourselves. We first imagined a few junkyard dogs who would patrol the back garden while the night guard slept. But how would our family fit into the pack? And what fate would these dogs meet when our four year tour here ends? Our thoughts softened and a puppy soon appeared in our lives. “Mignon”, the night guard clucked to him. Cute little Quincy.

Deux seaus
The doorbell rings, - much more frequently here than in Washington. It might be the garbage truck and crew of five, a girl looking for work, the night guard who is returning the keys we left in the laundry room door. One day it was two men in a truck with embassy badges. They had come to deliver a light bulb. They turned my attention to one of the extra bedrooms whose bedside lamp was missing a bulb. Just in time… it may have been a few months before we ever entered that room.
Today it was the diesel truck. It was his first time delivering to us, so I had a look. So that’s what the inside of our old faithful generator looks like. It drank a lot because it had seen quite a lot of use. Every night the electricity goes off 3 or 4 times. Every time it rains, it goes off. ..And sometimes in between, it goes off. As I hang over the little concrete wall, I begin to take in the scene. There is the guard’s little stash of this and that. A neatly placed pair of work shoes, a nasty old Tshirt, a green plastic patio chair, its broken leg fastened with telephone wire and…….deux seaus. Now is the world going to rain down seaus?

Un seau
For want of a bucket, our salles du bains remain sale. Day after day, I keep looking for a bucket. Astou is despondent. She can’t wait to mop our acres and acres of tile floors. The supermarket in Fenetre Mermoz doesn’t have a bucket. The hardware store in N’gor doesn’t. Le Virage market- no. The Shell station, which carries everything- no. No one seems to sell a bucket around here, or know where to acheter one. I begin to covet every bucket that passes by on a woman’s head. Every construction site has a small recycled bucket or two for ferrying the sand and cement up by hand to a top floor. Why not me? On taxi rides I begin to see a vision of a man walking, carrying a dozen new mops and several nice plastic buckets with handles. I am always too late to yell “Arretez!” to the driver before the bucket seller slips away down a side street. Still I wait. Where on Earth can I find a bucket? Finally, a second visit to Le Virage and much conversation yields a bucket. Squinting and frowning, Astou examines le seau thoroughly. I hold my breath, “Don’t you dare say it costs too much” I think. The bucket sale is a success. I sigh.

Pas poubelle

Une autre example……I had thought to myself that one principle for how to live here would be to attempt to not waste any food. It just wouldn’t seem right. With these good intentions, still there came the morning I placed in the kitchen trash can half a baguette that had grown rock hard with neglect. I did pause for a moment… maybe I can make croutons, crostini……nahhh. Soon after that, Astou led me into the kitchen and produced the crusty item. “Not trash” I translated from her plea for decent behavior. Pas poubelle. If you ever think of throwing food away, donnez a moi, she gently but firmly corrected. Ohhhhh I felt bad for that one. She was so right.

Je m’excuse

I don’t know how many faux pas I have executed this week without my recognition, but the ones I’m aware of are numerous enough. Par example…. One evening our family enjoyed a delicious dinner at a seaside surf shack sort of place. After the meal, I felt adventurous and explored around the side of the place where an arrow pointed to “marche artisanal”. I breezed through what looked like a low end stable small farm animals, but outfitted with a few sculptures du bois et les autre choses. I rounded the corner and stepped over a low stone wall to return to the restaurant when I heard a shriek and noticed the sign “lieu de prier”. I had just stepped onto the small, carefully groomed sand area, just big enough for a few prayer rugs. “Je m’excuse”, I blurted as I tripped over to my side of the line. Excuse me.

La premier lundi avec Astou

“The first Monday with Astou” it rained and rained. This time, I was not so frightened that the house would flood, the dead palm tree would topple, the electricity would go, and Allison and I would be stranded, waiting to be struck by lightning. This time, the tree held fast, the generator faithfully kicked in, and the doorbell rang- with a wet but confident Astou waiting on the street. “What now?”, I wondered in English. She entered and began in French asking where she could put her things, then began to unwrap her beautiful blue robes, starting at her head. “Ahhhh, I see.” Allison and I made for another part of the house, while she continued to unwrap. When we returned, she wore a simpler, but dry, dress. She held the bluebird blue cloth, asking where the line was. She insisted on hanging it outdoors, even though it was still raining. Allison and I watched in the rain as she unfolded what was once a dress, to become the equivalent of two flat twin sheets and one flat crib sheet all in beautiful blue with a deep border of an intricate printed design. She must have known that the rain would stop, that the beds would get made, and that in time we would understand each other more.