First Down Day

Today was the first day I really felt, deep down, like I wanted to give up and go home. (And only a week in? That’s a good sign, right?...) But let’s back up a bit first…

We left Lomé yesterday and arrived at our training sites in the late afternoon. (Each sector is in a different village for Pre-Service Training [PST].) I had been incredibly nervous about the homestay experience, this being my first one… in a semi-rural village… in a country where very few people speak English. But then we dropped the first two groups off to their smiling and dancing mamans and set off toward our own. Our bus got severely stuck in the mud en route, and the giggling helped ease all of our nerves. After finding alternative transportation, we made our way toward Zafi. It wasn’t long before we heard the drums, and as we pulled up to the training center, we could see a crowd of mamans and children dancing to drumbeat and trumpet. We got out of our tiny vans and joined them (most of us still with all our bags on our back) and danced for at least 10 minutes before making our way over to the thatched pavilion. We were then instructed to find our families. Another volunteer found her maman right away, and I nearly cried; they were so excited to meet each other! Then I found my maman, and any semblance of fear disappeared. She was so excited to find me, and her eyes shone with joy and kindness. She clutched me by the hand as she led me to meet her older children and take a seat. How could I ever have had any doubts? After a quick repose, the dancing started up again, this time for a solid half hour. My 8-year-old host sister (let’s call her E) cuddled up to me as we danced, and by the time our family was called to be driven home, my cheeks hurt from smiling.

The rest of the evening was pleasant, if a little awkward. Maman speaks little French, but fortunately her older children were in from Lomé for the evening, and they were able to speak with me and translate what Maman lost. The conversation made me realize how much I really need to brush up on my French these next few months! All the mamans made us spaghetti for dinner. (Our training coordinator has instructed them not to start us on Togolese food right away, in an effort not to shock our systems. Our bodies have been adjusting to a lot this past week – new food, jet lag, vaccinations, malaria meds, mental and emotional stress… best not to overload us with too much new food all at once.) I showed them some photos of my family at home before heading to bed early.

And that’s when the honeymoon ended.

The following afternoon I was sitting in training, the skin around my eyes still faintly burning from the night before (a reaction to my insecticide-treated mosquito net), listening to our upcoming training schedule, my peers’ chatter, and the French instructions regarding our new vélos, and I just wanted to cry. I thought back to the most awkward parts of my first night with my homestay family and ahead to more impending awkwardness, and I began to question why I was putting myself through this. I had a great life at home before I left. What if this is a total disaster? If I can’t integrate or learn the languages? What if nobody here benefits from my presence, or worse, suffers?! What if I die of diarrhea because I forgot to wash my hands that one time?!

Then we began our French lessons in our small groups (another thing I’d been dreading). And everything suddenly turned around. I remembered way more French than I thought I would; in fact we spoke little but French for an hour and a half, even cracking a few jokes. And our trainer, bless his soul, is an incredible teacher. I was still nervous when we finished for the day, but then my host maman came to retrieve me from school with the biggest smile. She jogged over (60, this woman is!) and embraced me along with the two girls I was walking with. Our walk home was pretty quiet – her French is worse than mine, but the evening that followed was lovely. I’m doing better at remembering everyone’s names, and I’m finding it easier to communicate with my host brother and sisters. Later, during a dinner of homemade French fries and fried eggs, I tried to stay silent in an attempt to integrate (Togolese meals are generally about food, not conversation), but I did manage to slip in a few questions. I learned that we live behind the bar, which explains where the thumping music emanates from until 10 every night. And Maman showed me photos of the family with the volunteer they hosted last year. After dinner I took my second bucket shower beneath the stars and banana trees, as the bar serenaded me with Togolese dance music. It was the happiest and most at peace I’ve been since we arrived. I can do this. I just need to make smiles, laughter, and nighttime bucket showers my mantra.

Quote of the Day: "Every fart's a gamble."

#Togo #PeaceCorps #PST #training #emotions #homestay #hostfamily