I made it a point, every day, multiple times a day, to stroll the neighborhood where I stayed in Lomé. I knew it was the only way to get any kind of feel for the neighborhood, a little taste of Africa. I wasn’t sure how successful it would be, but the longer I walked, the more familiar the people were with the white man who wore a straw fedora in their midst.
I thought the best moment of my walking tour was going to be at the front porch of the woman who sold hand-crafted brooms, baskets, fans, and other kitchen needs. A man there took an interest in me and explained all of the items I didn’t recognize. Well, there was one item, mysterious balls of clay, whose purpose he couldn’t communicate to me. (The women at my hotel completed my Togolese education.) I feared they might be balls of swamp dirt like in Liberia. For some reason, pregnant women felt the need to lick them and eat them. Nothing good can come from that kind of country medicine. But, no, these clay balls were used to clean up, or touch up, clay coal pots (which are kind of like an African hibachi). If your clay coal pot is dirty, scratched, or chipped, these clay balls are the go-to solution to fix them up. Wet the ball and dab a little more clay on whatever needs fixing.
I thought the best moment of my walking tour was going to be at the front porch of the woman who sold hand-crafted brooms, baskets, fans, and other kitchen needs. A man there took an interest in me and explained all of the items I didn’t recognize. Well, there was one item, mysterious balls of clay, whose purpose he couldn’t communicate to me. (The women at my hotel completed my Togolese education.) I feared they might be balls of swamp dirt like in Liberia. For some reason, pregnant women felt the need to lick them and eat them. Nothing good can come from that kind of country medicine. But, no, these clay balls were used to clean up, or touch up, clay coal pots (which are kind of like an African hibachi). If your clay coal pot is dirty, scratched, or chipped, these clay balls are the go-to solution to fix them up. Wet the ball and dab a little more clay on whatever needs fixing.
The following day, I returned to take a few more photos. As I walked away, there was a beautiful white mural design on a red/orange wall. I thought, “As soon as the two men behind me pass by, I’ll take a photo of that wall.”
They didn’t pass by.
They recognized the white guy with the straw fedora from the mural at the ambassador’s residence the previous week. Yes, I stand out in a crowd while in West Africa. They asked, in French, of course, about my muraling with Jean Koumy and the woman in red (who happened to be the US ambassador).
Then, they invited me to come through the gate. In this part of the world, homes have walls topped with broken glass or razor wire. You’re only supposed to enter if you are welcomed. One of these days, it is bound to blow up in my face. In Morocco, I followed a person I just met and went up the stairway in the medina to meet his family. I wasn’t sure if I should do that. Well, I was fairly sure I shouldn’t do it. But, it turned out to be the best thing I’ve ever done in any of my travels. I met my Moroccan family that still keeps in touch with me.
In Fiji, I hopped in a cab with a guy I met at a souvenir shop. He promised to take me home so I could drink kava with him as his local watering hole. I slightly questioned my sanity when the cab left the city (and friends from Jamaica assured me that I should never do that on their island), but I had a very welcoming experience in Fiji as well.
I made arrangements with the artists to return the following evening for a cooking lesson. I’m no chef in any country or culture. However, one of my favorite things to do while in West Africa is to introduce people to chocolate no-bake cookies. Of course, you cook the dish up over hot coals in a coal pot. I was hoping for one of the clay ones that are unique to Togo, at least in my travels. But, no, we cooked it up in a metal coal pot, just like in Liberia.
I was very surprised how many people in my neighborhood spoke small-small English. (I guess it helped that Ghana was literally right next door to Lomé.) I discovered (and greatly thanked) English speakers everywhere I went. But, communication wasn’t the best when I bought supplies for the cookies. I thought I was getting a can of powdered milk. Nope. I bought a very large can of sweetened condensed milk. Boy, oh, boy! Were my cookies ever sweet!
Of course, the cookies were a hit. And, there were enough supplies left over for more batches. The artists just needed to supply their own oats. Better to supply them than sow wild ones, eh?
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Cooking with metal and clay coal pots (left and right). Topping the sauce with green peppers (center).
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When we finished the dessert, we sat around a circle as the sun went down. It was a good opportunity for some music. I don’t sing. I don’t play any instrument. I rarely even listen to music, but I felt like I was the luckiest person in all of Togo for this concert. One man played guitar. A second grabbed a drum. Percussion sounds were added by a narrow end of a spoon on a beer bottle, the wide part of a spoon with my mug, and a bottle opener to a piece of metal. And, they all sang. It appears that Africans spend a lot of their lives singing, dancing, and making music. Nobody had to practice anything. There were no mistakes. Nobody had to start anything over. They blended every note with perfection. It was simply a magical moment to be savored from my time in Togo.
I met these artists at the very end of my stay in their country. The following day, I flew home. But, there was still enough time for my friends to prepare lunch for me on the day of my departure. After all, if I made cookies for them, they felt that they should return the gesture. So, I planned to see my artists one more time before leaving.
The following day, I had a rice dish with the artists. The meal was very similar to something from Liberia with fish, onions, tomatoes, bouillon cubes, and hot peppers served over rice. Like many places around the world, the food was served on a community platter. Everyone ate off the same plate. I can handle that without any problems. Very fortunately, each person had silverware. That doesn't always happen. I really didn't want to eat rice with my fingers. And, there was a twist very different from Liberia. The flaming hot pepper mix of green scotch bonnets was spooned onto the top. You could navigate how much fire you wanted going down your throat. In Liberia, it was always mixed in with everything. You had no choice in the matter. Fortunately, I like my fire.
After a meal and another small concert, I was ready to go back to Ohio. Well, ready or not, there was no choice.
I met these artists at the very end of my stay in their country. The following day, I flew home. But, there was still enough time for my friends to prepare lunch for me on the day of my departure. After all, if I made cookies for them, they felt that they should return the gesture. So, I planned to see my artists one more time before leaving.
The following day, I had a rice dish with the artists. The meal was very similar to something from Liberia with fish, onions, tomatoes, bouillon cubes, and hot peppers served over rice. Like many places around the world, the food was served on a community platter. Everyone ate off the same plate. I can handle that without any problems. Very fortunately, each person had silverware. That doesn't always happen. I really didn't want to eat rice with my fingers. And, there was a twist very different from Liberia. The flaming hot pepper mix of green scotch bonnets was spooned onto the top. You could navigate how much fire you wanted going down your throat. In Liberia, it was always mixed in with everything. You had no choice in the matter. Fortunately, I like my fire.
After a meal and another small concert, I was ready to go back to Ohio. Well, ready or not, there was no choice.
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