My new career as a Wedding Crasher

The most formal outfit I have is a flowery pink sundress to wear on my first weekend in Togo, when Adolphe casually invites me to a wedding of one of his colleagues. The invitation looks like a Japanese valentine (red heart cutouts, the slim profile of a couple kissing with foreign characters below). Pertinent details are written inside, including Chief Host of the Event: the Lord Jesus Christ. We skip the 4 hr mass and hop on his moto straight to the reception. We arrive at a banquet hall draped in lime green and white, with rows of chairs tightly aligned like pews. I'm trying to imagine how the "party" part of the wedding will take place with no place to eat or dance. A charismatic man calls out joyful welcomes through an oversized sound system. MC Daddy Roberts booming baritone calls each guest of honor in turn to strut down the aisle. At the flick of a wrist the band sitting casually in the first row comes bursting to life to accompany each promenade (quite an impressive display of musicianship). Like a southern baptist radio disc-jockey the MC fills 2 hours with lengthy introductions of honored guests, providing a moment for each to praise Jesus and can I hear an Amen. When there are only two spots left at the head table he begins telling the story of the kola nut, and the tradition of giving a traveler a kola nut so that when he returns the kola can tell the story of his journey. He's staring straight at me. And thus am I (the blushing Yovo) escorted to the table of honor! To sit among chiefs, family members and wealthy acquaintances of the newlyweds (so much for keeping a low profile). The wedding party enters, dancing and twirling and spreading the joy of aerosol confetti. The 4 tiered cake (reading "Happy Married Life") is cut on the count of Jesus. J-E-S-U-Slice! An odd plain-tasting vegetable is passed around the table of honor with spicy peanutbutter paste. Then the MC really goes to work, solliciting donations to "plant a seed" for the new couple with holy fury. They come slowly at first, a few bills here and there, an awkward silence of all those obstaining lingers, but after enough rangling the cash begins to float up the rows. Finally it is time for the couple's first dance. (I should mention here that the bride is in a Western-style white gown and the groom too is wearing an all white suit, with the addition of a tiger-print cowboy hat and golden cane that I'm sure I've seen marketed as a "pimp" Halloween costume in the States). Their dance is an upbeat polyrhythmic shuffle, shaking their hips side by side, while loved ones throw money in the air, quickly gathering and showering it over the couple to create a perpetual rain which combined with the hat and cane would be perfectly fitted to an early 90s rap music video. A videographer captures it all, scanning the audience and perhaps giving my stark white figure abnormal attention. Guest are served in their seats a styrofoam container of fried rice with chicken along with tall bottles of beer. And then they begin to disperse, and Adolphe insists that we take home a bottle of sparkling grape juice which he believes to be wine (definitely grape juice). The moto stalls twice before we ride home, champagne substitute in hand.

L'Innondation des Introductions

So many people to smile back to my cheeks are sore. Mind saturated with names of places, people, and foods that someday I will find impossible not to have known.
I arrived in Togo after a 5hr bumpy ride from Accra, waiting anxiously for my new colleagues to arrive. A motorcycle pulls up. "Tu es Emily? On y va?" And just like that I was off, my first time on a motorcycle, riding through the warm African night weaving smoothly through traffic with a hand cramped down on that guitar handle like you wouldn't believe.

I met my new host family, an incredibly warm, welcoming bunch, in the courtyard where they had made over the charcoal fire something resembling macaroni (to make me feel at home).  The house is quite fancy by African standards. There is a walled-in courtyard in the front, a small sewing shop in the corner, concrete floors, 3 bedrooms, an unused kitchen/closet (looks like everyone cooks outside) and a WC. No running water, but there is a pump in the courtyard and plenty of buckets. As usual I have no idea how many people actually live there but so far it appears that there is Mama Jose, the respected middle aged matron, Mathi and her husband Adolfe, their 2 kids Mattia (6?) and Ezeikel (3), another sister maybe or cousin named Raissa who's very smiley, and of course the standard young female relative who does the cleaning and cooking and tries to carry everything for me.

Few interesting questions I received on my first night (in addition to the standard, what state are you from, etc):
1) Did you vote for Obama?
2) Do you believe in god?
3) What do you think, if a married couple is not happy should they stay together and pretend or get a divorce?

Television sure is good for prompting conversation. We ate pate (corn flour paste with spicy sauce) and watched brazilian soap operas. I slept well under the gracefully drapery of a peach mosquito net.