The Village of Lonvo

Two hours from Lome I find myself a world away, "en brousse" (in the bush) as they say and at the village Mike calls home, Lonvo. As I begin to describe the scene I risk plagiarizing National Geographic. Square mud brick abodes with thick straw roofs. Fences of sticks and reeds and palm leaves. Women with breasts down to their belly buttons squatting beside an open fire. Men out in the fields with rusty old machetes. Chickens shuffling along freely and goats fumbling about. Clothes out to dry on roofs and trees and the occasional clothes line. No electricity, no running water (unless you count old women balancing jugs on their heads and traveling at an unthinkable pace).  Everything looks homemade (except the occasional concrete structures; the primary school, the well and Mike's house) and as always for Americans the level of self-sufficiency is impressive. But remote as this village may be there are hints of the wider web. Rachel, at age 2, listlessly piles dirt in a pair of D&G panties. A Honda motorbike bumps along the muddy road and the whole world stops to watch the wheels turn. A child balances a Spiderman backpack filled with an Obama themed notebook on the crown of his head. Goats munch on the remnants of black plastic bags. And then there is of course the French language which is spoken by some, understood by many, and can be heard inserting itself into the local language Ewe for words like "portable" (cell phone). Everyone speaks in Ewe, which leaves me smiling and mostly mute.

We strolled around in the evening making introductions and going to meet the chief, who was to my surprise not a wrinkled old wiseman but a fit and handsome man exuding that sort of gentle strength of a respected leader. Early the next morning a knock came at the gate to Mike's house. We tried to ignore it. The knock came again. And again. Untill finally he went to answer and found practically half the village, lead by the chief, waiting outside to welcome me. They came streaming into the compound, benches in hand, and set up rows for added seating in the straw hut beside Mike's house. I was speachless. Both by linguistic limitations and by my misty morning brain. They had all just come to say welcome and good morning. And then just as quickly they left.

The weekend in Lonvo was both awkward (the attempted conversations with random visitors, the long silences) and comfortable (the welcoming spirit, the calm of the countryside, the refreshing independence of cooking my own food again). It was wonderful. I cant wait to go back, especially when I've got a few more phrases under my belt.