Only in Togo
Interesting day. Chicken eating Styrofoam on the side of the road.
Two car rides that are never mundane:
first one—had to jerk the steering wheel in order to make the horn work. Also. Hot-wired. Enough said.
second one—made three trips, no make that four trips, to ‘fill’ it. Fish from Mauritania. Flour from France. Flip flops from China. I asked the driver and apprentice where the fish came from. It comes from there, (pointing to the store they just brought it out from.) Yes, I can see that. But where before that? It came from Lomé. And before that? I don’t know. Ghana? Was sitting in the back seat and got covered in flour when one of the market men heaped it off of his back and into the already-too-full sedan with a completely shattered windshield. The poor axles. Carcass of cars on the side of the road. Slight sense of uneasiness when we careen around corners—knowing my fate lay in the strength of a door latch. Liquid soap kits, bananas and toothpaste are sitting on my lap. I will forever equate my time here with the lavender essence of the liquid soap.
Found a typewriter today. Or rather re-found it, one that I saw a month or two ago and had the better sense to keep walking. Bartered a bit for it. Thirty mille. Cher. He won’t budge. I can’t afford it, but I really want it. It has been a mission of mine to find one since I arrived in Togo. Do I need it? No.
Dad talked again about going to summit Mt. Kilimanjaro. That would be amazing. Expensive. And, amazing…