La Supermarché

Jennifer L. Giacomini

Can seeing what something can be make people want it to be?

After living in village for just over a year, I took my mama, Elise, to dinner at a German-owned restaurant. Elise had wanted to travel to Kara for a while, but had to put it off. Each time she prepared for her departure, something came up in the village prompting her to stay. Last time, her husband simply refused to let her go. I think he didn’t want to endure his thirteen-year-old daughter’s cooking during Elise’s absence.

Finally, I had an idea: I would take Elise to her brother’s house and out to dinner. I would pay for everything. Just as I knew he would, Papa agreed.

So, one Friday morning, we biked to Guèrin-Kouka and eased into comfortable seats in the second row of the taxi. Elise had her eye on me, a form of sisterly protection. She watched me navigate the system with the familiar taxi drivers who tried to make sure I was comfortable.

We arrived in Kara a few hours later and much dustier. The driver took the back way, allowing us to enter Kara near Elise’s brother’s house. Only Elise’s youngest brother Jean, a student, greeted us. He spent his off-seasons in Katchamba and was just a few years younger than I. I invited him to go with us.

We sauntered to the restaurant, dodging cars, bikes, children, and livestock on the road. La Supermarché, a German-owned restaurant and grocery store, provided desired treats from America and Europe. I often browsed the grocery, longing for the luscious cheeses, meats, candies, and cookies. They were way too pricy for my meager Volunteer salary; I bought a cheap candy and went on my way. The adjacent restaurant, however, was my favorite. I could purchase a hamburger and fries, along with a beer or two. It provided a welcome change from my regular village meals of pâte, or polenta, with pepper sauce.

I had spent many hours in this open-air restaurant, dining and watching CNN or BBC on the large-screen TVs mounted to posts supporting the straw roof. The restaurant opened into a garden filled with colorful flowers, a beautifully manicured lawn, and a children’s play set. It was a welcome piece of home and momentary escape from Togolese life.

Elise shyly informed me that she had never before been in a real restaurant. She had traveled but, like most, had eaten street food at outdoor food courts. This didn’t really surprise me; the cost of one meal at a restaurant could feed her family for a week. I was, however, surprised when Jean told me that he too had never eaten at a restaurant. He had been a student in Kara for four years, and I often saw students at restaurants, mostly drinking beers but occasionally dining. I couldn’t believe he was never one. Il n’y a pas d’argent—there’s no money.

We opened the menus; their faces fell, shocked by the steep prices. Elise wanted to ask questions, but the only one she mustered was if the restaurant had everything on the menu. I explained that you get to order anything you want and someone else cooks it and serves it.

However, oftentimes I would order an item at a Togolese restaurant and only then would the server inform me that they didn’t have it that day. I would order another with the same result. This often occurred several times before finding something they did have available.

I persuaded Elise and Jean to order cheeseburgers and fries. I mentioned other places one might encounter them, like a barbecue or a picnic. I then launched into a tirade on the fast food nation America is quickly becoming. They didn’t quite understand, so I gave up.

We ordered, and I got up to use the restroom and wash my hands and face from the dusty taxi ride. I warned Elise and Jean that, despite the African custom, the servers do not bring a bowl of water for washing. If they wanted clean hands, they should go to the restroom. Neither of them seemed to care.

When I returned, Elise leaned over and whispered, “Ma sœur, je dois pisser.” My sister, I have to piss. She asked if she could go on the lawn. I was so glad she asked; I promptly told her no, she had to use the restroom. While this may seem crass to some, I knew the mannerisms and customs of the Togolese and knew it was common to find an outside corner and urinate.

So we proceeded to the bathroom. It was hysterical! Elise had never even seen a toilet, much less used one. I had to pantomime the entire process of entering a stall, shutting the door, using the toilet and flushing it. I only made it about halfway through this act before she burst out laughing. You mean I have to pee in there? Sure, said I, this is the only place we go chez-nous. Every residence has at least one.

So, Elise decided to have a go at the foreign device. It took her several minutes; I do believe she was nervous about using it correctly. Meanwhile, I contemplated a world that allows such a massive difference in septic technology. They dig holes, squat in the forest, and use sticks or corncobs for toilet paper. Not all facets of Togolese life are on par with the Western world.

I snapped back when I heard Elise flush. She practically fell out of the stall. I showed her the sink, soap dispenser, and paper towels. She was unsure of the hand-washing process and kept muttering, “Les Américains-la,” those Americans. She couldn’t believe that clean water came from the faucet all the time. She didn’t have to walk a few kilometers, collect it, and then walk back with the heavy basin balanced on her head. It was so easy and clean. She stood there and watched the water just run for a full minute.

Finally we returned to the table and Elise ordered her brother to go wash. I think she wanted Jean to have an eye-opening experience like hers. He took me with him to explain, but he wasn’t as much fun. He had seen and used both a toilet and sink before.

We returned to the table to find Elise looking at our meals, no idea what to do. I explained garnishes and showed them how to pick up a cheeseburger with both hands and take a bite. Yum. Elise was horrified. Eat with BOTH hands? To use the left for anything but wiping was probably the biggest taboo in Togolese culture. I had to explain toilet paper and soap and that it doesn’t matter because we consider ourselves, and both hands, clean.

I told her to cut the burger in half and just eat it with her right hand. She happily munched away and really enjoyed it. Her brother also cut his burger in half, but began eating it with a fork. He ate it one ingredient at a time, forking the bread, then the cheese, then the meat, etc. I tried to explain to him the culinary delights of the melding of all these into one bite. Unsuccessful, I tried a different approach. I explained that to eat this dish with a fork would be like eating pâte with a fork. No one does it. He didn’t care.

Following our trip, Elise and I had several conversations about technological advances and women’s rights. I was left with deep frustration because she understood suffrage and technological improvements, but she never wanted to do anything about them. C’est la vie en Afrique. Life in Africa revolved around that fatalistic attitude, stunting development and making it difficult to accomplish much. The villagers in Katchamba thought that it would be great to have latrines, running water and electricity, but would not work to accomplish these goals.

Instant gratification worked perfectly. Why save money when we may not be here tomorrow to use it? Death was such a huge part of life that it became their reason for not looking into the future. Let the women spend hours upon hours collecting potable water and send the children off into the woods to defecate. Why save money for the future when they must feed their families now?

We had several village meetings to discuss building latrines or an accessible well in Katchamba. People wanted them; they just wanted someone else to buy and build them. I refused to do it myself without help from the village in planning, saving money, and implementing the project. The chief and other elders told me to continue my work with the health clinic and not worry about building something the village won’t work to maintain.

I believe the women knew the benefits potable water and less waste could offer the village. And that it would make life less exhausting. But every argument ended with the men saying no. The women continued arguing, but their husbands just walked away. One day, maybe, these women will learn to stand up for what they believe and follow their sisters from fifty years ago in women’s suffrage. Maybe, just maybe…

Jennifer L. Giacomini served in Togo from 1999-2001, after graduation from Hamilton College. She is now the Executive Director at Grand County Rural Health Network in Colorado.