The man lifted the lid and I bent over and squinted through the smoke from the blazing wood fire to look into the pot of boiling sauce. I saw scales - patterned with diamond shapes. I looked up at him. "Is that....snake?"
"Viper," he specified with a grin, his eyes glistening. "Very special meat."
"Where did you get it?" I asked.
"I killed it! This morning - in the bush," he declared proudly.
"Did it try to attack you?"
"No - I was digging a hole. I came across the snake's hole. The snake was inside. I killed it with my machete."
"What were you digging a hole for in the first place?" I was curious.
"Yes."
"No -
why were you digging?"
"A hole!" he replied emphatically.
Ok - we were clearly having some communication problems. I dropped the question and peered back into the pot. I noticed about a dozen white balls bobbing up and down with the bubbles. "What are those circle things?"
"Eggs," he said. "Snake babies - inside!"
"The eggs were inside the snake?" I asked.
"
Oui!" The way he replied made me feel like I'd asked a silly question. The man's French wasn't very good but he rambled on excitedly. "You eat eggs, you need to drink water at same time." He made a face and a smacking noise with his mouth. I assumed he was referring to something about the taste. "But very good! You'll try, no?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Sure, why not? I'll try a little."
It was actually really good! You could pull the snake's muscles out in long strips - kind of like string cheese - and they were chewy and kind of reminded me of chicken. I confess I didn't try the eggs. The were the exact size, shape, and texture of human eyeballs which somehow made them unappetizing to me. But the Togolese men who had gathered for the special occasion of eating snake meat were excited enough that I'd even tried the meat itself. I noticed that none of the women were eating the snake. There are some meats (like dog, for example) that men will eat but women won't (or can't? I don't know. Foreigners like myself seem to take exception)- viper must be one of them.
Thanks to my large appetite and my open-mindedness for trying all kinds of food (an attitude for which I thank my parents and their efforts to encourage me to try different cultural foods as a child), I've succeeded in pleasing a lot of Togolese by "Eating like an African!" as they put it, and especially by even acquiring a strong affinity for certain local dishes, like
pate. It pleases me to please them. Isn't that the way it is though? I've been thinking about that a lot lately: the longing a foreigner feels to somehow
fit in.
What does
fitting in mean for me? Well, I still haven't successfully balanced a big bowl of corn on my head yet (I'm still trying!), but I love that I'm at least now known by name. Every time I go out, the kids in my village run out to wave to me, calling out, "Davi Kristine!" until I'm a long way down the road(Davi is a title used for young women). Others have mastered "Kristina" while still others (usually younger ones) call me "Sakina" or even "Sissine". I know what the younger ones mean though and I'll take it (Please - anything other than "yovo")! Sometimes when I'm making the 45 minute bike ride up to Danielle's village on the dirt road that's a direct route between our two villages, I'll pass someone on a moto who will call me, if not by my own name, at least by my village name in salutation as they drive by. I love it too when I'm at another market in a neighboring village and I'm approached by someone who recognizes me as Kristina. Slowly but surely I'm getting a hang of the Togolese names too and learning who everybody is! I can tell they feel just as good as I do when addressed by name. There's nothing like being recognized and acknowledged to make one feel at home here (against all else)!
I was walking home from my girl's club the other day with 2 of my favorite girls who had insisted on helping me carry all my materials. They're older and confident and really pleasant to be around. As we were walking and chatting and laughing, one of them suddenly clapped her hands together and exclaimed, "Oh - the other volunteer left, which is sad, but now we have Kristina and she's one of us!" She couldn't possibly understand how good that made me feel; To be accepted like that - I couldn't ask for a better Christmas present from Togo.
My Christmas decorations at my house
Tea time with peach tea crystal light and peanut butter cookies during Emily's first visit to my village since she dropped me off at post visit
making peanut butter pancakes over a charcoal stove (Danielle's gas for her stove ran out) on Danielle's porch 
Edwige and I by her sewing machine
The garden of the uncle who lives in my compound; I'm experimenting with green beans and lettuce here
Lunch at Emily's host family's house
We bought chickens as Christmas gifts for our host families (they don't look excited here but they were!)
My host mom killing the chicken we gave her.
The best breakfast we've had in 7 months - with REAL toast and butter! This picture was taken our first morning in Accra, Ghana
Emily and I in front of the Christmas tree at the Accra shopping mall on Christmas Day. All the other stores were closed but we were excited anyways to be inside a mall!
Ice Cream and a Movie! 
On our canoe ride through the mangroves
A view from the canoe
Emily and Fabiola lying out on Green Turtle beach
Green Turtle Lodge
The cute little hut we were staying in
On the beach with Emily
Drinking out of a coconut that some vacationing Germans gave us
Breakfast on the beachfront the morning we were leaving
