Fade

        Our center in Pagala is equal parts faded dormitory complex and spunky seminar site. Apparently built to house German industrial workers in the 70’s, today the repainted off-white structures, empty coffin-shaped pool, and hexagonal meeting huts stand in brilliantly withered contrast to both modernity and the Togolese village outside it. Frozen between cultures and times on a forested riverbank, the center has a distinctive charm that invites ambling daydreams and reflection. Volunteers typically come to Pagala three times for official trainings, plus most national camps, and it can be both a respite from and reminder of everything they hope to, have, or will not accomplish during their service. My last time there, as I walked the grounds under an intermittently overcast sky, memories drifted like the clouds overhead.

I recall my first time here, cast as a fresh – faced optimist searching for the difference he could make. Friends catching up after too much time apart. Review sessions about Moringa’s nutritional benefits, food transformation, and environmental education lasting throughout the day. Sharing meals and conversations across large tables in the dining hall. How’s your village? What would we like to accomplish in Togo? How are the older volunteers treating you? Where are we going tonight? I apparently danced with a Togolese man our final night at the local bar, Chez Plaisir, but I don’t remember that or anything after my fifth beer. I woke up in vomit and the vans took us home too early for my hangover’s taste.

The second training was with our Togolese work partners and, though largely a nice, interesting group, their presence made the event less English holiday, more awkward French symposium. The gulf between my then partner and I had been growing, he’s a friendly though self-interested man, and the training exacerbated our issues together. It felt like the others were passing me in some regards, but I vowed to press on with more than a year left. We hit Plaisir for our final blowout, dancing to whatever American pop we could find, and I thankfully enjoyed the evening in moderation.

Our last large event was near our service’s anniversary and served as a meditation on the one - year mark and plan for the future. We’d been told to bring something to present a successful project, so I used chalk on poster paper to make a neon, comic-esque illustration of what I’d done and my hopes moving forward. I perceived greater success around that room and felt maladjusted. Some visitors came to the displays and spoke to us; few of them stayed long with me and mine.

Dried teak tree leaves crunch under my feet as a decrepit hut seems inviting. Observing the sky through its vacant frame, I begged the clouds to rest and burst, to flood, to wash me and my flaws, or weakness or unshakable lows, away. When they answered, I lingered in the mud’s fresh scent and the erosion of Earth and identity. I won’t be at the center again, but the time I was meant something. To me, at least.