Ghana Like Whoa

French West Africa? Non, merci!

2006-05-11T16:32:00.000Z

Voodoo Chief in Lome, Togo

Last weekend (Thursday morning through Sunday night), a group of four of us traveled through Togo and Benin. Alana was our French-speaking saviour, as we couldn't even order breakfast without her. Pointing and gesturing only get you so far... for example, I could ask for the "toilette", but miming "toilet paper" is not as easy as it sounds. It was a fascinating experience, and I'm glad I made it before leaving the region: it gave me a broader perspective on Africa, West Africa. And, ultimately, it made me appreciate Ghana!

We spent only one night in Lome, the capital of Togo. It's a fascinating place: very European architecture, with spiral staircases and ornate facades (things I would never, ever find in Ghana), but all dirty and crumbling, with a lot more trash in the streets than in Ghana. We checked into an adorable bright pink hotel at night, the "Mawuli" (Mawu is the Fon-Dahomey word for "God", by the way, and I can tell you all about their myth surrounding eclipses and deity-sex if you're curious). It was less cute by daylight the next morning, not only because everything turned out to be cracked, peeling, and dirty, but because there was no fan and no running water all night. Oh, and, the hotel management broke into our room, stole the equivalent of US$40 (but not our passports, thank god, or the rest of our money) from Molly's bag, locked the door again, and thought we wouldn't notice. (We did.) When we went out that night to explore, we had to walk around a big trash-heap/clearing to get to the main road; two police men on motorcycles pulled up, and decided to escort us across. We thought they had too much time on their hands, and just wanted to chat with the girl foreigners... until we passed the same way an hour later, and were suddenly swarmed by a half dozen young men who yelled and propositioned us in French, grabbing our arms and trying to pull us away from each other, stroking our skin and touching our faces. One of them slapped Molly's ass and she hit him (hard), and we were all clinging together and telling them "no!" (Alana was yelling at them in French), but they were unfazed. And as we walked around the main street, men kept approaching us and harassing us (I was grateful I couldn't understand any of it); we get a lot of attention in Ghana, but it is always curious or friendly, and nothing like what we experienced in Togo. I couldn't believe how different the experience was, and how we were treated... I'm not taking my Ghanaian interactions for granted anymore.

Realizing that we were safer with escorts than traveling alone, we went barhopping with some flamingly homosexual Lebanese men (who kept trying to feed us bar nuts and propositioning us, and didn't realize how gay they were as they danced, stroked pool cues, and sat with their arms around one another, wearing tight polyster zipper-shirts). We knew we had to get a little drunk to fall sleep in that hot, sketchy hotel. And I crossed the language barrier (since they spoke very little English, and that's all I've got) by having them teach me some friendly Arabic. (For example, "hello", "I love you", and in response, "No!" and "Go away!")

The next day we rode on visited a fetish market. Did I mention that Togo and Benin are the original birthplace of voodoo, and (unlike Ghana, with something like a 60% Christian population) still a heavily traditional-religioned population? The place was basically a tourist trap, and everything was expensive and we were obliged to pay a guide to enter (who explained the uses of everything, which was nice), but it was absolutely worth it. I paid a little too much for a travel fetish (charm), blessed in a ritual by a Beninese voodoo chief with crazy red eyes and a business card (pictured at the top of this post), but again--worth it. Wooden tables sagged under the weight of the disembodied heads, skulls, tails, and wings of every creature found in West Africa. There were horse heads, dog heads (which I found the most disturbing), cheetah and leopard heads, all with the skin still on, but dried so that lips pull back from the teeth in an agonized snarl; a bucket of dried bats; necklaces made of snake vertabrae; an aardvark without a head (I had not idea they looked like that); porcupine quills and chamelions and elephant pieces and pufferfish and owls and a hippo skull and various mammals dead beyond recognition and hedgehogs (which are still cute when dead and curled into little balls) and rats and huge feet from an unidentified mammal and crocodiles and.... I have a million disturbing pictures on my computer (what's your favorite animal? I'll send you a picture!), but I'll just give you a little taste:

I wanted to buy everything for Anna (the roomie, not the sister), but I also didn't want to carry a horse head when backpacking in Europe, and I figured customs might not be pleased about it. I realized I'd made a wise decision later in the day, when I developed a splotchy red rash on my foot, perhaps because I actually knocked this over with my backpack and it rolled down my leg, landing on that same foot:

Let's see, other highlights. That morning, before the market, I had to run into a well-lit alley and (in front of the half dozen people sitting around, watching curiously) painfully vomit neon yellow. Now I understand why you don't take anti-malarials on an empty stomach. Also the food in Togo and Benin is completely amazing: avocado baguette sandwiches on the street; fresh-baked croissants; espresso; salads; everything I've been deprived of for months (except Mexican food). But everything is crazy expensive compared to Ghana: I spent twenty dollars a night for a twin bed in Benin, compared to the five I would spend at most hotels in Ghana, and easily $10 a meal (compared to $2-5 here). Leaving Ghana is going to be really, really difficult for me, in some ways; I was furious at shelling out that kind of cash.

We went to Benin, and it was fairly uneventful, although we visited a python temple:

and walked around a really interesting village and watched a festival in the early afternoon with dancing and tables full of gin and everyone wearing amazing traditional clothing that matched (by families? couples? coincidence?) but we couldn't figure out what they were celebrating (an "homage" to something or another).

And everywhere we went in Togo and Benin we rode zemijons: motorcycle taxis! SO MUCH FUN.

...and it turns out that Beninese children (or at least, some of them) are as cute as Ghanaians:

Ghanaian Relay Races & Runways & Waterfalls

2006-05-08T13:13:00.000Z

[[six days remaining...]]

The West African Aids Foundation (WAAF) "Freedom for the Future" celebrations went really well, two Fridays ago. We spent the entire week organizing intense last-minute details (though it was the culmination of a semester-long project, for a group of students), and I scarcely slept; then Friday the 29th dawned at last. Keep in mind, 100% of these events was organized by NYU students... there was basically no adult involvement whatsoever. We were up at dawn, and held a Kids' Fair all day: the kids had already started showing up when we arrive to set up, two hours early. We had a couple hundred kids, and it was a chaotic, rewarding blast. The highlight for me was the water-balloon toss a couple of us held: maybe a hundred kids in school uniforms, from about five years old to 20ish (and a random man who seemed older, but we couldn't call out on it, as some adults are still in elementary school if they start late enough on their education), none of whom had seen a water-balloon before. After the first toss--when they were standing literally two feet from one another, and could reach out and hand the balloon--the entire crowd erupted into screams and shouts; the two lines disappeared immediately as everyone ran towards to embrace in groups, with laughter and congratulations all around. It was chaos and like nothing I have ever seen before: they were so excited and proud of each other. It was incredible. And my camera was dead all day, which kills me; I still have to get copies of the pictures from the Fair.

And then the winning pair, out of the hundred kids who swarmed the prize table excitedly, chose their prize: they could have had squirt guns, candy, jewelry, stuffed animals, any number of things. They each chose a shiny pencil.

The MC battle and dance contests were also indescribable. These kids have talent I cannot begin to convey; you have to see it to believe it.

Immediately after the Kids' Fair, we had to clean and then finish setting up the Fundraising Gala. For me, that "setting up" meant mostly clothes & makeup & a little bit of wine. And makeup for me really meant intense stage makeup and fake eyelashes twice as big as anyone else's, for some reason. The over-the-top getup made it easier to get onstage, at least: I didn't have to worry about the look on my face, since my face had a look of its own without me having a say in it. Backstage was chaos, as all backstages are, and everyone (makeup artist, designer, assistant bringing the clothing, EVERYONE) was about 30-50 minutes late. Fortunately, because the event was held in Ghana, the guests were equally late, and no one noticed that we were 45 minutes behind schedule.

A bunch of Makeba's models swarm Jamie (who organized the Gala and went through HELL) on the runway after the show:

And these were my eyelashes (though the picture doesn't do them justice):

I could talk about the anxiety and excitement and close-calls and fun for hours, but we'll leave it at that. We survived it all, and made some money for a good cause, and celebrated the kids who won the Freedom for the Future Poster Contest (raising awareness about HIV/AIDS stigma, and its consequences and solutions).

We got out of there about 11:30 pm, and went out barhopping for a couple hours before reaching the after-party. Now, for the record, I'm not the after-party/barhopping type, historically. But we were definitely still inebriated and dancing at 5 am (though we hadn't eaten since 11 am, for lack of opportunity), when we had to rush into a cab to make it home... in order to leave for a day trip to the Eastern region, and a hike to Wli Falls, the largest waterfall in West Africa. (Which isn't as big as you'd think, really, but is absolutely stunning.) I ran upstairs to my room, pulled on a bathing suit, painfully tore the Eyelashes-O'-Doom from my face, grabbed a jar of peanuts for breakfast, and got in the car.

Nothing wakes you up and snaps you out of a hangover like walking underneath a pounding waterfall, that feels like it is pelting you in the face with pebbles. Invigorating and amazing and worth going without sleep and hiking still drunk for.

I didn't get to sleep until late that night, and it was pure adrenaline for more hours than I've ever experienced.

It was a long 48 hours.

The Habitat of Birim Agje

2006-04-25T12:17:00.000Z

Sometimes I worry that I haven't had an "authentic" enough experience in Ghana, since I have running water and relatively reliable electricity, unlike the vast majority of Ghanaians. But I've come to the understanding that, yes: over the past months I could have struggled more, sacrificed more, experienced more. But I could have done so much less, as well: there are others here in Ghana (not to mention those NOT in Ghana) who don't make even the effort I do, to go out and experience a taste of what life is really like here....

These past few weekends offered both extreme ends of the spectrum. First, I spent an intense couple of days in a tiny village called "Birim Agje", doing a Habitat for Humanity build and subsequent homestay with a family that spoke no english. The following weekend I tried traveling, but we stayed in a hotel and I don't have much to say about it. And then the last four days I didn't leave my house, and watched Kyle's Simpsons DVDs with A.C. [I literally could not leave the house, so while it wasn't necessarily "Ghanaian", I also never get stomach parasites anywhere else.... And only in Ghana can a breakfast consist of six different pills and a pinapple.]

Now, I've done one or two Habitat for Humanity builds in my day. I lay speed bumps with Kat, whitewashed walls, installed some hopefully-not-asbestos insulation. None of them were in a village that looked like this:

And none of them left me as tired or triumphant.

In Birim Agje, we made bricks out of freshly-turned earth (harder but more fun than it sounds), carried sun-baked bricks long distances to the building sites... on our heads (easier than it sounds, but heavier), and then lay the bricks (about as hard as it sounds) with cement mortar which we mixed and shoveled (harder than it sounds). All of this was scheduled directly in the heat of the day. So please excuse the sweat dripping down my face in every picture.

When we first arrived, before the build began, I made friends with the huge group of kids that gathered: they were curious but shy, peeping at us from behind things, and only emerged once I started hiding from them. Soon they were chasing me in circles around the village, and I was shrieking and pretending to faint in terror as they approached and tried to touch me. By the time I was carrying bricks, they were following me in flocks, fighting over which two would get to hold each one of my hands (when they weren't full).

When the build was over, everyone packed up and headed home, leaving eight of us behind to spend the night. First we set our bags down and unrolled thin mats for the cement floors (each house was two cement-box rooms, nearly empty, with outdoor pit latrine and shower); my house had posters on the wall of Jesus, Bob Marley, and Roger from Sister, Sister, the latter labeled "Superstar!" and "Y2K BOY!". The children and a man from the village then led us down to the nearby "nsuo-tri". [In Twi, there is one word for "river", "creek", "lagoon", etc., meaning "long water"; this was really a creek; and I'm making up the spelling.] The villagers depend entirely on this narrow, shallow body of water: they carry buckets to and fro atop their heads, for the maybe seven minute walk, and this is what they drink, bathe in, wash clothes with.... It is no wonder the village is named after "Birim", their river: it means, "guardian/father of Birim".
As I leaned over and took off my second shoe, so I could wade in and splash around with the kids, I suddenly heard a gasp from behind and felt a gentle hand on my head, pushing me slightly downwards and pulling me back a step or two. Curiously, I followed the gazes of those all around, and saw--in the tree directly above where I had just been standing--a long, silent black snake, slithering in the leafy green branches. "Adder!" the man next to me exclaimed.
"Is it dangerous?"
He laughed. "Very!"

There was a mortifying, confusing upset over dinner, when I was offered a huge chicken and fish dish that must have been ridiculously extragavant considering my host's means.... My program coordinator had explained my vegetarianism, but he then switched me into a new house so he could room with a girl in my program he was trying to date, and embarrassing chaos ensued. How do you tell someone who doesn't speak your language why you are turning down the best meal she could possibly offered? I even tried a bite, but the fish was so pungent I couldn't swallow.

One last significant saga, for me at least, although it may not make a good story, and may not be for the faint of heart/squeamish of stomach:
About a week earlier, what looked like a mosquito bite appeared on my inner arm. I ignored it; happens all the time. A few days later, it turned into what looked like a pimple: it came to a big white head. The head came off, but showed two distinct holes beneath... so, a bug bite after all. The day before the build, it swelled again, and looked again like a big pus-y pimple. I tried to ignore it, and put a bandaid on.
Over the course of the Saturday build, my mysterious bite continued to swell, and hurt at the touch. I didn't know what to do, but neither did anyone else (we've discussed the medical systems here, haven't we?).
That evening, after I bucket showered (more like a spongebath without a sponge... water is not be wasted here!), I was sitting on the porch examining the swollen, pus-y lump on my arm. It was incredibly tender, the head was mostly green, and the entire surrounding area was streaked with angry red tentacles: not great signs. Auntie Helena, the woman I was staying with, peered politely over my shoulder. The next thing I know, she has grabbed ahold of my arm, and with a firm thumb and forefinger is squeezing the shit out of the bite, which I had been so gently coddling for the past few days. Sweet jesus, I can't tell you how much it hurt; I thought I was going to pass out as the thick, murky contents squirted out and poured down my arm. "Alright... iz alright... iz alright" she kept muttering, to calm my fears. "Yes, I know it's alright, it just hurts like [insert violent swearing here]", I thought, and smiled weakly. She squeezed and squeezed.
And you know what? It helped a lot. And now, two or three weeks later, it is just a little purple bump that may or may not scar. And I don't think I'm going to lose my arm after all.

[EDIT: Months later, while I've had four more of these, it looks like they are finally out of my system. And it appears that they may have come from the orphans I volunteered with in Osu, since they spread more like a virus or skin infection than like bug bites. Spilt milk, however; only the tiniest scars remain.]

So, for a weekend here and there, yes, I do live in Ghana. Undeniably.

The Lumberjack Has Landed

2006-04-07T15:58:00.000Z

Spring break turned into two full weeks (since Kyle and I each played hooky for a week, to get the full experience; every other NYU abroad program seems to get more time!), and so much happened even in the first five days of intensive travel that I don't think I can do it justice here. Instead, I guess I'll let the pictures do the talking, to some extent.

Kyle was a hit in Ghana. I would estimate, to the most exact approximation possible, that Kyle is about 2 times the size of the average Ghanaian man, and 6.7 times as hairy. This means that children danced around him in Kumasi, men at tro-tro stations addressed me instead of him, asking first, "is that your brother or your husband?", following up with "why is he so big?", and a baby started sobbing when he smiled at it. Even in his limited time here, he definitely got the true Ghanaian travel experience, spending fifteen hours straight in a bus--and many, many more crowded into tro-tros made for people much smaller than him (for example, we spent five hours in the small tro-tro below, which was crowded with--I counted--FORTY people). He was a good sport about all of it, but it made me realize how adjusted I've become to these conditions: I'm officially accustomed to being cramped, dirty, and made to wait for hours in the claustrophic vehicles before finally starting off.

Speaking of being dirty, however, it turns out that I have a lower tolerance than I'd expected. For the record, I think of myself as a relatively unhygenic, anti-fussy, filthy person, most of the time. (Well, at least, flexible. I'm a good camper.) And since being in Ghana I've become accustomed to perpetual clamminess, days without showers if need be, etc. etc. Yet I reached a breaking point after a five hour bus ride, immediately followed by a four and a half cab ride, as we headed to the Mole Wildlife Reserve. This cab ride was no ordinary ride, please note. We spent half an hour finding a car to take us out there in the first place, because dozens of men were screaming and hounding us and trying to charge us ridiculous rates; we finally found a boy named Mohammed who guided us into a cab, and soon made him pull over so we could escape (M. informed us that the man was planning on robbing us, and leading us in the wrong direction). The only "road" to Mole is not much of a road, and stretches for hour after hour with few other cars in sight: it is really a dusty, rocky strip that trees have been cleared off of. The cab windows wouldn't roll up (and it would have been too hot to try), so four hours of bumping along left us dirtier than I can honestly say I have been in recent memory. At first it was funny; what a good "oh, ghana..." story!

The situation was less amusing, however, as the sun set. Now we bumped along in total darkness, weak headlights lighting only a few feet in front of the car; we had to slow to 10-20 kilometers an hour. We pulled over every fifteen minutes or so (every five, at some points) so the driver could get out, climb under the car, and reattach the muffler with a screwdriver. Eventually the poor driver got TIRED. So, he asked Kyle to drive. An hour of this pitch-black, bumpy-as-hell, slow-motion pothole navigation took it's toll; Kyle knew that if anything happened to the fragile car, we'd be stuck for many, many hours until hopefully-not-bandits came upon us.

We finally arrived at the Mole Motel (the only lodging available), relieved and exhausted. But, hilarity ensued as the electricity (and thus, WATER) was out in the entire area! And, because the kitchen was in the process of closing (9 pm), all they could offer us after a day of foodless travel turned out to be two slices of reluctantly-given white bread apiece, and a pinapple that cost us $4. Hours of tro-tros I can handle; 90 degree weather is nothing to me. But being this dirty finally crushed my spirit. Temporarily.

However, the sun rose the next morning (as it is wont to do on the equator), and Kyle called out to me "There is a warthog outside our window! ...and her baby!" And as I grabbed my camera and ran outside, I also caught this shot (which is not zoomed in at all):

On the safari, we saw cobb antelope, warthog families, elephants bathing (and menage-a-troising; but those aren't pictures for the public), crocodiles lurking, and mongoose in the distance. And our guide--who was walking about two feet ahead of Kyle & I--dropped his presumably-loaded rifle, which thankfully did not maim either of us. Afterwards, we headed on our way back to Tamale, pretty much totally over Mole. After another eight hours or so of travel, we ended up at the Burkhina Faso border, and the sacred crocodile ponds of Paga. Legend has it that the founder of the village made a deal with a crocodile, generations ago: he was being chased, and in exchange for a ride across a pond on the croc's back, he swore that neither he nor his descendants would ever harm a crocodile again. Now, Paga has three large ponds, full of hundreds of the creatures, and children swim in them, visitors come and photograph them, and no one has been harmed by crocodiles since. Although, when one particularly large male crept out of the water towards us, mouth gaping open, our guide hurriedly asked us to "back away slowly, please please don't run..."

Okay, this is a long entry, I'm trying to weed through what is really that important. I guess the last noteworthy event would be that stunning eclipse. A total solar eclipse, visible only in select countries in Africa, and a partial eclipse was visible in some parts of Europe. I didn't really know what to expect; I mean, I DID, but I guess I didn't really realize how dramatic it would be. It started to get a little darker, as though clouds had come over the sun, about 9 am; Kyle and I were hiking across the rocks to Secret Beach (perhaps my favorite place in Ghana). It got darker as we reached the sand, but then it all happened quite quickly: the beach descended into almost complete darkness, and I couldn't even take a picture without a flash. Because we were directly beneath the path of the eclipse, it lasted for four entire minutes. I have plenty of pictures, none of which quite do it justice--so below I will post my friend Jackie's picture, taken with a much better camera.

Oh, and we also hiked around the Kakum Rainforest, and ventured out on the canopy walk.

Realistically, this may have been Kyle's favorite part of the trip, escaping as he was from "the coldest winter Prague has had in sixty years!", as he kept repeating:

And realistically, this sums up mine:

worst.blogger.ever.

2006-04-04T22:59:00.000Z

i know, i know. i didn't mean to drop off the face of anything, earth or blog or whatevs. but i was traveling with the boyf for two whole weeks all over ghana and then i came home to my computer for serious broken (as in, entrusted to a ghanaian computerguy, as of this morning?), so i can't upload my pictures or spend more than a few minutes online at a time and there has just been so, so much to say...

for example, just today:
i watched a documentary on "the dark side of hippos". and a crazy ghanaian short PSA with the apparent moral of the story being "don't REPORT child molesters; prank them!"
i sang lullabies to an orphan in my arms to make her stop crying, and the only one that really worked was the one my mom used to sing to me.
i held hands with a three day old baby. her palm was the size of my thumb and she had perfect fingernails.
i just talked to elika and leila for the first real time, voices and all. and ALMOST emily, but skype was having none of us.

also, there was class and the gym and wtfever else. yawn.

so, how can i begin to describe the total solar eclipse that shrouded the beach kyle and i stood alone on in an eerie semi-darkness? or KY being compared to jesus in kumasi and driving a ghanaian cab in the middle of a night on a non-road? or how good it felt to wash my hair, a week after being dirtier than i ever have been (for as long as i can remember, at least) and then discovering that the electricity was out at our hotel and so was the water?

the sky just opened up and starting pouring rain. for the record, when it rains here, it comes in five to ten minute floods, with giant drops, and often lightning (which just flashed outside the window), and then clears up entirely for another week or so.

the point is, there is too much to say and too little time. it is 11pm and i was up at 6. (insomnia has infected my room just as it did to the town in 100 years of solitude). so i will write by the end of the week. i promise.

spring break '06!!!

2006-03-16T19:49:00.000Z

for the record, "beach camping" last weekend actually meant "enrolling in the Kokrobitey Art Institute", complete with three all-day intense studio workshops and no opportunity to touch the water although it lay only a few hundred feet away. and a hippie camp leader named renee who made us hold hands in a circle to feel each other's pulses before every meal (which were amazing pseudo-norcal/ghanaian vegetarian concoctions; the best food i've eaten in months?).

and ghanaians all hate s'mores, for the record. "too sweet!"

in about 24 hours, the lumberjack will invade Accra, and we will snake-eye our way across the coast of ghana, through togo, into benin, and then all the way back again. there is plenty to do--python fetish houses and the home of voodoo; the largest stilt village in west africa; monkey sanctuaries; "rastaman's" beach cottage, which is only accessible by canoe; a wilderness preserve with elephants and antelope and crocodiles; tro tros galore--and we'll see how much we can get done before we have to be back at Secret Beach to catch the first solar eclipse visible from Ghana in sixty years.

wish us luck.

in three days i will emerge from the cocoon of Uncle Joe, reborn.

2006-03-09T19:19:00.000Z

i'm about to embark on a crazy three-day beach-camping adventure with Crazy Uncle Joe and six other kids. he just told us this morning, really, and we leave at ten am tomorrow. in the bus (on the way to an amazing art collector's private home), i asked Uncle Joe what we will be doing. after a brief pause (during which his expression did not even register that he had heard me), his eyes suddenly widened and jerked in my direction: "have FUN!"

we will learn to batik, make paper, and paint; make s'mores and wrap ourselves in thick, smelly mosquito netting; the time in between will be at Uncle Joe's mercy. wish us luck.

oh, i think i might not have mentioned the praying mantis eggsack that hatched in/on my roommate's bed about a month ago, two feet from my pillow. or if i did, i didn't illustrate the point:

sketch like whoa.

2006-03-07T18:33:00.000Z

we've had three muggings now. danielle got hurt, dragged by a taxi, but they weren't TRYING to injure her, exactly. then this weekend jeanneth got her bag snatched post-barhopping, by some dbag who had been following and harassing her all night. but last night kate biked home from the academic center really late (it is about a ten minute walk, that we all travel multiple times a day), and when she arrived there were a taxi and three big men armed with baseball bats, waiting for her. (my three roommates had biked home no more than half an hour earlier.) they took her bike, her bag (cell phone; wallet; crazyimportant paperwork that i won't go into); for once, she didn't have her laptop, but we normally do.

foreigners are always at risk, which is what the first two attacks were about: obvious outsiders; out of their elements in a new environment; targets for crime. but this one was really scary, because the fact is, people know who we are. i get in a taxi and say "labone" (our suburb), and sometimes drivers pull right up to our door, or ask, "NYU students?" we live in an extremely wealthy area; we are american; we are white. and sure, we have an electric fence, but we walk the same paths every day, at relatively predictable hours. the only streetlights on our street are directly at our front gate, and we purchased them ourselves. word gets around. and sure, we have 24/7 security, but they work 12 hour shifts without overtime or breaks, for not impressive wages, and most of them don't really care about us; it is institutionalized and it isn't even their fault and it isn't ours, either. last night the guard was asleep, but even if he wasn't, he would have had to unlock the gate padlock from the inside to come out and that sort of delay is less than ideal (and only factors if the attack is DIRECTLY out front, so he's aware). we have the best security systems and guard services available in ghana and the military police at the press of a button and you know what, it's still not that safe.

so it's really up to us students, now. no bags except when crazy-necessary, and no laptop unless i'm getting a ride (which means, friends, no skyping after 8 pm). really, no internet after 9, unless i'm with a whole crew, and even then we have to head home by 10.

this is the first curfew of my entire life, and it is ironically self-imposed. to an extent.

No more separation between church and blog.

2006-03-03T18:18:00.000Z

I think I've pretty blatantly abandoned any attempt to convey a holistic, comprensive image of Ghana or my experiences here. Instead, I toss out random experiences and observations as they come along. Actually, many of the biggest and most important I find too daunting to try to put down into words with pen and paper (or fingers and keyboards); I will only articulate them for you at a later date, when I've had time to process them sufficiently. For now, anecdotal snapshots and a few good thoughts will have to suffice.

But this entry is a little different, because I've been thinking about something big and relatively abstract pretty constantly for awhile, and I decided to try to put it down. Religion permeates and shapes so many aspects of daily life and experience here in Ghana, and much more visibly than in any society I've visited before. For example, the stands, stores, "chop shops" (roadside restaurants), and "spots" (bars/cafes) are nearly all named with religious undertones (or overtones). For my first month here, I took the phenomenon to be fairly amusing, as many offer unintentional double entendres, and others just sound awkward. "Jesus Saves Fashion" or "Not I But Christ Air Conditioning" are representative examples, but there are also simple "Grace Spot"s and the more amusing/disturbing titles: "Sacred Blood Chop" ("chop" = food)?

My perspective changed, however, after two events: attending a wedding, and then a conversation with a seamstress. I had expected the wedding ceremony to be more traditional and stereotypically "African", as the funeral celebration I attended was; instead, it turned out to be just a Christian church service, and the only time the bride and groom stood up and separated from the congregation was to "take their first communion together". The fascinating "Charismatic" service was much like those at African-American churches, I was informed, with call-and-response formats, gospel singing, and individuals jumping to their feet when moved to speak (often in tongues, although I didn't see that at this service). What struck me as odd, and even made me uncomfortable, however, was the extent to which the preacher spoke about wealth. "One day," he would chant, "one day, one day YOU will own your own business. You will own the land it sits on, and you will not lease it from anyone...." Such statements were fascinating, and understandable, considering the widespread poverty and perpetual financial struggles of so many here, but he would continue for many minutes, relishing in lists of material possessions and luxuries. "Imagine yourself in the backseat of a Benz: the backseat, because your driver is taking you where you want to go!" He explained what they already obviously agreed with, judging from their grunts and nods and "Amens" of assent: that faith in God is how all these things can and will come to be. He reitterated that God works in mysterious ways, suggesting various scenarios of unexpected inheritances, winning the lottery, etc. Interestingly, there was no mention of success through EFFORT, but only through Divine Grace.

(The part that made me uncomfortable, incidentally, was when one of the paths to wealth was "you will meet a foreigner, who will favor you, and take you to America, where you will find your fortune" ...and then later concluded the service by welcoming us "newcomers" to the congregation, explaining that we are visiting students from the States and that people should come over and become our friends. I never want to doubt anyone intentions, and yet with the undeniable financial inequalities here, and misconceptions about Americans being able to just choose someone to take home... it is a recurring struggle we face.)

The outdoor chapel

The day after the wedding, I visited the seamstress we hire occasionally. Auntie Abena was talking about her dream of opening a store of her own, instead of working out of her home. When I asked what she would call it, she immediately offered an answer she had given a lot of thought to: "By His Grace Fashion" (in Twi). And that was when it really struck me, when I recognized that the shop titles are not accidental, not casual, but carry a dimension of importance I hadn't yet understood. Auntie Abena is up every morning by four, and works until late at night; she does amazing work and actually does charge more than most in her field; she has worked her entire life to achieve this tiny one bedroom wooden house with a sewing machine inside. That church congregation was made up of dedicated, hardworking people, and the fact remains that they are NOT getting ahead in society, NOT putting money into savings, and are still living hand-to-mouth, struggling to feed their families and send their children to school. They look to God's grace as their only opportunity to rise above their current circumstances.

Perhaps these realizations sound quite obvious and the observations self-evident, but I never truly had insight what lay beneath the surface until recently. And I don't think many visitors do: even the Bradt travel guide to Ghana belittles the phenomenon of religious signs and names, offering a list of the author's personal hilarious favorites and the simple explanation that "Ghanaians are a highly religious people". And of course, I've only scratched the surface, and would never claim true or complete "understanding" of any of it. I'm just glad that I have articulated some of what I've been mulling over for weeks, even if you had to sit by and listen to me work out my rambling thoughts.

Our impromptu Nigerien tea ceremony

2006-03-03T16:23:00.000Z

This morning Ashley, Molly, & I went to the "10th Annual Ghanaian International Trade Fair": a weeklong event (held at the same giant venue of last month's infamous reggae concert) with traveling tradesmen from all over the northern half of Africa. A lot of the booths held familiar, repetitive Ghanaian fare, but after exploring for awhile we stumbled upon a stall occupied by three quiet Nigerien* traders. While we browsed, we began to communicate haltingly (but amiably) with the men, who spoke almost no english, and we spoke no french. They asked if we "make tea", and after admitting that we enjoy it, we returned to trying on silver and admiring the complex textiles. A moment later, we realized that they were heating up coals in a small, elevated metal stand, and they soon invited us to sit down on the mat where they were seated and crouching, barefoot. Once the coals were hot, and a tiny kettle of water heated, a practiced, elaborate tea ceremony commenced: crushed, dried leaves were added and stirred; a cup (shockingly large compared to the kettle) of sugar was measured out and poured in; the mixture was poured into a tiny clear cup, from high above, and then (from the same height) poured back into the kettle, and then back into the cup, and so on, for a set number of transitions.

There was only one cup, and it was offered in turn to each of us girls; we were each motioned to drink the entire thing, before it was returned, refilled, and passed on. Each kettle made only three tiny cups of powerful, extremely sweet tea, and so the entire process (including reheating of coals and water) was repeated many times, and we each received two servings before any of the Nigeriens would take a sip. They also went and bought popcorn and cookies to serve us as we waited for the tea to be prepared.

It was a fascinating experience, and completely spontaneous and unexpected. The men--Dimon (pronounced "demon"), Gaya ("guy-a"), and Bango--were very hospitable, and somehow solemnly friendly; I don't know how else to describe it. We spoke very little, but sat there for over an hour in amicable silences and occasional stunted conversations. Bango showed us a box of obviously-treasured photographs (few people here will ever own a photograph of themselves) of Niger, of a festival of some sort. I was disappointed that the language barrier prohibited any explanation of the ritual, but the crowds in the pictures were in completely rural, desolate desert areas, with faces elaborately painted and unique dress. Bango said that the heavily-clothed crowd of women were "wailing", praying. Life would be so different in a predominantly Muslim country; religion influences EVERYTHING in these countries, and Ghana is heavily Christian. That is an entirely different entry, however, and something I've been thinking about constantly for the past couple weeks.

*"Its adjective form is Nigerien /niːˈʒɛɹiən/, which should not be confused with Nigerian /naɪˈdʒiɹiən/ for Nigeria." -wikipedia

2006-02-28T18:59:00.000Z

this morning i went to class and then i went to makola market (which i am obsessed with, but is incredibly draining) and then i mustered all my remaining strength to go have a test day volunteering at Osu Children's Home, an orphanage around the corner from our residence...

and i emerged almost three hours later covered in urine and vomit and having changed a dozen diapers (without rags for wiping) and having washed and dressed a billion babies and taught a bunch more how to play peekaboo and carried and lifted and set and bounced and rolled and layed with them all; there are two subdued but harried women who work with all fifty-something babies, almost all of whom are sick and some of whom suffer from various developmental disabilities and oh god it was so, so overwhelming

and the best thing i have ever done in my life.

in which things don't go according to plan but are still wonderful

2006-02-20T15:36:00.000Z

things in africa don't always go according to plan. ghana doesn't believe in schedules, and appointments, and, you know, reliability or dependability and the like. not that i'm bitter: i'm just experiencing a whole slew of examples, recently. for instance, i'm writing this now because my professor never showed up to lead our recitation, and all of us students just ended up bumming around on the internet instead. for instance, we haven't had water at home in THREE DAYS, because the repairmen don't work on sundays and then just didn't show up. for the record, that's not as much fun as it sounds: we're unable to wash dishes, so the kitchen is a mess; after a few days of increasing odor, we had to bucket-flush the toilet (see: lug water from a nearby area), since we're a house full of girls and it's bound to be somebody's time of the month whenever this happens; "showers" consist of going to the local hotel and spending $3 to hang out in the swimming pool, and washing your face and brushing your teeth become a bottled-water luxury.

perhaps the best example i can offer, with consequences beyond body odor and blogging (consequences not to be belittled, mind you!), is that of Molly & my weekend adventure. we headed east, to the Volta region, to visit the Tafi Atome monkey sanctuary, which is exactly what it sounds like. the equivalent of $3 American buys you dinner, a bed for the night, breakfast, and a tour guide, so we didn't bring much money along at all. however, when our official STC bus arrived over three hours late, we didn't arrive to the little town of Ho (which lies on the Ho-Hohoe road, and never ceases to amuse) until after dark. so Molly and I wandered the dark streets, dragging our luggage, wearing bandannas and thick layers of tro-tro dirt, calling "Hellos" back to the dozens of curious onlookers who waved and pidgin-englished us, until we found the giant Freedom Hotel.

in the end, we had to spend an outrageous $20 on the room (sigh). the only taxi driver we could find promised to charge us 500,000 cedis (over $50) for the hour and a half ride to Tafi Atome in the morning--that should have cost about $10, TOPS--and as we were rapidly running out of money, we had to send him on his way. we found ourselves trapped in Ho with little cash, and nothing to do whatsoever.

our solution?

* set aside enough cedis to get home, and continue drinking up the rest at various little "spots" (casual outdoor joints that sell alcohol, soda, and bagged water) along the way, as we work our way towards the tro-tro we will ultimately take home.

the first place we ended up, on the spot-hopping tour, we met Clinton (yes, "like American president", as his mother Rose clarified; something like 500,000 Ghanaians traveled to see the icon in Accra when he came here a few years back [though they all hate Bush, strangely enough]). i absolutely LOVE traveling outside of the touristy areas in Ghana, because people are genuinely curious about you, and friendly, without ever asking for money or expecting material gifts. i would guess that Clinton has never spoken to an obruni before, and although he sat down at the table with us as we talked to him, we spent our first fifteen minutes together like this:

a few drinks later, however, and we had finally made friends. i gave him paper and a pen, and he dedicated himself with a shocking intensity to a half-hour of meticulously drawn, shaky "O"s; Molly sang him the ABCs; we taught him how to take pictures with my digital camera (he photographed us and his family, to everyone's delight); finally he ran and brought back a friend, David, who took a similar length of time to warm up to us:

[for the record, this blog will never stop featuring beautiful ghanaian children, so help me god.]

lastly, just so you all have some sense of a "tro-tro", which i name-drop consistently but may not have fully explained: they are privately owned, broken-down vehicles from much more than a decade ago, that sit in the hot sun without any ventillation until all the seats are full, with upwards of 20 people crammed in, and a young boy leaning out the sliding side door (which often does not close, if it even exists) to yell out the destination to passers-by. here is one we saw in ho, with goats atop and ready for the ride:

all told, it was a wonderful stopover. and though i didn't get to feed the monkeys...

the cliffs notes

2006-02-13T13:35:00.000Z

the past two weeks have been... full. i went to a king's funeral (already described, of course) and a ghanaian couple's wedding; attended a reggae concert celebrating Bob Marley's 61st birthday (complete with all the surviving Marleys, save Ziggy, performing); rushed to the emergency room in an ambulance (see: cab with a blue light on top) halfway through the show--not for me, don't worry, but to accompany another student, who smoked one of the many substances being passed around, and had a violent seizure in my arms; started my "internship" at the "local" psychiatric hospital (see: an hour and a half of crowded, chaotic tro-tro and shared taxi travel from Accra, each direction...and they have no idea what to do with me whenever i arrive, save stare openly, welcome me to ghana...again, and laugh uproariously every time i attempt twi); spent three days in bed, ill (i was the sixth in my building [of 8] to get sick, and only one of three who never ended up in the hospital); recovered, and spent three days at a secluded paradise beach eco-lodge for the weekend, where i got a sunburn (after EIGHT sunscreen applications), canoed through a mangrove swamp, lolled around a beach bonfire, and slept under mosquito netting in a private bungalow for $3.50 a night, to celebrate britt's 21st birthday. and i survived a swarm of roaches in the self-composting toilet area, though i may never remove my pants again.

whew.

oh, and when we hiked for two hours to "Secret Beach" [which was worth it], and were swimming in the huge waves and crazy undertow, a mysterious animal came up onto the beach from the wild expanse of forest behind... we never saw it, but it must have been large and/or clever enough to steal a GIANT beach towel: to clarify, my brightly-colored towel (my pride and joy for the last month) is literally twice the size and weight of a normal beach towel. and when i came back on shore, i found my cell phone, book, and clothing scattered along a long dragging trail, leading into the woods. we think it might have been a monkey? they live all over that area....

did i mention that at "trust hospital", when they drew jeanneth's blood in the doctor's office (not a consulting room: his office), they propped the bloody needle up on something sitting on his desk? and i went on a fifteen minute journey trying to find somewhere i could buy her some drinking water, and they looked at me, bemused, when i requested it in the first place. remind me never to end up in the hospital, folks. i don't have that much faith in it.

pictures of giant rasta crowds, hollow-gourd pipes, and Lost World-worthy beaches to follow. this is just my first chance to get online in a week. and if anyone wants a cramazing valentine's day card, send me your address: it is a HUGE holiday here, and pidgin english is widespread and, in print, hilarious.

A King's Funeral

2006-02-08T14:44:00.000Z

this week i went to a king's funeral, without being warned in advance about where i was headed. as a result, i showed up in flipflops to the event, and didn't bring a camera. (fortunately, the informal footwear was easier to shed than sneakers, when i was later commanded to remove them.) my African Art History course is taught by "Uncle Joe", a wizened old man who dropped to the floor and gave us a dozen violent pushups on the first day of class, to demonstrate... lord only knows what.

Uncle Joe has a tendency to burst into unprovoked laughter, hold it until everyone around has joined in (from awkwardness, humor, or confusion), and then cut off abruptly, staring you down with no trace of amusement on his face. no one knows whether to keep laughing or not; once you stop, bemused, he bursts out again. we've yet to really learn anything about art, but i know all about Ghanaian naming ceremonies (Uncle Joe is the one who gave me my Ghanaian name), marriage rites, where to buy fruit, how to tan elephant hide (those things are thick!), and now, how Ghanaians celebrate funerary rituals.

on wednesday morning, Uncle Joe left a note at the academic center that said, "Students: wear black and red to class Thursday. Arrive at 9 am PROMPTLY." class usually begins at 9:30. we arrive promptly, properly outfitted in black garments and curious countenances. at about 10:15, Uncle Joe waltzes in wearing khakis and a rainbow tie-dye shirt. we get in a van without explanation (our professor raises and drops his eyebrows three times, dramatically--and silently--when we open our mouths to question him), and two hours later, find ourselves in the middle of nowhere, needing to use the restroom (but still unable to question Uncle Joe, as he has been sleeping soundly through the entire trip).

the seven of us skinny oburonis ["white men" or "foreigners"] were welcomed to the massive, televised (as i found out later) event with huge red and black silk canopies, powerful drum beats, mournful wails, and a constant parade of thousands of visitors who had come from all over Ghana to pay their respects.

i saw one other oburoni the entire day; the following day, i would learn that the only reason we were allowed to attend was because of my professor's high position in the village. this was hinted at when Uncle Joe was referred to as "his Majesty", but no explanation was given at the time. the first chance i had to ask questions would be about six hours after arriving, and when I asked about his title, he simply said, "the head of the ruling family". good to know.

with no explanation whatsoever, we began weaving our way through the mournful/celebratory crowds, trying desperately to keep up with Uncle Joe (who had pulled on a traditional mourning wrap as we exited the van). suddenly, it was demanded that we remove our shoes. now we were facing dozens of seated elderly men and women, and found ourselves shaking their hands, one by one (while clutching dirty shoes in our left hands). none of them spoke english, and while many broke into slow and dignified smiles, or abrupt and almost child-like grins, reaching for our hands with curiousity and eagerness, other countenances remained solemn and unchanged as we greeted them, and i wasn't sure if we were welcomed or resented. a few people down the line and i looked up to read the computer print-out hanging above: "CHIEFS." oh. good to know. i intensified my "respect and humility" face, which i've had too little practice with in the states.

this outdoor "room" led to yet another, with many dozens more Somehow Important and Exalted persons awaiting. that room gave way to another. i'd like to stress once more that i had absolutely no idea what was going on, or how to react: do you look a chief in the eyes, and smile, or bow your head? this was a funeral, after all; yet everywhere i looked i saw old women grinning and shaking their booties on other women, children laughing, and boys drumming in smiling groups, asking for coins from the elders. a man burst into the line between me and the girl i was following, dancing to/for/near? me. i didn't no how to respond, and instinctively started mirroring his images (which is what we always do, as we oburonis have been pulled onstage at every African dance performance we've attended yet). the entire crowd of chiefs/elders erupted into that deep-throated Ghanaian "aaaayyyoh!" i'm coming to know so well, and many laughed and cheered. i didn't know when to break away but had to escape as i started to lose sight of my group.

after room after room of elders, and greeting one queen mother in chanel glasses, and another who clutched two cell phones in her spare hand, we found ourselves inside a building. after dropping a donation in a hollow gourd-bowl (about 50 cents in cedis, which i had to borrow, since i'd brought NOTHING), we were in a long, dark room, with leaves covering the ground, and two men off to the side: one beating a deep, heavy drum like a heartbeat, and another, emitting a sound i can only describe as exactly what you would expect from an African mourning wail. it was bone chilling enough, but by his side i found a man sitting unnaturally upright, eyes wide: it took a nearby man's explanation to clear up that this was "the effigy", and not a live human being. as soon as we entered, we were out again, in a contemporary, white-walled staircase. we all breathed a sigh of relief.

...and mid-sigh, we entered a quiet room with a raised bed. here a middle-aged man lay adorned with golden bracelets weaving all the way up his arms, serpents and solid bands which would feel appropriate in an egyptian tomb. he was dressed in kente cloth (highly prized, expensive ceremonial cloth, which is historically only woven by men), and his eyes were gently closed. this, then, was the body of the dead king, deceased since November. sitting on the floor all around the bed were young boys in kente, carrying gold staffs with what looked like golden torches on the top of each. silent mourners lined the walls of the small room. i was afraid to stare openly at the chief, not understanding the etiquette and worried about being disrespectful; i contented myself with one open look, and depended on my peripheral vision for the rest of my slow walk past.

then we were outside again, in the bright noon sunlight, and before I could catch my breath Uncle Joe was being whisked away from us: referred to as "His Majesty" and taken to sit with the other elders. we were told that he would "come find us", and that was the last we saw of him for another four hours.

it was hot and humid and we were dehydrated and overwhelmed. but we found ways to entertain ourselves.

and i experienced a Real Ghanaian Toilet: that is, a women who spoke no english took me into her one-room store, through the nearly empty single bedroom behind it, out to a courtyard with two open cement stalls. one offered a pile of rocks heaped on the floor, and my host beckoned me inside this one. women walked by frequently, but i tried not to turn and look. i'm still not sure if i handled even the bathroom experience correctly (why the rocks??), much less the funeral itself.

Uncle Joe promised (only once I requested it explicitly) that tomorrow's class won't be another field trip, but will be spent explaining this last one. for example, we assumed that the individuals we saw wearing wreaths of bright green vines around their necks or foreheads--one man was entirely covered in the vines, so he looked like a swamp monster and you couldn't see one inch of his body--were symbolizing life, or life cut short, or something similar. on the van ride home, the only information we got out of Uncle Joe about the ceremony was that no, in fact, those are poisonous nettles, and those mourners were suffering for the deceased. in retrospect, i can scarcely imagine the pain the swamp monster must have been in.

it was a good day.

It's not all fun and games. There's also diarrhea.

2006-02-03T16:56:00.000Z

So, eight students have been to the hospital in the last 24 hours. Some had to spend the night, with IVs in their arms; others just went this morning and are already home (including my bunkie Katy-->) . Symptoms: high fever; general aches and pains; severe diarrhea and/or vomiting; a wonderful overall experience. It came on really fast; Stephane was the first to go, and he and I were sitting in the computer lab when all of a sudden he lay his head down on the desk. A few minutes later he felt strong enough to walk out to the van, once I'd made a few phone calls. I didn't make much of it until later that night, when I heard that Stephane, Tristan, and Jamie were all spending the night in a local clinic. Jackie, Katy, Alana, and Jessica all followed this morning (after the latter three stayed out with me through three different bars) When I called Jamie this morning, he was feeling much better, but explained that the hospital system is different here in that doctors don't actually tell the patients what is going on.... For example, the attendants were taken aback when he asked what they were doing, when they were about to hook him up to an IV. And nobody ever told him what he was suffering from. Then again, nobody really knows, I'm sure: some parasite or stomach virus or food poisoning. It happens. We're foreigners in Ghana and we're not used to any of the things we are putting in our bodies.

But, eight out of 30, all at once. That's a start.

now we get it.

2006-01-30T18:43:00.001Z

we've had our first hospitalizations, and thus our first reality checks....

calpin ended up with food poisoning, which was no fun for him, but was understandable.
then danielle was attacked on the street. no good.

incoming students sat through a full dozen hours of security briefings, before we arrived and then during our first week of orientation here. among other advice, girls were warned time and time again, "don't wear your purse across your body", and be careful about walking alone at night. two girls last semester were doing exactly that--both at the end of the semester, in December, though on different days--and cars pulled up, someone reached out the window, grabbed the bags, and, as the girls couldn't disentagle themselves from their purses, each was dragged a few yards. no serious injuries, but, no good.

on friday night, after dinner, many of us were walking home instead of taking the NYU vans. the dinners here are heavy, and it feels good to walk some of it off. about ten minutes after i left (in a group of about five girls), another group walked home: danielle, a TA for the Hip Hop Theater class (who, incidentally, wasn't here for the security briefings), and wade & archie (two strapping students whom one would think twice about messing with. danielle was walking about 2 meters ahead of the guys, when a cab full of men pulled up and stopped alongside. she stopped, too--and someone leaned out the window, and grabbed her big bag, which was on her street-side. unfortunately, it was wrapped tightly around her arm, so as they hit the accelerator, she was pulled along. she fell backwards, and was dragged on her back for a moment, before pulling herself upright and holding on by clinging to the side of the cab. the boys, meanwhile, had taken off running after them; those in the taxi quickly got nervous, and when the would-be thief let go of danielle's bag, he also pushed her backwards, off the car. she hit her head on the way down, and was passing in and out of consciousness on the way to the hospital.

after a mild concussion, and a lot of rest, danielle is doing much better. shaken up and scared, and she can't walk, because her feet (in sandals, as we all are here) were dragged and severely cut up. but she's okay.

we're all being careful now. really.

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my... right?

2006-01-27T15:43:00.000Z

I live in a suburb, which means that chickens and chicks are the only animals peeping around my neighborhood. In nearby areas, goats and cats and dogs roam the streets. The lack in quantity is made up for in quality, however, and my cravings for the puppies walking down NYC streets every day are satiated because all the animals here are teensy: i know it is all malnutrition, but that doesn't make the kitten-sized cats and goats small enough to sit in my lap any less cute. And the children here are without exception BEAUTIFUL: I've never seen anything like it. I have yet to see a child (especially the babies) that didn't make my eyebrows shoot into the air and my eyes soften.
Here are a few examples/exceptions, because I'm in a posting/picturing mood.

The first one is for IndiAnna Jones. One of the rooms in Elmina castle, which I tried to walk around in but couldn't handle these guys swarming around my entire body:

We ate lunch this weekend at a restaurant lifted atop stilts, hovering above a swamp full of crocodiles. However, it was really, really hot, so none of the crocs emerged. It was terribly disappointing, although still creepy as hell to know that they were lurking beneath:

And to make matters worse, we had our first hospitalization afterwards, from food poisoning. [Oh, Calpin!]

AND, they had this little guy in a tiny cage, so he shrieked and jumped back and forth along the wire walls until he was a furry blur... he also had no water, and drank out of someone's water bottle when they tipped it into the cage:

These brightly-colored lizards are absolutely everywhere, streaking around and then freezing in place to do pushups in the sun, from the moment we step outside (and sometimes they get pretty big):

And this one is just for Sarah:

Don't worry, more travel is coming up for me, and with it opportunities for vicarious safari for you all.

In which I vicariously experience atrocities, almost adopt my first Ghanaian child, and sweat profusely.

2006-01-26T18:45:00.000Z

This weekend we took our first real trip outside of Accra, the capital of Ghana. We live in a wealthy suburb of Accra, Labone, which is basically a series of gated-off residences with guards at each entrance; our residence compound is enclosed in an electric fence for added security. Needless to say, it isn't the friendliest community, and everyone stays behind closed doors for the most part. And we spend a lot of time in Osu, a little town which is a fifteen-minute walk away, and has American food, cheap bars, and a grocery store that sells tofu and charges $6 for two dozen grapes. We are extremely isolated in a well-off community, and life here--and the poverty we're exposed to--has been much less intense than I'd anticipated.

This is the house I live in, for the record:

But this weekend we explored Elmina and Cape Coast, about three hours outside of Accra. That is, the trip over lasted three hours; the return took five, as our luxurious tour bus broke down a dozen times. [Welcome to Ghana.] Elmina Castle was basically the center of the West African slave trade for hundreds of years, and we got the full tour: cement walls three feet thick, with one tiny window for ventilation in each dungeon cell and up to a thousand people in a room that feels the size of my New York apartment; they explained the institutionalized rape and torture procedures, and described the ankle-deep feces, urine, vomit, and menstrual blood; they locked us in the dungeon marked with a skull and crossbones, three hundred years ago (self-explanatory); we walked through the final "door of no return", which every African who traveled through Elmina had to bend and walk through, on to the ship that would take them away forever. I didn't expect to cry, honestly: but there was not a dry eye in the final room, as we had a moment of silence.

This is the view from the governor's quarters in Elmina Castle (something the Africans in the compound would never see, of course):

[Have I ever mentioned how strikingly beautiful this country is?]

Later in the afternoon, as we walked around Cape Coast, I finally got some opportunities to interact with Ghanaians who weren't trying to sell me anything. I met a bunch of young girls--who were selling the food they balanced on their heads, but chatted with me about school and America independently of sale pitches--who all offered me their non-Ghanaian names first (Rebecca, etc.), but laughed delightedly when I asked their Ghanaian names. [For the record, my Ghanaian name is Abenaa; your names come from the day of the week you were born and your numerical relationship to your sibling(s).]

And then I met Cecilia. Granted, she refused to speak to me; but she was the most beautiful child I've probably ever seen. Her barefooted mother tried to charge me 50,000 cedis when I asked to take her photograph; we cheerfully bargained down to 10,000, and it was absolutely worth it. As I paid her, she offered me Cecilia herself: "Take her. America." I hesitated, and politely declined. For now.

On Sunday, among manymany other things, we visited the Kakum rainforest, and ventured across the "canopy walk". This proved to be a ten minute uphill hike in the forest, and then seven consecutive rope-bridge walkways, suspended hundreds of feet above treetops of which you can't even see the trunks. I honestly wasn't even that scared, and it wasn't even that hot, but by the time I was back on solid ground I had sweated through every inch of my dress, and people were approaching me to point out the rivulets pouring down my collarbones and streaming from my face like tears. We have a cameraman with us, who is documenting this semester for NYU [a whole other story I could talk about], and he told me that he filmed my sweat pouring down. So future generations of NYU in Ghana will know me as "the sweaty girl", for the record.

This picture cannot capture any of it: the depth below or the shakiness of the bridges or the intensity or the adventure. It was good clean fun, and over too quickly. Other people have better shots, or me far in the distance suspended above so many trees, but they've yet to be uploaded and this will suffice for now:

Oh yes, there's more. But I'm sorry, I know how crazylong this is. I'm done.

non-post.

2006-01-24T18:50:00.000Z

Anna (from India) told me how to put pictures up here... so I'll be doing some of that. Although I just tried and it took AGES to upload, before quitting on me; we'll see if I can speed it up somehow.

As always, my time here in the computer lab is painfully limited, and I have a million things to do online and a million people to not have time to write to. So I'll try to come back tomorrow and write about the Kaneshie market, the weekend in Elmina & Cape Coast, and the start of classes. Or anything besides rambling about how cheap alcohol is and how it's humid. And perhaps it will be all peppered with pictures.... I know I'm getting terribly repetitive, and not conveying anything uniquely Ghanaian or West African: don't think I'm not experiencing anything like that. I promise I am.

the minor adjustments, which are easy to document.

2006-01-18T17:55:00.000Z

so few of the preparations and decisions made pre-departure have crossed the ocean with me, and translated into my daily experience here. of course, i had no idea what to expect. but there were a few firm resolutions i made, and i was sure i'd abide by them: but how quickly they've been revised and tossed aside!
i'll confess that i'm not brushing my teeth with boiled water, as i promised everyone back home. it's happening in part because i'm lazy and in part because i'm a follower: boiling water takes FOREVER with our stove, and no one else is doing it. and i'm eating at "chop bars", little stands and shanties on the side of the roads, because the food is delicious and a dollar or two a plate--even though the women selling it to me aren't wearing shoes and obviously have little access to running water, much less soap. the sewers on the sides of the road are all open, and i just try my best not to fall in. my friend ashley accidently ate a piece of pinapple off the dusty, dirty city street, and she has survived so far, so i think i should be fine. although, we did tour three local hospitals, with the warning that at least 1/3 of the 30 of us will end up visiting for one reason or another. and i didn't need the restroom for the entire first week i was here, much to my dismay. [don't worry, i'm fine now.]
what it ultimately comes down to, however, is some desire to live as genuine an experience as possible. and as little time as it took for me to stop boiling brushing water (which was only a day or two), it took even less to realize how easy it would be for me to hold Ghana at arm's length: i could coast through the next semester boiling water (or having it boiled for me), eating at ex-patriat restaurants and paying American prices, sticking within the capital city and our wealthy little suburb. i could spend all my time with the NYU students i'm here with, and never venture out to make (slightly more halting) conversation with Ghanaians. there are expats i've already met who have lived here for years--decades, even--who cannot speak a word of twi beyond "akwaaba" (which is posted at the airport, and called out to white folks as we walk through the streets); not even "medaasi" (thank you). the idea of that experience is, to me...sad. i'm fighting the urge to say "repulsive".

today i had a really rough decision to make: a four hour break between classes, and i could go to the beach, or go exploring at an outdoor market. i finally chose the latter, to scope out a new place--but in all fairness, i'll be spending all day friday at the beach. and the crashing waves and the softest sand i've ever met will remain a fifteen-minute, $1.50 cab ride away, every day, for the next four months.

it's hard to be me.

Akwaaba!

2006-01-10T23:25:00.000Z

Don't worry, folks, I've arrived safely... after quite a journey. A flight delay stranded me at JFK for six hours before the first seven hour trip; I had a layover at London Heathrow; just after the announcement that we were coming in for a landing, the electricity went out at Kotoka International Airport and we were left circling until the runway lights came back on. Another (two) blackout(s) and one girl's missing luggage--I was sure it was going to be me, but my bags came out just at the end--meant that we didn't leave the airport for a couple more hours. Welcome to Ghana--"akwaaba", in Akan--where time travels at a pace that will take some getting used to.
The NYU Study Abroad department--or perhaps just the Ghanaian branch--claims as their motto the advice "expect the unexpected": well, opulent luxury was not my expectation when I signed up for a West African semester. But during my long JFK wait, I made friends with a British Airways customer service representative, who bumped me up to business class for the flight to London--"because we go way back", as she echoed an earlier statement of mine. I was drinking champagne before the plane took off. With a bed that lay completely horizontal upon command, a personal TV screen, travel care packages with hygiene supplies, two freshly-cooked meals ordered from a menu, and dividers between each seat/bed, I was actually in heaven.
I don't know how to articulate what I've experienced since arriving... this much is as far as I have words for. Perhaps it is just that I've only slept about seven hours in the past two nights--has it been two nights? I missed the first entirely, watching Pride & Prejudice and reading Oscar Wilde on the BA flight--but I really don't have words for all of this. Any of it, since landing. I can't describe the weather, which would be unbearably hot and humid but isn't bad at all, thanks to the "harmattan" breezes of the season. I can't describe the dusty streets which aren't really that dusty, but look dusty, and maybe are... or the compounds of houses set back and walled off from the road, in our suburb of Labone, with textures of walls I can't come up with analogies for, because I've never seen anything quite like them. I can note the women balancing deep bowls atop their heads, overflowing with dozens of weighty sugarloaf pinapples (the sweetest fruit i've ever met) or bunches of plantains, but I can't convey how they relax comfortably into these intense, dignified contraposto postures. I haven't had time yet to process any of it for myself, much less articulate it for anyone else. We've been so busy... I haven't had a moment alone. Even as I write this I'm surrounded by the whole crew; we're traveling in packs, crowded into sweaty vans without seatbelts, until we find our way around.

So, I'll attempt to write something Ghanian later on, and talk about what it is really like here. But now I'm off to my first hour of alone-time since landing three days ago, and I intend to enjoy it.