Coconut Grove, the beach and a little bit of history

My second weekend in Africa was spent in paradise. I drank milk from fresh coconuts, swam in the warmest ocean I’ve ever been in and walked through the top of a rainforest on swinging wooden bridges.

We loaded our big blue bus very early Friday morning and battled traffic in the crowded streets of Accra. We finally broke free from traffic and headed for the cleaner air of Cape Coast and Elmina, two neighboring cities up the coast from Accra. While others dozed on the long car ride, I took in the surroundings—the landscape varies greatly from village to village. Mud huts instead of tin shacks lined the highway; women balanced bowls of raw fish on their heads instead of brown nuts (peanuts). We passed beautiful sprawling fields of pineapple plantations and saw bright red birds that look like balls of fire as they flap upward into the clear blue sky.

Three hours later, we arrived at Cape Coast Castle, one of many British slave trade castles along the Ghanaian coastline. The castle was immaculately preserved, and I can’t describe in words how it felt to walk on the same grounds as slaves had centuries ago. A man who I could barely understand (but whose compassion made me understand) gave us a tour. He led us through the male slave dungeons, where as many as 150 men were held with human waste up to their knees in an area no larger than a small bedroom. The British had tiny holes where they could view the men, and those who dared to disrespect them were thrown into torture chambers or were condemned. We saw the scratches of prisoners on the walls and could almost hear the building moan with its sad, horrifying tale. We were led through the female dungeons which were similar to the male dungeons except slightly larger to accommodate for children. Here, the British used the spy holes to pick which women they “fancied.” They would lead these women out of the dungeon and take them upstairs to rape them.

I can’t imagine the fear and anguish the enslaved must have felt. As we walked through the “Door of No Return” where the British led the slaves to the ships, I couldn’t stop thinking about what a monstrosity slavery was (and in some places still is). How can human beings treat each other in such a way? While the slave castle was extremely disturbing for me, I think it’s something that every person in the world needs to see. Such atrocities should be remembered in our history, not just discarded like white men once discarded their African brothers. Children should know that Americans are not the heroes their history texts make them out to be; they deserve to know that we, too, made huge mistakes in our history and are now moving on and growing up as a nation. Or maybe we’re not—but that’s a whole different topic.

After the tour, our minds were buzzing and our stomachs churning. The bus whizzed past white sand beaches dotted with huge palm trees, the warm waves crashing on the shore. We pulled into our hotel for the weekend—well, not exactly a hotel, but more like a resort. The place was beautiful, with little bungalows facing our private beach, an inviting swimming pool, palm trees, a small golf course and even a crocodile pond. Our rooms were air-conditioned and our shower ran hot water, though rather noisily. Immediately, we peeled off out sticky clothes and changed into bathing suits. Never has diving into a pool felt so good—the water was perfect.
We ordered dinner, and while some opted for chicken and chips (fries), I had more joloaff rice, which has become a personal favorite. The rice is rather spicy, but bearable even in hot weather. In fact, most all of the food here has proven rather delicious and I’ve even been brave enough to sample some more trying dishes, such as red red (beans and some sort of curry). Also, I never knew how good fried plantains were!

After dinner, we spent while sitting by the ocean listening to the waves beating against the shore. The sky here is so clear that it seems as if you could reach up into the sky and pluck down a shimmering star to put in a little jar beside your bed. Being here reminds me of how I’m really not destined to be a city girl—it reminds me that I really must be somewhere where I can see the stars because only then is my heart really full.

I woke up early on Saturday morning to go for a stroll along the beach. I passed by women with bunches of wood tied up and balanced perfectly on their heads. They make it look so easy. The air is sticky here, even more so than in Accra, but rather than dirt and pollution sticking to you it’s sand and salt from the cool ocean breeze.

Issac, our driver, picked us up at the hotel lobby (it’s called Coconut Grove Beach Resort, by the way). He’s a funny little man who spokes broken English but loves football. He wore a brightly colored traditional shirt with Adinkra stamps all over it—I wish I knew all the symbols. We drove through tiny villages, where young men stood in a line and pulled in unison to reel in their fishing nets. The older men and young children sat beneath shaded porches untangling the nets for another day’s use. Women carried water from the ocean to the village, trying to remain steady on the unstable sand.

After 45 minutes, we arrived at Kakum National Park. Immediately, the air feels more humid (was that even possible?). While waiting for our nature walk to start, we toured the museum and took pictures of a funny lizard with an orange head. Our tour guide led us through the dense jungle, up through twisted vines and slippery rocks. After another short wait, we finally arrived at the bridges. This bridge project is part of Ghana’s endeavors in ecotourism, and by the looks of the line they’ve done quite well for themselves.

The bridges hang hundreds of feet above ground, secured between two massive tress and surrounded on either side by rope netting. They look pretty steady, but as soon as I step my foot onto the first bridge my heart sinks. I’m not afraid of heights necessarily, but there is just something that feels out of place when you’re walking across a bridge swinging around in the top of the rainforest. It’s just not quite right. I bite the bullet, though, and as soon as both feet are on and about halfway across the bridge, I can’t get enough. Looking out over the rainforest is exactly how I pictured Africa. There are huge safari-like trees across the distance and lush branches of exotic looking flowers hang below us. There are seven bridges and I glided over each and every one. I’ll admit that the swaying was a little unsettling but it was almost too beautiful all around me to even notice. Almost.

After the nature walk, we once again boarded our bus and headed to Han’s Cottage Restaurant. We didn’t really know what to expect, but Leslie told us it would be “wild.” We sat at a table on the edge of a small, dirty pond. Looking around, we immediately spotted something with a spiked back swimming suspiciously across the water—a crocodile! We saw three or four during our lunch of plantains, rice, chicken, pasta and fish. One got so close that we could touch it, but I opted against that idea.

Back at the resort, I went for a swim in the ocean and found some beautiful shells. Like I said, the water here is so warm—in fact, it’s many times warmer than our shower at home in Accra. I washed the salt off my skin in the pool and immediately changed into longer pants. I ventured around back and found Paul, who saddled up a young mare named Lucky for me to ride. I’d talked with him earlier that day about riding on the beach, and had come back to take him up on the offer. The English saddle was old and cracked and far too small for me, but I made due. Lucky is a pony, technically, but Paul tells me that she used to race and is only six years old. Immediately, a small alarm went off in my head—I’ll have to be careful with this one! Paul leads me to the beach with his mangy dog Tigo following closely behind. Lucky pins her ears back as I take off on my long walk, but seems to warm up as I sing to her and stroke her neck. She’s a sweet horse until I ask her to canter. She immediately swishes her tail and puts her head down—I know what’s coming next. Sure enough, she explodes into a fit of bucking and crowhopping. I begin to wonder if Paul meant that she was a rodeo horse, not a racer. I managed to hang on until I can get her to stop and kick myself off her narrow back. At least I go to ride a horse on the beach, and in Africa at that! Two of my friends, Ryan and Mollie, get on Lucky after me. Ryan leads Mollie and vice versa—they’re a fairly serious couple, so they do things like that I guess. Anyway, sure enough Lucky has had enough of the riding thing and charges with Ryan (who has never ridden a horse before) on his back. He managed to hang on for a few strides, but eventually ended up with a mouth full of sand. All that resulted from his fall was a bruise and a few sore muscles—looks like Lucky was meant to stay on the track.

On our last night at the Coconut Grove, our friend Daniel (who accompanied us on the trip and who used to manage the resort) had a bonfire lit for us on the beach. It felt nice to smell a campfire as we sipped palm wine and listened to the sounds of the ocean. Morning came far too fast in our air conditioned rooms, but we eventually fell out of bed and toured another castle, this one built by the Portuguese and occupied eventually by the Dutch. Elmina Castle was very similar to the first castle, and you could almost feel the spirits of that place watching you from the dark corners. Needless to say, I was happy to leave. While I think it’s an important part of history, it’s almost unbearable in its gravity.

On the way out of town, we stopped at an NGO called “Global Mamas.” Its mission is to rehabilitate women who may be prostituting themselves or otherwise struggling by teaching them business skills. Among other things, this organization creates clothing, purses and household items to sell in its stores. It was inspiring to visit such a place where such great inspiration happens.

The weekend flew by, and everyone starts their internships tomorrow. I start mine on Wednesday, though, because our office is closed for Republic Day, similar to the 4th of July for the celebration of Ghanaian Independence. Wish me luck!

Nima and beyond

We haven’t had a bad day in Ghana. Not that I expected that we would, but I just didn’t know they days would be quite this good. After playing soccer with the children last night at the school, I knew I’d have to spend more time with them. That wish was granted bright and early this morning.

 

Foggy-eyed and tired, the thirteen of us boarded our big, white bus- a stark contrast from the rusty taxis that scattered around us on the red dirt road in front of our house. Our driver, Steven, wore a bright yellow shirt with DUCKS scrawled in green across the front. He doesn’t speak often, but the shimmer in his eyes is enough to show us his warm heart. We pulled onto the freeway, where hawkers at every stoplight greeted us. The hawkers here sell everything, from newspapers to plantain chips to plastic bags of drinking water. Women carefully balanced silver bowls of mangos on their heads, most with small babies swaddled in wax print fabric tightly to their back. Those obronis interning at newspapers eagerly snatched up copies of the various papers they’d be working at: The Daily Graphic, Accra Daily Mail, Crusading Guide. They shoved 20 pesuas into the pink fingers of the hawkers just as the light changed from red to green. We’re getting better at this!

 

After about 20 minutes, the bus pulled into the crowded streets of Nima. This impoverished area is the Muslim community we drove through on our tour of Accra. Women stack bags of rice on top of each other in order to conserve space, shouting out to our bus “Cheap rice!” as we crawl by.  The pollution was almost too much to bear, and most of us slid our windows shut to protect our lungs. Steven navigated the bus through the crowded streets, slipping between sidewalks packed with vendors. They wore colorful cloth, and the women all wore their hair wrapped in a tight piece of fabric. The Muslims here are mostly Suni, and there are mosques, small and large, on nearly every corner. Steven miraculously found a place to pull the bus over, between a MTN cell phone booth and a woman selling peanuts. We unloaded from the sticky bus, careful not to fall into the gutter of raw sewage that sat in front of us. We filed across a busy roadway, gaining plenty of attention from the locals. Not many tourists visit Nima, so children and adults alike are especially excited to see us. The children are anything but shy—they want to hold your hand, play with your hair, and in any way be close to you.

 

We meet with a many whose name I can’t quite understand through his thick accent. I do know, though, that he is the headmaster of the local school. He leads our group down a narrow corridor. We disappear behind the cluttered storefronts and find ourselves in a cluster of small homes, each with a front stoop and laundry hanging from the line. People of all ages greet us as we clamor by; babies look at us bewildered, toddlers and young children follow us, and adults nod their heads in a silent gesture of welcome. After our walk down the narrow dirt pathway, we arrive at the school. There is an open dirt lot that I imagine students play football in when they’re not busy learning English, French and traditional dance. Chickens peck the ground in their own sort of traditional dance, scurrying beneath the feet of passersby.

 

We enter the classroom, and immediately the students are abuzz with delight. The children are seated in desks against the far side of the room, their purple uniforms clean in comparison to the dusty floor. We are greeted like royalty and ushered to the front of the classroom where we sit two by two at small wooden desks. Behind us, backpacks are strewn across the floor, not unlike my own elementary school classroom. This one-room classroom houses students of all ages, but since many families have more than one child and cannot afford 12 years of schooling per child, most children only receive an elementary school education. These children are considered among the lucky ones: There are 60,000 children in Nima and only 25% attend school at all. School fees are $90 per year, yet most families make less than $400 per year making education a very important privilege.

 

After we’ve taken our seats, the children begin the presentation they’ve prepared for us. They dance the “Akwaaba” dance, welcoming us into their community. I couldn’t take the grin off my face as little boys paraded in front of me, barefoot and happy, swinging their heads around and around in tune to the jimbae.  Little girls swung their arms and swayed their hips as they joined the boys, and everyone in the classroom joined in on the song (one in Twi). They performed several other songs and a few poems. One young girl who wants to study in the US read a history of the school, which was founded by the father of the current headmaster. We presented the students with gifts from abroad, including pens, pencils, crayons, erasers, notebooks, and cash. After the presentation, Dennis the drummer played some traditional West African rhythms and we all danced. The children latched onto my white hands and spun me around the room, their natural rhythm putting my moves to shame. We moved the dance outside, where women fanning cooked chicken over open stoves joined in the festivities. When we left, one little girl in a pink dress followed us out. Her family couldn’t afford to send her to school, but she’d crept in to our party and shyly joined hands with the rest of us. She wouldn’t smile, except when we asked if she wanted to go to school. She eagerly nodded her head up and down, her twinkling eyes reflecting the bright sun. We requested that our funds be used for scholarships for children like her, and the headmaster (a friend of our program director) assured us that they would. Feeling pretty blessed, we boarded our white bus once again and headed south for the Abruri Gardens.

 

Abruri Gardens was amazing. It was filled with trees, plants and flowers that I’d never seen before. Purple violets dangled from vines all along the walkway, where we heard reggae floating softy from the marketplace. We saw the biggest spider I’ve ever seen inside a Ficka tree, and tried not to step on a line of soldier ants as they marched along their path to the queen. We smelled all spice, nutmeg and shea butter and munched on a twig from the cinnamon tree. After our tour, we dined at a restaurant overlooking the gardens and feasted on red red, joallaf rice, fried plantains and chicken.

 

No matter how hard I tried on that long bus ride to and from Abruri, though, I couldn’t seem to get those children out of my mind. They are so genuine, so trusting and independent despite what we may call “the circumstances.” But what are the circumstances, really? These children were born into a world we call “third world,” that we think of as dirty or uncivilized, and yet young girls and boys here are the hardest working people I’ve ever seen. They don’t hesitate to jump in and help their mother with a heavy load, and they learn the trades of their ancestors. They respect their elders in a way we haven’t seen in our society for a long time, and they treat each other with respect the way we should. I really think that we could learn a thing or two from this place we call “uncivilized” because they are, in fact, among the most civilized and compassionate people I’ve ever known.

 

After a long day of touring, the obronis of East Legon decided to venture into Accra for a night on the town. Four taxis and numerous cell phone calls later, we arrived as Osekan. Molly, Ryan Jessica and I were in the first cab to arrive in the vacant, dusty parking lot. A security guard greeted us and tried to usher us in to a large, white empty building posing as a bar. Instead, we headed toward the reggae music. Osekan is located on Osu Beach and sits almost on the ocean. We walked down a steep flight of stairs and landed on the ground of arguably the most beautiful bar I’ve ever been to. We sat at a black stone bar, and looking out the ocean is all you can see. There was a large rock slab in front of the bar and we all ventured down to feel the sprays of the warm Atlantic Ocean splash against us. That very ocean turned on us, though, and after we got a little too wet we decided to step back a bit. The night was sent listening to music, laughing with friends and listening to the sounds of waves beat against the coast of Africa. 

University of Ghana- East Legon

DAYS FIVE AND SIX

The rain here falls in huge, heavy drops, flooding the deep gutters and causing families to huddle beneath their tin roofs on the sides of dusty roads. It only rains in short bursts, though, which makes it bearable. And its warm. You can't not stand in it, for the drops trickle down your face and feel like a soothing shower rather than a rainstorm. 

Days five and six of my African adventure are dedicated to studying at the University of Ghana's East Legon campus, where we'll hear from four lecturers about different types of journalism and problems of journalism in Ghana. The walk from our house to campus is only about a mile, but a treacherous mile at that. The streets have no shoulder here, so myself and my band of twelve obronis ramble up the road at 8:30 am (why does it feel earlier here) alongside huge trucks and trotros that feel close enough to brush the edges of my sleeve. Tro tro drivers yell things out the window that we can't understand and make strange gestures with their hands. I'm beginning to learn that not all Ghanaians speak English, as our director had previously alluded, and if they do they don't always speak it willingly. Instead, they shout out at us Obronis in short bursts of Twi- or was it Ewe? We defy death by jaunting across the busy stretch of highway as soon as we see the white stucco-like arches leading into campus. Campus is huge- too big to even fathom- but luckily, the School of Communication Studies is very near the entrance. Palm trees, not pines like in Oregon, dot the campus as we stroll toward the school. We have "the air conditioned room" as everyone in the school calls it- lucky us, since it's almost unbearably humid after the torrential downpours of the night. 

On day five, we listened to lectures from the director and founder of Orakle Advertising. He was happy to answer questions about the strong use of faith-based advertisements and talked about the history of advertising in oral tradition. Women here stack peanuts meticulously atop giant, shiny silver platters and carry them delicately atop their sturdy heads- this, he said, was a classic form of advertising, or displaying products attractively. We also listened to a Doctor of Philosophy who talked with us about an overview of the media in Ghana. Being a relatively young country (independence was in 1957), Ghana has development in the media sphere greatly in the past few decades. While radio remains the largest and most popular medium (there are many illiterate people here), TV and Internet has also grown in popularity. On day six, we listened to a woman who was heavily involved in broadcast journalism. She was particularly interested in studying women's role in the media, which is what my internship will involve. Finally, we heard an astonishing investigative reporter who has won numerous reporting awards for his work. He told us stories about working undercover in a flour plant to break a story about the use of moldy flour (maggots and all) in Ghanaian merchandise. Though he wore a funny floral bucket hat, he was an astonishing speaker and a fantastic reporter. Reporting is not exactly what I want to do, but he made me want to go out there and "bust the bad guys."

During the evening on day five, we went to a bar across the street (the one with the 12 year old bartender, Michael). As it turns out, the bar is called Wazzu and it costs 60 cent for a shot of gin and a coke. While this is not my ideal drink, how can you beat that price?! Michael's father owns the bar, which is really a slab of cement with a broken, peeling white fence blocking the street. A dirt path leads to where I assume Michael and his family must live, and I often see a white and orange cat emerging from its depths. A few drinks after arriving, and the thirteen Obronis are throwing a dance party, our light hair, pale skin and undoubtedly bad dance moves attracting the giggles of barefoot women in the streets. Soon, we've attracted a crowd and have filled the small bar with laughter. The smell of kabobs pervades my nostrils as we dance away, and I wind up meeting some great people. They now know us by name, and even flag down taxis for us so we don't get the Obroni price (much to the dismay of our disgruntled drivers). 

The evening on day six was amazing. We finished school and had a bit of downtime at the house before lacing up our sneakers and pulling on our athletic shorts. Sheena, one of my roomates, grabbed her soccer ball and we paraded half-a-mile up the road to a dirt soccer field behind an elementary school. By the time we reached the peach and maroon school, we had a following of children hoping to play with the brand new ball. Their grubby fingers pointed up at us questioningly as they muttered in Twi. They turned their gaze to Sheena, who might as well be God in their eyes for she holds the great soccer ball.  We settle on the small field for our game, since a group of 30+ teenagers have laid their claim to the larger field. I sit beneath the shade of a cool, big tree as the children divide into teams. I pull out my camera, and immediately I'm surrounded. One little girl, Linda, wears a turquoise dress and has pretty gold studs in her black ears. Her head is shaved and those gold studs stand out like stars in a dark night. She is completely in awe of us, and when I ask if she wants her picture taken she immediately tucks her head to her chest and smiles, her liquid brown eyes like chocolate looking up at me. The game rages behind us- a close one from what I can tell- but I spend my time talking with the children. They want to know what church I'm from, how old I am, where I live. They ask if they can come over and play at my house, see my things from America. If there's one thing Ghanians are it's friendly, right down to their littlest children. Children tug at my arm, and when I show them their picture in my camera, the squeal with joy. Seeing the light in their eyes is like waking up to a beautiful, cloudless day- it just doesn't get any better than this. 

I bless the rains down in Africa...

DAY TWO
The air here is so sticky. It’s not so much that it’s hot, because it is, but it’s more that the air makes my dress cling to clammy skin like starfish to a rock. I woke up this morning, like I will every morning, and took a cold shower. Not only is it cold because it’s the only water we have but also because I can’t imagine anything hot after tossing in my sweaty sheets all night. It’s my second day in Ghana, and already I can’t imagine what it’ll be like to leave. I walked outside in the early morning air, jotted across the dusty red dirt road and waved etesein (what’s up) to children dressed in red and white school uniforms. They waved back, their pink palms facing me, and muttered something to each other in Twi. The little one laughed uncontrollably and I just smiled back. I’ve gotten used to having children poke my white skin, try to touch my yellow hair and most often, laugh at my attempt at their language. I bought a mango and two bananas from a woman with a basket on her head and a tiny baby in a wrap slung across her wide hips. The baby smacked his lips as I handed the young mother twenty pesua. I wished her a good day and waved as I jaunted across traffic, dodging a Mercedes that looked terribly out of place in Okbungalow. I ran past more small children and had an overwhelming desire to take each one home. None of my roommates were awake when I arrived back at our small mansion, so I enjoyed some time to myself on our front porch.

Later that day, my roommates and I met with our director, Leslie, and headed off to Tedakwashi craft market. The cab driver wanted to give us the obroni price, but we bargained with him like pros and got a price of two cedi and felt very proud. We loaded into the crumbling cab, its seat torn and brakes squealed. We arrived at the market after a short drive and a small stomach ache (drivers here are insane). Upon entering, we had Ghanaians grabbing our wrists, shaking our hands and leading us this way and that to look at their shops. Every shop had the same things—wood carvings, masks, kente cloth and drums. We walked throughout the sprawling market, mixtures of Twi and English buzzing in our ears. I took a dozen photos of men playing backgammon with a makeshift table, men carving wood and sweating in a chiseled out cave beneath the underpass and children carrying bananas and nuts on their head. In the end, I didn’t wind up buying anything.

We went to the Chez Afrique again for dinner since they had another live band. This time, though, we walked. We walked with goats, children and hens pecking alongside the road with their chicks scurrying about under her ruffled plumage. The Chez Afrique was fun—there were less people there than before, but the band was far more entertaining. I sampled some of the local faire (joalla rice) and prayed I wouldn’t get sick. We danced and sang all night to the sound of the band and buzzing of mosquitoes.

DAY THREE
We woke up late this morning, after a long night of dancing at the Chez Afrique. I finished Kite Runner in the hot African sun and cried—no one warned me how sad that book was! After another welcome cold shower, I left the secured, barbed wire fences of our abode and breathed in the hot, dusty air of Ghana. I walked across the street and bought eggs, sweet bread and minutes for our cell phone. The house seems to be working out well that way—we’ve all been sharing the phone and buying joint minutes. Thirty minutes goes fast between thirteen people, but it seems to be OK so far. I’ve been getting along well with the others in the house, though I’m thankful that I’ve lived in a house with forty other people before.

We waited around the house until 3:30, when our friend Sonny came over with a big surprise: he had tickets for all of us to watch the Black Stars play in the National Stadium in Accra! We donned our best green, black and red gear and took the trotro downtown to the stadium. Before I go any further, I have to explain the trotro. It’s the main system of transportation throughout Ghana and especially Accra. Ghanaians rip out the seat of huge vans and replace them with their own—15 seat buses become 20 seat buses. People pack into the privately-owned trotro and magically make those 20-seat buses hold 22, not counting a few children sitting on the laps of their tired mothers. The trotro ‘maid’ hangs his head out the window and uses hand gestures to indicate where the renegade van is headed next. The thirteen of us, plus Sonny, climbed over mothers and grandmothers and took our seats after paying the maid 30 pesua. Driving through Accra was like driving through a different world. Shacks and squatters lined every side of the road, interrupted only briefly by huge theatres and buildings built by the Chinese. People in green, yellow, red and black grew more and more thick in number as we approached the stadium. We jumped out of the trotro, paid our one cedi and braved the swelling crowd. Hawkers took up the sidewalk with their sprawling displays of Ghana flags, Black Stars jerseys and paraphernalia. I bought a flag for one cedi and scrambled to catch up with the rest of the group. They were surprisingly hard to find, since many tourists attend such a huge match. I don’t know much about soccer, or football, but this game was a World Cup Qualifier and one of the big matches in the Cup of African Nations. We showed our tickets to security guards in full riot gear, their helmets glistening in the hot sun. They nodded and waved us on, through the metal turnstiles and past the rabid fans playing trumpets at the entrance. Sonny lead us to the very front of the stadium—literally, we were so close we could practically hear the sweat dripping from the players’ bodies to the sharp blades of grass on the long, manicured field. We listened as people cheered hours before the game started and watched impromptu bands spring up throughout the gargantuan stadium. Throughout the game, we stood, sat, clapped and cried alongside Ghanaians as they celebrated each completed play, cursed each ‘bad’ call and applauded at the players’ efforts. We watched three fights break out—one right in front of us ended in a broken nose and a police escort. The most interesting thing, though, was how tame the people were when fights did break out. “Hey fool, sit yo’ self down,” men would shout as their children tugged at the back of their shirts. Eventually, those in the scuffle would sit, and people would pat them on the back to calm them down. Another interesting thing that Ghanaians do is applaud players despite the outcome. One fan favorite, Essien, missed a goal but as he waved to our side of the stadium, people clapped and said “Next time, brotha. Next time!” We would never see that at Autzen. At Autzen, for every bad play, thousands of swear words would fly around the stadium like the mosquitoes around my glaring computer screen. “Damnit, Roper, get some balls!” or “Hey, Brady! Get off the field!’ You know we do it. But not here. Here, soccer players are a god among men, their photos plastered on billboards around every corner.

During the match, men painted in the team’s colors wandered back and forth in front of the crowd. One held a rosary and prayed every few minutes. Another balanced a ceramic pot atop his head, painted in Black Stars’ colors, of course, and burned some sort of incense inside. It wasn’t clear what exactly was in the pot, but it was obvious that is served some sort of religious purpose. That’s how seriously football is here—people actually pray about it.

In the end, the prayers of Ghanaians everywhere were answered as the Black Stars claimed a 2-0 victory over another African nation whose current name I can’t quite remember. People cheered as loud as they could for the heroes of their nation as they paraded out of the stadium into the sticky, dark night. The scene around the stadium was comparable to that at Autzen, except with about one million more people. Green, yellow, red and black beads shot through the clear night like cannons, the color barely visible in the dim light from the streetlamps. We followed Sonny through the crowd, kazoos buzzing in our ears and Ghanaian flags obstructing our view. Children cried for their mothers in the chaos and families begged for change on every corner. We jetted across four lanes of heavy traffic to find a cab away from the stadium. As we filed through the city streets, all 13 of us fell silent, taking in our surroundings. Mothers and young children cooked raw meat on open grills on the sidewalk; young boys urinated around dark street corners; giant gaping holes where the sidewalk should have been made the walk impossible without a flashlight. At one street corner, I felt grubby little fingers like greasy sausages edge their way up my arm. Startled, I looked down to see a little girl, her swollen tummy protruding beneath a stained purple dress. She squealed and buried her head in my thigh—“Obruni!” she yelled with some Twi words thrown in after. I gave her 20 pesua (20 cents) and wished her a good night. All her little mouth could muster was “Obruni!” in a high-pitched squealing laughter as I walked away.

We finally caught a trotro back to our house, where George the security guard waited eagerly to greet us. We treated ourselves to Star and Club beer, nice and cool from a day of refrigeration. About the beer: Star is a very light, girly beer like New Castle or something similar. Club is slightly darker. People chose which “team” they’re on because, in true Ghanaian style, they make everything a game. I don’t care for beer, as you know, but for 1.20 cedi ($1.20) per GIANT bottle, I’m on team Star. Go Black Stars!

DAY FOUR
Today, I woke up to a broken fan. Let me tell you, a broken fan is not something you want to have in Ghana in the summertime. Broken fans mean heat, heat means sweat, and that means little to no sleep. I survived the night, though, and finally rolled out of bed at 6:00. Needless to say, it was still a few hours before the rest of my roommates woke up, since their fans seemed to be in perfect working order. I made some oatmeal, a perfect mean for rainy Eugene but not as satisfying in sultry Ghana. Leslie, our director, and Dr. Williams (“Doc”) came over to the house at 8:30 to talk to us about responsibility, internships and Ghanaian customs and traditions. Interestingly, I learned that you never shake someone’s hand or make any gestures with your left hand. If you do, you must apologize or it’s considered especially disrespectful. We heard a few horror stories about malaria and were reminded to take out malaria pills daily. I can’t believe it, but I still haven’t been bitten. Don’t worry—I still take the pills.

After our brief talk, Doc and Leslie loaded us onto a large, white bus for a tour of the city. I learned that we live about 10 miles north of Accra in a suburb called East Legon. It was a bizarre feeling to realize that the town I thought was Accra was actually not Accra at all. The hot plastic glued my thin dress to my legs and back as we chugged down the road. Our first stop was the University of Ghana, which is only about one mile from our house. Campus here is beautiful, but extraordinarily large. Giant termite nests sprawl across acres of campus, making the area a bad place to be when it rains. We drove over windy hills to the top of the campus, where the Chancellor lives and Malcolm X gave a speech. The area also has a beautiful view of greater Accra. I got a little pit in my stomach when I couldn’t see the end of it on any side. Oh no—I have to navigate that?!

After seeing the University, we toured through the heart of Accra. The poverty here is heart-wrenching. Tin shacks dot dusty roadways, children scurry through crowded paths as their mothers wash clothes and cut fresh mangoes with dirty knives. We passed through an assemblage of squatters, their living area barely larger than a US city block but enormously crowded. The whole place smelled like feces and stale urine and I tried not to breathe. The place was a total reality check- how can we in American live such posh lives when there's so much suffering? That's where the contradiction comes in, though. These people have nothing, yet women chatted and laughed, children shouted and smiled as our large bus chugged by. They're so happy with so little- why can't we all be more like that?

After touring through the area of squatters, where I also saw the ocean (littered with debris) for the first time on this continent, we continued through the huge city to a craft market. People here were very aggresive, pulling on my pale wrists to drag me into their shops. Again, every store had the same thing but I did wind up buying a wooden elephant statue for 50 cents from a man who knew every American state capital (even Missouri!). He said that he loved America, and every chance he got he bought a book about the country so he could study more. I gave him another 50 cents toward his education fund and he told me to say hello to Colin Powell for him. I guess he needs an updated book.

Afterward, we made our way through the narrow streets of a Muslim community in western Accra. It was so interesting to see Ghanaians covered in traditional Muslim robes and women with their hair and faces covered. Women and children sold grains in front of their crowded homes and small boys balanced huge baskets atop their head.

After our tour of the giant city, we went home for a quick nap. When we awoke, it was pouring rain. Naturally, we went to buy Club and Star beer at the bar across the street where Michael, our 12 year-old bartender, introduced us to some of his friends. We journeyed back across the street and danced to Toto's "Africa" ('I bless the rains down in Aaaafricaaaa') as warm drops of rain streamed down our faces.

Akwaaba to Ghana!

After ten hours of flight, I landed in Amsterdam yesterday (or something- three time zones in one day is a little confusing!). I walked off the plane and watched my friend pay 4 euro for a ten ounce cup of coffee. Oh, those Dutch! Anyway, the airport was clean and very easy to navigate. I was amazed at how American media has really infiltrated their media. I walked in to the terminal and saw Larry King on every TV! I hoped back on another plane two hours later and made friends with a Ghanaian named Felix. He was very kind and taught me a few words in the native language, Twi. I slept for most of the flight, but woke up in time to eat some interesting Dutch food (I flew KLM, the Dutch airline). We landed in Accra at dusk (helloooo, mosquitos!). Flying over the city was incredible. It was absolutely huge! Huge mansions interspersed with tiny shacks dotted the landscape and the ocean whipped across sandy beaches all along the exterior of the city. It was simply beautiful. My bags all made it, which was a huge relief. I would up traveling with three others from the program, and one guy's bags didn't make it. We spent another two hours in the airport filling out his paperwork and getting through customs. We were greeted outside by cheers- did these Ghanaians think we were celebrities? Little did we know, three giant plasma flatsceens sat behind us, showing the "African Cup of Nations" football (soccer) tournament. One little boy danced around my feet, thrusting his head around like a chicken chanting "Yeah, yeah, Ghana in yo' face!", only Ghana wasn't playing. These people have such national pride! We were accosted by men trying to carry our luggage, but luckily the director of the program was there to fend off their advances. After loading our enormous suitcases, we climbed into a huge Land Rover and rambled through the city. The streets were crowded with cars, motorcycles and people peddling fruit, t-rolls (toilet paper), giant floaties for the pool and anything else you could imagine. As our director said, you can do a lot of shopping right from your window on your way to work! We took a "shortcut" to our house that involved jumping over red-dirt hills in the huge gas guzzling SUV (gas is $5.50/gallon) and splashing through a large puddle created by the downpour a few hours before we arrived. We finally arrived in our neighborhood, and did we ever stick out like a sore thumb. Even in the dark, people waved and yelled, "Welcome Obroni (white person)!" Small shacks with broken tin roofs lined the red, dusty street. Advertising hung above each and every doorway: "Loving, Caring Ministry"; "God's Faith Hair Parlor"; "Faith in Him Grocer"--needless to say, this is a very Christian country. Our house is beautiful. We walked through a huge gate, where our two security guards welcomed us. I picked out a bedroom--I am rooming with Jessica and Molly, both girls in another sorority. We took a tour of our huge house, complete with five showers, three toilets, two sinks, a kitchen, numerous bedrooms and closets, a large kitchen and a nice dining room/sitting room. We also have a huge courtyard with pink blossoming flowers. After a quick shower and TONS of bug spray, we met up with the other six students who were already here at the Chez Afrique, a local restaurant and bar. There was a live band, and the whole place was completely packed. We ordered some of the local faire--I ordered redred and chicken, a mixture of beans and spices that was easily more spicey than my stomach needed after 17 hours of travel. After dinner, we danced like there was no tomorrow. After all that travel, I was exhausted but somehow, the music and energy gave me new life. We danced with a few Ghanaian women, who have more rhythm than anyone I've ever known. The band played Bob Marley but mostly jammed to local beats I'd never heard. It was so easy to dance there, and though we probably looked like fools we sweated and shook it on the dance floor for hours. Needless to say, we all crashed after arriving back at the house. We woke up this morning at about nine to a flawless day. Palm trees swayed outside my window as I took a freezing cold shower--honestly, I've never been more grateful for that cold water. After showering, we ate a little breakfast, coated ourselves in sunscreen and headed to town. Taxi drivers begged for our business, and we finally bartered with a plump, dark fellow for 2 cedi, or about $1.50. He drove us the few miles to town on red dirt roads, past small children in dirty clothes who waved to us and shouted "Obroni! Obroni!" as we chugged down the road. Women balanced fruit, water and laundry on their heads as they walked gracefully down the "sidewalk," which are really just dirt paths flanked by 3' deep cement gutters. And here I am, writing to you from the heart of Ghana, a cool breeze drifting in through the open doorway; men and women wear mostly western clothes, but some wear bright, brilliant wax-printed fabric. I can't believe that I'm actually here- how strange it was to wake up in Africa! We have the next few days to explore. Sunday, our friend "Sunny" is taking us to the soccer game to watch the Black Stars play in the Africa Cup on Nations. Go Black Stars! On Monday, we'll start classes at the University of Ghana, where we'll learn about the history of Ghanaian media and the people who support it. It's still hard to believe that I'm here, but I know that it'll sink in soon. Perhaps today, shopping at the local markets for fabric to have a local seamstress sew into a dress. Medasi, everyone, and all my Ghanaian love!

Contact Information

Hello everyone! I wanted to make sure you all had my contact information for Ghana. My email address overseas will be logan.juve@gmail.com. By phone, there are several options:

* Skype: My account name is lmjuve. I'm still not totally sure how this whole thing works but I'll try to figure that out.

* Cell: There are several different cell phones you can reach me at. My house will have at least one shared cell phone. The number is 011-233-24-5888871. The director of my program also has a cell phone. Her name is Leslie Steeves and her number is 011-233-24-6617216. Leslie's home number there is 011-233-21-517514.