Volta Region- Can I Stay Here Forever?

With our time in Ghana running out faster than the sands in an hourglass, the thirteen obronis, sans Leslie (our Ghana Mama who returned to Oregon on Monday) loaded not into the big blue Chinese bus but into the little white Korean bus with Steven, our driver. Virtually everything about this trip seemed different—no Leslie, which we counted as a huge loss; Steven was our driver instead of Isaac, who lost his wife and was holding her funeral over the weekend; we had a different bus that was known to break down. Nevertheless, we are an adaptable group and found ourselves curled into little balls in our own seats, snoozing before we even hit the open road.

For our last field trip of the trip, we headed for the Volta Region. No one knew much about the Volta Region, but as soon as we rolled over the big metal bridge stretching its long arms across Lake Volta, we knew it was beautiful. We stopped to do the tourist thing—snap photos of ourselves, the murky water below and people carrying things on theirs heads—only to be greeted by dozens of hawkers selling things we’d never seen before. Several balanced giant bowls of cooked shrimp on their heads, not even teetering when giant trucks rolled by. The shrimp were completely whole, and their beady black eyes reminded me of tiny black stones. Still more women strode by the bus, tapping their hands on the glass and pointing to dozens of bags of tiny cooked fish—they looked like the minnows that Kelsey and I used to lure into our old Coke cups on the shores of Wallowa Lake. I bought some delicious coconut biscuits from a young girl for 50 peesewah—quite a bargain and just enough to tide me over for the next hour to Chances hotel.

Chances, our home away from home in Ho Hoe, felt more like rehab than a hotel, as one obroni put it. The halls were wide and covered in white tile, and the whole place was almost too clean. We saw no one during our first two hours there, with the exception of the hotel staff who walked around like ghosts in pressed white linen and white hair nets. We actually saw the kitchen of the hotel restaurant—this is a rarity, since it seems that in most restaurants here, the food just appears from some unknown place. Sometimes, the service is so slow that we obronis joke the waiters and cooks must have to harvest the cassava and plantains themselves. This service was phenomenal, though, and soon we were sitting in an open-air porch, stuffing our hungry faces with fried plantains, rice, strange cuts of chicken, steamed vegetables, fresh mangos and mouth-watering pineapple. After gulping down water and juices, we jumped back on the Korean bus for a two-hour trek to Wli Waterfall, the tallest waterfall in West Africa.

The drive to the waterfall was indescribable. The lush rainforest spread out in front of us like a great green canvas. Giant trees reached their massive branches up toward the sun, seeming to smile as they soaked in the warm rays. Steven wound the big bus through the hard concrete turns and navigated over the red dirt roads. The bus would occasionally sputter, but our big breakdown came only a few kilometers from the waterfall. Steven tried desperately to urge the bus onward in first gear, but the approaching hill was too much for our not-so-gallant white stallion of a bus. It finally came to a pathetic lurching stop halfway up a small hill. Steven pulled the emergency brake, punched on the hazard lights and leapt off down the stairs to asses the problem. That problem was obvious once he opened hood—sure enough, smoke billowed out into the sticky Ghanaian air in giant balloons. Luckily (or maybe not), the bus had a tendency to break down more frequently than not and so Steven, a savvy mechanic, always kept plenty of water on hand. Only this time, plenty of water was not enough. He and Jessica took off up the road to find the nearest village where they could fill the used bottles.

I had consumed almost as much water as the bus on our short expedition and so was about to burst—the only problem was that there were no real bushes, only a few small ones and some tall grass before a sharp drop off that would have left me tumbling down the side of the road. Remembering days of camping in the woods with Mom, I found an adequate little bush close to the bus. On such a lonely road, I was pretty certain that no one would pass by, so soon my shorts were around my ankles. I thought I heard something whirring down the street, but chose to ignore it and instead searched for snakes that could, potentially, wrap themselves around my ankles in my vulnerable position. As it turns out, that whirring was the six wheels of three teenage boys’ bikes rolling down the road, and now they were upon me, laughing in glee at the sight of an obroni’s bare behind hanging out in the open. Had I been an obibini (black person), the boys wouldn’t have paid the slightest attention (remember, public urination is legal). But as luck would have it, these boys nearly wrecked their bikes while craning their necks to watch me struggle to button my shorts and run in shame back to the bus.

Jessica and Steven emerged over the top of the hill, with water and all the children in the entire village in tow. The children, Jessica said, were eager to help and wanted to know if they could do more. They grabbed our hands and looked up at us with liquid brown eyes that burned my heart like charcoal. If there’s one thing that will define my trip to Ghana, it’s the children. Their brown skin shines in the glistening Ghanaian sun and their eyes shine even brighter. They have nothing, typically, but would share everything they have to be your friend. They don’t fuss and don’t throw tantrums, but hold each other’s hands and call each other brotha and sista. Instead of running to tell an adult when something goes wrong, the children work it out amongst themselves, teaching them to fight their own battles. As we pulled away after finally getting our bus to roll on its groaning tires, the children from the village ran alongside us, waving their pink palms frantically as we sped away.

We arrived at the waterfall shortly thereafter and began the 45-minute hike. It was the most level hike I think I’ve ever been on, and also the most traveled. I edged my way past Ghanaians in dress shoes hiking up to a wedding at the falls and weaved my way through teenage Ghanaian couples holding each other around narrow waists. The hike reminded me of Costa Rica, or Grenada, in its lush landscape and trickling streams. The hike was dark, with giant leaves sheltering us from the beating sun and occasional raindrop. The falls were upon us before we knew it, threatening our very existence with fast, rushing water that fell like bowling balls. We changed behind a makeshift wall that might have also been a toilet into bikinis and shorts and clamored into the water, one after another. The water itself was like ice, but that wasn’t what took our breath away. Looking straight up at the enormous falls required us tipping our heads back so they formed a 90 degree angle with our backs—I felt like a bobble head in the front of some cowboy’s pick up as I tried to survey the whole site. Hundreds, or maybe thousands, of tiny bats turned the sky black as they fluttered off their perches, shaking their sleepy heads in a mad panic when a young Ghanaian blew a horn that sounded like a kazoo. Their screeches echoed across the big pool at the base of the falls as I tiptoed over jagged rocks into the frigid water. I linked arms with Katie and Jessica and held on tight as we turned our back to the falls to avoid being pelted by the whirling water. The wind whipped our hair hard across our faces, and before we even jumped in we were soaking wet. I was ready to head out of the water to the comfort of my dry towel, but Sonny had a different idea. He grabbed the three of us girls by dainty wrists and led us (backwards) toward the cascade of water—before I even knew were we were, I felt the slime and algae of the rock wall behind the falls. The water fell and caressed my shoulders like a rough masseuse. I opened my eyes, but only for a second—the fast, cold water soon rendered me blind. Right there, under the tallest waterfall in West Africa, I probably could have stayed forever. The water seemed so cleansing and though I couldn’t see what was above me or below me, I felt comfortable and safe.

We eventually made our way back out, past the wall of water and through the dense algae floor. The hike back wasn’t nearly as satisfying simply because I wasn’t ready to leave. The sun was starting to sink lower in the sky, and just over the mountain we could see Togo. We made our way back to the bus and luck for us, it started right up. We drove back to Chances through the pouring rain and lightening, the later lighting up the night sky like a cheap fireworks show. Rain slithered like lazy snakes down the windshield when the bus broke down a second time, conveniently outside a little store with a flickering light shining on biscuits and crackers for sale. While Steven fed the thirsty bus its share of water, we fed our own cravings with Malt ‘n’ Milk biscuits and cookies. The bus was more cooperative this time and we were back at Chances within an hour. Again, the staff ghosts at the Chances Restaurant met us after our long journey and served a delicious meal almost identical to lunch. After watching “rain bugs” that look like locusts dive-bomb from the ceiling to the floor and back up like crazy kamikazes that keep missing their targets, we retired early to watch BBC. Never have I been so interested in watching the news—I think that in the US, I take such things for granted. Whenever I want to know what’s going on in the world, I flip on CNN for ten minutes or pull up the headlines of the New York Time online. Here, such media is not readily available at the flip of a switch or click of a mouse. I could tell you about all the headlines in the local papers—“Wizard crash lands” to “72 students pass out”—but as far as international news, it’s safe to say I’m starved. We watched Barack Obama wave to crowds in Berlin and charm the Prime Minister in London before the sound quit working.

On Sunday, we rose before the sun to set off to the monkey sanctuary. The sanctuary was the brainchild of a group of Peace Corps volunteers who sought to solve two problems: protect the monkey, which was endangered and being hunted for game meat, and bring revenue to the village near where the monkeys lived. So the Peace Corps pooled their resources and turned a piece of land into the sanctuary, where hundreds of monkeys swing from branch to branch with their long, strong tail and grab bananas with their human-like hands. The rains have been heavy lately, and especially so in the Volta Region. We followed our guide, Foster, down a red mud road where the clay-like dirt stuck to the soles of our shoes like gum. We walked for less than ten minutes down the trail, called Cemetery Trail for unknown reasons, before Foster stopped our group and began making a loud kissing noise. We weren’t quite sure what type of call it was until we saw a monkey with long, spindly arms and an athletic tail that curved like a question mark hopping down the branches of a nearby tree. When I say nearby, I mean a few feet away. And when I say hopping, I mean galloping—I guess there really is something about bananas that drives monkeys crazy. We all whipped out our cameras as if this intrepid monkey was the only one we’d see, but before we could even dig the bananas our of our bags an entire troop had converged on us, their eyes wide with curiosity. Their white chests puffed up proudly as they sat perched on delicate limbs, holding on with little hands. One by one, they hopped from tree to tree, splashing raindrops on us as they went. Eventually, a few of them came close enough to eat bananas right out of our hand—we held the banana firmly with one hand and our cameras with the other, allowing the monkeys to peel away the yellow wrapper and break off big chunks of banana. They carried their treasure off into the branches that wove together like a complex basket, only to turn around a few moments later for more. There were large monkeys and baby monkeys all with the same goal: eat as many bananas as possible. They tried to eat so many, in fact, that the often looked like they were playing a game of “chubby bunny” (when kids stuff marshmallows in their cheeks and try to say “chubby bunny” as normally as possible). Banana oozed out the sides of their mouths but they still kept taking more—they must have been the best-fed animals in all of Ghana.

After our date with the monkeys, we boarded the ill-fated Korean bus once more, tracking in so much mud that our bus aisle now looked like a red mud path. We made it an hour down the road before Jessica asked Sonny to pull over the bus—she wasn’t feeling well. Sonny, our “leader” for the trip, led Jessica to the bathroom (another hole in the ground) while some of the others on the bus sprang for snail kebobs and grass cutter skewers. Grass cutter is a little animal that people hunt for bush meat—it reminds me of a nutria or muskrat. People actually eat the stuff. Once back on the bus, Jess popped a few Imodium (that stuff works miracles) and we were soon spinning our tires across the big bridge over Volta Lake once again. Less than an hour from Accra, we felt the bus starting to stall. Again, Steven tried every gear but to no avail—it was a goner. Our gallant white stead had quickly turned into a grey donkey, and this time it really wasn’t going anywhere. Steven tried hard to turn the engine over after dousing the engine with water, but the bus wouldn’t budge. We got out to push the thing, but still nothing. We slung our backpacks over our shoulders and waved goodbye to Steven, looking dejected and tired. Out of nowhere, a huge fancy bus had showed up near where we broke down and only two people were riding it. We took up all the seats, sprawled out with our things, and paid the driver to take us home to Okpungalow. Soon, iPods and great books drowned out the sound of the rubber meeting the asphalt and when I opened my eyes again, we were in front of the Accra Mall. A few twists and turns later, and we piled out of the mystery bus and into our home sweet home. The place was just as we left it, with only a small puddle in the middle of the kitchen from freezer runoff stemming from the five-hour weekend power outage. The thirteen obronis, with only one week left in Ghana, went their separate ways for the evening. This obroni watched a slideshow of photos from Ghana so far and wondered—why does time always have to fly by, especially when you’re having the time of your life?

Music and Dance

Here's proof of Mr. Obama's popularity in Ghana, and a little sample of Ghanaian song and dance:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L85YF0pyPH0&feature=related

Life without the spin cycle (and other observations)

As many of you know, I'm not exactly the most domestic girl on the block. I tend to shove my clothes into a giant heap and toss them all into the washer when the heap gets so large I can't shut my closet. That's right- I mix colors and whites (GASP). I've ruined a few shirts and maybe a pair of khakis this way, but as a college student on a budget, shelling out the extra $1.00 in quarters just isn't worth it. I also take full advantage of the dryer and often race downstairs to the Kappa Delta basement to pull the clothes out when they're still warm, burying my face in scents like "Mountain Spring Air" and "Fresh Rain." I didn't know how good I had it.

Here, the power flickers off if we turn on one too many fans, so a washer and dryer is out of the question. Laundry piles up at an alarming rate, since I change out of my sweat-drenched, dusty outfit and into a clean one at least once a day. This, of course, presents a problem. I tried giving my laundry to the security guard George once, a pleasant man with ears that stick out like an elephant who likes wearing shirts with rappers like 50 cent holding assault rifles. When he asked me to shell out 5 cedi for a measly load (P.Diddy pointing a smoking gun at me from his black t-shirt) I decided to try it myself. I strategically filled two seperate buckets, one for soaking and washing and the other for rinsing. As I scrubbed the sopping fabric together like I remembered Mom doing, I was immediately repulsed at the grime--was that really coming from something I wore? Are you sure? After just a few shirts, I thought I should probably start with some fresh water. Sure enough, soon after the water was again a cloudy brown. Oh well--the dirt has to go somewhere, right? To rinse my clothes, I tried to imitate the cycles I remembered from the rattly dryer in the basement. Rinse--okay, easy enough. I swirled my clothes around in the crystal clean water as little bugs hopped around at my feet. Spin--Oh, no. How was I supposed to do that? Well, the purpose of the spin cycle is probably to dry things out, I thought, so I wrung out my clothes, one by one, and swirled them over my head like a lunatic. That ought to dry them out pretty well, right? I hung each article on our sagging line after their spin cycle, letting them wave in the breeze like a colorful row of palm leaves. I was pretty proud of myself the next day when I retrieved my crusty garments. I buried my nose in their clean folds: Ahhh, a little something I like to call "Accra Morning Pollution." Maybe I can market it?

One thing about laundry: Mom, I will never again knock you for hanging our towels out on the line to dry in the fresh air. While it does make them hard and impossible to bend, there's something about the smell of fresh, air dryed laundry that will always remind me of you.

Laundry isn't the only thing that's utterly different here in Ghana. As the 13 obronis morph from mere visitors to actual residents of Okpunalow, we've learned a few things.

1. When it rains, it pours. No, I don't mean that in the figurative sense--it literally pours, monsoon style. Yesterday, I was sitting in the office of ABANTU by myself and thought something might be wrong with the fan based on a strange noise coming from the ceiling. I turned the knob to "off" only to realize that it wasn't the fan but rain coming down in buckets. Scratch that--BATHTUBS. Literally, this rain had ten times the pressure of our shower head and filled up the four-foot gutters so trash and other unpleasent things bobbed on the surface of the murky water like little sailboats. Today, the roads were muddy and covered in little swimming pools where potholes used to be. The road to work, which is usually pretty bad, was nothing more than a red mud path, interuppted by little lakes of water where malaria probably began.

2. Ghanaians use words we're not used to. Every day, I'm either called obroni, white lady, friend, beautiful seestah at least once, which I've become accustomed to. But in newspapers, I read a headline that said "13 army school students pass out." A tragedy, right? Were they poisoned? No, no conspiriacy here: they simply graduated. A few more: goundnut=peanut and elite=get off (like a tro tro).

3. Money here is a PAIN to deal with. The government redenomiated the cedi last year, so instead of paying 10,000 cedi for a loaf of bread, I now pay 1 cedi which is about a dollar. That's great, except no one here gives prices in the new currency. My trotro driver on the first day of work told me I owed him 4,000 cedi, and I felt like shouting, "WHAT KIND OF SUCKER DO YOU THINK I AM?!" until I realized that it was the old currency. This problem has also led to a serious shortage of change. I'm not sure if the banks don't produce enough coins and small bills or if people just don't carry any, hiding them away for some rainy day, but no one will ever give you change. The bank only disepenses tens, so I have to go to the mall or some other place where I know they'll have change before I can walk across the street and buy some eggs.

4. Speaking of the mall, it's INSANE. The new Accra Mall was opened the second week of our stay here and with its slick tile floors and air conditioning, it could be mistaken for any mall in America. There's a Mr. Price, which is like Forever 21, and designer stores that sell Gucci, Dolce, Guess and Luis Vuitton. There's a place called "Game" that reminds me of BiMart. They have a food court and rumor is, they're installing a movie theatre. If that's not globalization, I don't know what is.

5. Free range chicken will never mean the same to me after being here. Sure, I'll buy it back in the states but I'll do so knowing that 'free range' means running around in someone's back yard whereas here, all chickens are free to rome the streets, pecking at discarded corn cobs and other things that might not be so appetizing. Baby chickens often follow their mother, plopping down into gutters when they aren't full of rain water looking for treasure. I don't know how the process of determining chicken ownership (or that of goats and cows, for that matter, because they roam just as freely) works, but I imagine that people just might decide they're hungry and catch a chicken in the street. It'd be that easy. If you did, though, and it wasn't your chicken you'd be in serious trouble, because here, theft is a serious offense and I wouldn't put it past Ghanians to chop a robber's fingers off.

6. There are two beers that matter here: Star and Club. Early on, you must decide whether you're on team Star (owned by Guiness, who also sponsors the Black Stars) or on team Club (supposedly the only real Ghanaian brew). As most of you know, I don't particularly care for beer but most of the obronis here hopped on team Star. For those less than excited about beer, you can buy small packets of gin and brandy. The idea is to rip the corner off the packet with your teeth and drink the thing, though I suspect it's slightly more than a shot.

7. There will never be a better bartender than Michael, our 14-year-old main man from Wazzu who always pours a little more than we paid for and always charges a little less than what his father.

8. Children will never tire of having their picture taken, so long as they can see it on the display screen after you've taken it. They squeal in delight and dare each other to make funny faces for the next shot.

9. Driving here is like putting your life on the line. Every day, your fate lies with tro tro and taxi drivers as they dart and weave through any open space in the bumper-to-bumper traffic.

10. If you ever come to Africa, bring a lot of Immodium. I won't go into details, but I think you get the idea.

Stars of the Future

I can’t recall the first time I watched American Idol, but I can still remember the pangs of excitement that ran through my bones when I heard the tantalizing theme music. Would it be Justin or Kelly? Ruben or Clay? Munching on huge bowls of popcorn, I’d boo at Simon’s comments and applaud Paula’s light-hearted glee for every singer. Granted, I wasn’t the most rabid fan and never wore a t-shirt bearing my favorite star’s name. I always thought, though, how fun would it be to sit front row at a taping?

My rhetorical question was answered last Friday night. Molly, Krista, Sheena, Jessica, Katie and I all piled into a trotro and headed to the National Theatre in downtown Accra. We’d heard rumors that the live taping of “Stars of the Future” was free, and who were we to say no? After plenty of glances from Ghanaians (they often wonder why “rich” white people take the trotro), we ladies hopped off and scooted across four lanes of traffic to reach the National Theatre. We met Ryan outside, the sole male, and headed in. The Chinese built the theatre some years ago, and it looks like a giant spaceship hovering too close to the African soil. The shiny exterior and big cement stairs look harshly out of place, but Ghanaians flock to the center as their primary entertainment venue. There aren’t really any windows, which isn’t a total loss since there really isn’t much of a view in the heart of the polluted city. We arrived at the theatre about an hour early, and were greeted by hundreds of Ghanaians all seated quietly, as if watching an opera. Women lazily chatted in Twi while young men propped their chins on clenched fists. It wasn’t exactly the crazy frenzy I had hoped for, but I had faith that when the show got going, things would explode. And they did.

As soon as the music started to pulse through the packed theatre, men and women jumped out of their plush velvet seats (the place reminded me of the OK Theatre, for you Enterprise people). They applauded the host, a pleasantly plump young woman who held her too-big microphone too close to her pouty lips. A band stood in the left corner of the stage, with two back-up singers dressed in brilliant Kente cloth outfits. One man played assorted traditional drums and others jammed on guitars. Needless to say, their theme song was much more pleasing than the electronic rift that signals the beginning of “American Idol.” A projector shone on two different walls, showing the live TV broadcast complete with commercials during the break. On stage sat two yellow chairs, similar to the furniture the Jetsons might use to furnish their otherworldly home. The three judges sat in the front row. One woman was round and wore a brilliant scarf that curled on top of her head like a snake—Randy Jackson. Another thin, petite woman sat to her left, her flowery hair framing her face like the Mona Lisa—definitely our Paula. And to her left sat a chunky man wearing a too-tight shirt with small glasses—ladies and gentlemen, meet Simon.

We watched four men and three women perform, but they didn’t sing pop songs or Beatles covers or Elton John—instead, they belted out soulful tunes meant to rise above the rafters and drift right up to the heavens. That’s right—tonight was gospel night. These talented men and women had the whole building on their feet, swaying and clapping and shaking their wide hips as the music filled the place. Molly, Ryan and I jogged to the very front of the theater and danced right along with the Ghanaians—though we didn’t know the words, we felt right at home. Amida was our favorite, with her pixie-hair and bright dress. The girls all wore metallic heels—but when I say heels, I mean REAL, spiky, tall heels straight out of a high fashion magazine. Their outfits were all custom made from traditional fabrics for the show and they were absolutely beautiful. The men wore shiny black shoes with slacks, each donning a rather ridiculous, bright, floral shirt.

They all interacted well with crowd, but they way some put emotion into their songs was enough to move a person to tears (or at least to church that Sunday). People couldn’t contain themselves during the most rousing choruses and I saw a few eager young men jump on their chairs, holding up signs with bold marriage proposals scrawled on the front directed to the dashing young ladies. Sometimes, you couldn’t even hear the contestant over the roar of the crowd. It was really amazing that every person in that theater (except for us obronis) knew every word and every tune to each soulful song. At the end of each contestant’s performance, the host waddled back on stage and invited the singer to sit down in one of the Jetson chairs. She proceeded to ask him or her what the song meant, and why he or she had chosen to sing it. The answers were heart-felt, and the crowd erupted in applause after each and every one.

The night was over too soon, and we soon found ourselves lost in a sea of Ghanaian fans, toting their signs and white handkerchiefs (a sign of affection for the show). We hopped in a trotro to head to Osu, where we met up with the rest of the obronis for a night out. While Lil’ Wayne and other western beats pulsed through the speakers at the bar, I couldn’t help but think of the rousing renditions of gospel still ringing in my ears from the National Theater.

A little bit of spice...

Life in Accra seemed pretty dull after our great adventure to the north. After seeing elephants fighting, baboons howling and magnificent waterfalls roaring, the hustle and bustle of city life just couldn’t compare. We all went back to our internships on Tuesday—my research is coming along well and I think overall, the project will turn out great. I’ve become pretty close friends with the Canadian intern, Narges, and we often take the trotro home together. But even the best day at work couldn’t make up for the lack of excitement relative to our recent adventure, so a few of us decided that on Wednesday, we really needed to spice things up.

Molly, Ryan, Katie, Jessica and I piled into a cab, the four of us girls manipulating space in the back seat by sitting sideways with half of our rear dangling off the side of the seat. We paid our silent cab driver four cedi and he zipped down the narrow lanes of traffic to the Regency Coconut Grove Hotel. This hotel was the sister resort of the beach villa we stayed at in Cape Coast, so we had a feeling it might be nice. We were right. The building itself looked like a Tuscan villa, tall and inviting and encrusted in weathered red brick that gave it a certain charm. The pool was clean and inviting and palm trees waved back at us through the cool night breeze.

One of our roommates, Josh, has decided to stay in Ghana after the program and was hired by the manager of the Coconut Grove in Cape Coast to help set up a radio station. In talking with his new boss, Josh discovered the Wednesday night at the Coconut Grove was salsa night, which is precisely why we decided to go. Apparently, salsa has some roots in traditional West African beats and rhythms that made their way to South America. Now, that saucy, sexy style of dancing has reclaimed its popularity in Ghanaian youth and salsa night is one of the resort’s most popular activities.

Strolling through the big iron gates, we weren’t sure exactly what to expect and thought maybe, just maybe, it might be sort of lame—we couldn’t have been more wrong. Once we entered the main deck, hundreds of Ghanaians stood poolside, twisting and turning their bodies in tune with the music blaring from the speakers overhead. Men formed five or six neat lines and faced the ladies, who formed five or six neat lines of their own. Their hips swayed and heads bobbed and it seemed that everyone except us knew the next move in the elaborate, choreographed dance. We joined in anyway, always a step behind but laughing the whole way through. After just a few minutes, the DJ announced that the lessons were over but the music would keep bumping until 10:15. Instead of dismantling their lines completely, the men and women joined forces, swinging around to face the pool. A few of the really experienced dancers moved to the front of the group, moving their bodies in ways we white folks could never imitate. We danced a slightly modified version of the electric slide and grooved to unrecognizable tunes, too. Katie and I sprung for the four cedi vodka-pineapples since our parched throats simply begged for them. I felt like Baby in “Dirty Dancing” the way my awkward body tried to keep up with the fast steps of the Ghanaians, but I eventually got the hang of it…sort of.

Salsa night will be regular thing for our last three Wednesdays in Ghana because, though it doesn’t compare to elephant fights, it’s enough spice to keep our Accra experience from being too mild.

Great Northern Adventure, Part Two: Mole

If you know me well, which most of you do, you know that my favorite animal is and always has been an elephant. I’ve never been able to explain it—most people seem to opt for cats, dogs and other domestic animals while those more daring choose giraffes for their long-legged elegance or lions for their wild strength. Me, I set my sights on the elephant before I can remember. I had a whole collection, in fact—a tangle of porcelain legs and glass tusks danced across the shelves in my bedroom as a little girl. I guess my obsession with elephants stemmed from an obsession with Africa. I wanted to do everything I could to get close to the exotic continent, and collecting elephants seemed most appropriate since they were, after all, the most African animal I could imagine. With their huge ears and thundering footsteps, I’d often admired them in zoos but always dreamed of seeing one in real life.

As I tugged the thin sheet away from my sweaty body after a night of restless sleep in Kumasi, I knew that my dream might soon be realized. It was 6:00am, and the 13 obronis silently poured into the big blue bus, each finding his or her nest and immediately curling up and drifting back to sleep. My heart pounded loudly in my chest the whole way there—would we see one on the road? I decided I should probably keep my eyes glued to the blur of green scenery just in case. The city slowly faded behind us and the landscape opened up into savanna, with enormous trees interrupting sprawling grassy lands. Round, mud huts replaced tin shacks as we sped toward the north. Young girls and boys played in ditches and shouted out at us as we zoomed by. A few ran after us recklessly, like energetic cow dogs chasing spinning tires back home. We crossed over a narrow bridge and saw the fingers of Lake Volta sitting calmly below us, young children bathing at its shores. The water looked almost like milk chocolate it was so murky. After five hours of weaving our way through the landscape on red dirt roads, we arrived at Dumango Junction. The road to Mole is full of holes, bumps and dust so bad that the owner of the big blue bus requested that we not take it to Mole. Instead, Leslie hired another driver to pick us up at the junction where Isaac would wait with the bus until the following day.

Mr. Fatal was a squat man, his dark sunglasses covering his squinty eyes. He wore a khaki hat bearing a red, white and blue “USA” in enthusiastic letters on one side. He spoke with his hands, welcoming us to the north and helping load our backpacks onto the “bus.” This bus was slightly different than the huge, roomy blue bus we’d grown accustomed to. Mr. Fatal’s bus was really just a glorified suburban with one row of extra seats. Somehow, all 15 of us crammed into the squeaky van and Mr. Fatal slammed the door behind us. The driver hit the gas and the tires spun a cloud of dust, enshrouding the children who begged the “white lady, white man” for pens and biscuits. The bus hopped down the road while we weary travelers broke out in shaky renditions of “Lean on Me” and “Tiny Dancer” at the top of our lungs. There was little to no air in the dust-coated van, and we all tried to pull our shirts up over our noses every time another car would pass to avoid choking on the thick, red clouds that swirled through the cabin.

We had been driving for less than half an hour when the driver started to slow down. Mr. Fatal yelled something at him from the back seat where he sat perched next to Sonny. We didn’t understand what was happening, but when we saw the needle of the temperature gauge shaking its pointy finger well over the H, we knew we were in trouble. We eased the car to a stop and everyone piled out, half-thankful for a break from the dirty car. As we walked in semi-circles around the van pouring water on our faces in the scorching heat, the driver emerged from beneath the car with a wrinkle above his eyebrow. He explained in jumbled words that we were out of oil because there was a crack in the pipe. We didn’t have oil here, he said, so he would flag down a motorbike (much more popular in the north) and ride to the nearest town. In the meantime, we should stay put with the van.

13 obronis standing on the side of a deserted dirt road during the heat of the day is an unimaginably pitiful sight. We were covered with bullets of sweat made red by the dust and gulped down water by the bottle full. Luckily, this sight is also a rarity in northern Ghana so we drew quite a crowd. Children soon surrounded us, each in a baggy pair of underwear or wearing nothing at all. They all had different carvings on their bellies—suns and lines in different patterns, mostly. It’s common for northern people to cut slits in their children’s bellies and cheeks when they’re infants so they have some sort of identification when they get older—almost like a brand. One of the children in our entourage invited us to sit beneath their mango tree and before he could finish his sentence, we were halfway there. They carried out benches for us to rest on, balancing them carefully on top of their heads and then placing them strategically to avoid rocks. We eagerly sat down and waited for a call from Mr. Fatal.

Not many of the children spoke English. When I asked one little boy his name, all he could muster was “Thank you.” The fact that he only knew to say this one English word is so indicative to me of Ghanaian culture. They are so thankful, so kind and so helpful. The children who did know some English began drawing their names and some shapes in the dirt with a stick, and I decided to join in. The cool shade of the mango tree protected us from the sun as I dug out L-O-G-A-N. I asked the girls to show me their names and they easily carved M-O-N-I-C-A and M-A-T-I-L-D-A. They told me that their school was that way, and pointed long, bony fingers in the direction of Mole. They could read and write well, they said, but books were very expensive. Most of all, they wish they had a dictionary. Most of all, I wished I had brought one.

Two hours of hangman in the dirt, story time and peanut eating passed until Mr. Fatal finally arrived back at the mango tree, oil in tow. The motorbike he’d taken to town had broken down, too, so he’d had to wait for yet another motorbike to pick him up. The driver poured the liquid under the hood and as it glug-glug-glugged down the thirsty tubes, we said goodbye to the children. One of the youngest, a little boy in a red shirt with two kittens pressed onto it whose growth had been stunted by disease, started to climb into the van with us. Someone, his older brother maybe, plucked him up the way a cat picks up her young ones and waved goodbye.

With new oil and some A/C, we were happy to be on the road again. The bumps and potholes in the road didn’t even seem so bad as we cruised down the dusty road. We passed round mud huts, held upright by sticks that cracked down the middle like they held the weight of the world. We sped by the communal water pump, where women with bright scarves wrapped around their heads poked pointy chins over the stone wall to watch us pass. Their children or their children’s children ran bottomless through the dust, bare butts exposed beneath stretched out shirts too small for their protruding bellies.

We all clapped and cheered when we reached the sign that declared “MOLE NATIONAL PARK—YOU ARE WELCOME” in big yellow block letter. Red dust visibly rose from our shoulders as we patted each other on the back shouting, “We made it!” in dehydrated bursts. Almost immediately after entering the park, our driver slowed down. Everyone’s eyes darted to the temperature gauge but when I saw the needle hovering somewhere in the middle, I sighed, relieved. Instead of stopping to check the oil, he’d slowed down to shake his finger out the window, pointing at a bunch of bushes interrupted only briefly by tall trees that reminded me of the aspens at home on the farm. Suddenly, one of the bushes moved and an antelope with graceful, curved antlers sprung merrily away. This was only one of many sightings as the van crept down a narrow dirt road toward the Mole Hotel. We saw a tiny monkey, sitting in the middle of the road as if he owned it, gnawing on a piece of what looked like sugarcane. Someone shouted “PUMBA!” and we all swiveled our heads around, meeting the gaze of a large warthog crouched on its knees, rump high in the air, munching on shrubbery. It seemed uninterested in our tan van and went back to a much more productive activity: eating. We saw warthogs so frequently that they almost seemed like rodents, except much larger and more dangerous looking. Their tusks curved upward to the bright sun, and I decided quickly that I would make it a personal goal to avoid upsetting one of those things.

The Mole Hotel didn’t seem so bad. Guidebooks described it as “rugged” but by the looks of the swimming pool, it was like a little piece of heaven to 15 worn down travelers. As we unloaded people and packs, sweat dripped off our foreheads in buckets. The people in the back row emerged looking like swamp creatures—the back door didn’t shut all the way and since there were no windows in the back, the air from the front and the air from the back just sort of swirled around their heads and stuck to the sweat that formed across their faces an necks. They looked like they’d spent too much time in a tanning bed and had dyed their hair a brownish-orange color to match their skin. For the first time in my life, I was glad I got carsick and sat in the front.

We all jogged to our rooms, loaded down with bug spray and safari clothes in our bags, to change into swimsuits for the pool. The rooms were wide, with three neatly made beds lined up against one wall. We shared the bathroom with what seemed like an entire anthill, but so long as you picked up your feet while using the toilet they seemed pretty friendly. After depositing our belongings and stripping off our sweat-drenched, newly red clothes we cannonballed into the cool water of the pool. I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt like a completely new person so much as I did when my head pushed out of the water and I took a breath of the clean jungle air.

When we arrived, all we could think about was submerging ourselves in that cool clear water and hadn’t really taken the time to look around. Doing so while toweling off was enough to take my breath away (sorry to be so cliché, but it’s really true). The hotel sat up on a hill. Below us was a huge sprawling field of giant trees and bright green foliage. There was a watering hole, where we saw antelope, cob and other things that looked like deer drinking. About ten feet away from the pool, on the downward slope of the hill, was an enormous tree that looked like a wise old man, its wrinkles and lines snaking up into a thick patch of fat green leaves. Sitting at the tree’s base was a little monkey who seemed completely uninterested in all the people around. He hopped to and fro, his long tail following gracefully behind him as he foraged for food. There was a small deck that protruded over the hill, but only slightly, where we could watch for more animals—dots of warthogs, monkeys and antelope darted across the open field, but no elephants. Not yet, anyway.

We feasted poolside on another traditional Ghanaian meal—chicken and rice, chicken and chips, fish and rice, fish and chips. A few of us opted for more exotic meals, like snapper with the teeth and eyeballs still intact. The night was so clear it was almost surreal. Stars seemed to dance in the sky, happy to have escaped the congested city lights. A perfect half moon shone brightly and guided us back to our rooms at an early hour—we’d have to wake up before daylight to have breakfast before our safari. We fell asleep listening to warthogs rooting outside our windows and the occasional monkey calling out in the still, calm night.

5:30am came fast after a solid night of sleep, but I eagerly jumped out of bed, changing into long pants (for the first time in a month), a white top, and my best running shoes—you know, just in case. We all eagerly scared down fresh pineapple, mango juice, eggs and toast and made our way to the safari guide’s office. We were greeted by our guide who strolled across the path toward us in a forest green suit with a little green hat. Most importantly, though, he had an enormous gun strapped around his chest—I don’t know that it would have done much damage to a charging elephant, but it made me feel better knowing it was there. Four of the ladies in our group were ordered to change out of their sandals and into knee-high rubber boots—snake bites are common on these expeditions (we’d be on foot the whole time) and the guide didn’t want to risk it. With that, we trudged down a long dirt path and came upon a few little buildings where children played outside. Baboons strode with pride through the little community, pausing only briefly to tip back on their haunches and eat their latest finding. Their bright pink bottoms looked so out o place on their furry grey bodies and their fingers looked all too human-like. There were huge males and smaller, more delicate females, one of which had a baby clinging to her furry belly. There were a few other little monkeys too, like the tan monkey that made a big show of running across the road and leaping into a tree as if to prove its speed and agility. As we continued deeper into the forest, we saw warthogs rooting through the dirt with their big ugly snouts looking for something delectable. There were a few babies, who squealed and whined when their mother ignored them. One giant warthog was lying down in a mud bed it had dug for itself and the guide pointed out that he had two sets of tusks—there was one big set on top for stabbing and on little, razor sharp set just below that top set meant to rip and tear its food.
We continued on into the jungle, where beads of sweat started dripping like rain from our bodies—the humidity was much more intense once we were surrounded by dense foliage. We hadn’t been walking for more than 10 minutes when the guard ordered us to stop with a hand signal (we weren’t allowed to talk much). He pointed eagerly toward a clump of trees, but none of us could see anything. He whispered “Elephant” to the obronis in the front of the group and word spread down the line like in a game of telephone between 7th grade girls. My heart started pounding furiously and I inched my way closer to the guide, squinting my eyes to see the giant animal I thought must be in the distance. Then the bushes move and an entire tree popped out of the ground. I thought that it might be the crazy ‘security system’ from “Lost” ripping things out of the ground and I almost put those running shoes to use until I noticed that the tree was grasped around the middle by a large grey trunk. The elephant, in all its glory, was literally right in front of us. Its beady black eyes, too small for its enormous wrinkly head, seemed to look right at me and I froze in a moment of utter panic. Weren’t we too close? What if it got mad? I eyed the guide for some reassurance—he had a dumb grin on his face like a kid in a candy shop so I figured it was probably OK. It took me a few minutes to pull out my camera because I just had to sit there and take it all in. I was thisclose to a real, live, wild savanna elephant. IN AFRICA. It was almost too much to take in. The elephant devoured everything in sight, crushing trees and bushes and depositing them into its enormous mouth. This particular elephant was a male, with one ivory tusk snapped clean off as result of an intense battle. As I learned later, the female elephants hide deeper in the jungle with their babies. Since their gestation period is so long (22 months!) they don’t like to take any risks with their young ones. The males eat 800 pounds of food per day—casava, trees, grass, and anything else that grows in the forest. There are two kinds of elephants in Mole---the forest elephant (small and more brown-colored) and the savanna elephant (enormous and grayish-black). You can’t see the savannah elephant in zoos because it is too wild and impossible to tame—and I was standing mere feet away from it. I watched in awe as it continued to deposit trees and bushes into its mouth, its ears fluttering occasionally to swat away (or, more accurately, demolish) flies and other pests. I almost didn’t realize that the animal had started walking directly toward us until the guard grabbed my shoulder and ushered us all back in what seemed like a panicked voice. Perhaps we were too close, after all. Even from our new vantage point, we could see the elephant continue to eat—but wait, why were there two trunks? A second elephant had crept up behind the first, this one slightly larger with both enormous, shiny tusks in place. Though it was enormous, there was a certain gracefulness to how it moved through the jungle, placing one giant foot in front of the other and swinging its rat-like tail back and forth like a metronome. The two elephants didn’t seem to mind each other until suddenly, one butted heads with the other and they were fighting. They went back and forth for awhile, pushing each other through trees and crashing through bushes until they were out of sight and I could breathe again.

We walked back out of the forest, spotting weird trees, insects, flowers and lots of warthogs on the way. The whole time, though, I couldn’t get the images of the elephants out of my mind. Thinking about it now, the whole experience seems like a weird, vivid dream—one that keeps playing and replaying in the endless chambers of your mind. I couldn’t help but think about how incredibly lucky I’d been to witness something so powerful and so surreal—I really can’t even put the experience into words here, but I can say with a certainty from deep within my soul that it is something I will never, ever forget.

We thanked out tour guide with a hefty tip and piled back into the van. The northern roads are very dangerous if traveled at night, and armed robberies crop up in newspapers almost daily. Leslie was therefore adamant that we leave immediately after the tour. Smelling again like a bunch of young boys who haven’t yet discovered the miracle of deodorant, we chugged down the road with Mr. Fatal in the tan colored van. Mr. Fatal wasn’t the most pleasant man, and gave Leslie a hard time about everything involving money—he wanted her to pay for his room and board and Mole and argued about the price she should fork over for filling the van up with gas. Needless to say, we were relieved to jump out of the crowded van at Dumango Junction and climb back into our luxurious, roomy blue but with our trusty driver, Isaac (dressed today in a bright yellow shirt with “OREGON” scrawled in green across the front). After our heart-pounding adventure, we all curled up in little balls on the big blue bus, twisting and turning our bodies in an attempt at comfort and fell sound asleep.

A few hours later, Leslie shook us all awake—we were stopped at Ketempo Waterfall. We fell out of the van and trotted down 134 winding, narrow steps to the waterfall. It was absolutely beautiful with cool, clear water shooting over rocks and crashing into the swift river below. The mist from the falls felt so good on our sweaty skin as we took turns crossing over the rocks into the middle of the stream. The rocks had been made flat by years of beatings from the unforgiving waterfall and served as perfect stepping-stones. We stayed at the falls very briefly (remember—we had to get home before dark) and before I knew it, we were back on the bus headed to Kumasi.

Three hours later, we arrived back at the Royal Basin Hotel where Jessica and I ran and jumped into the cool water that filled the pool. Dinner that night was interrupted from time to time by brief power outages. The humm of the generator would kick on and the lights would flicker back on just in time for us to gulp down a few more bites before it failed again. The book club ladies—Jessica, Katie and I—went back to our room and read by flashlight until, as usual, we’d all fallen asleep with books open on our chests.

We woke up to another early morning breakfast at the Royal Basin on Monday, the cold orange juice and hot Spanish omelet a nice treat before heading back to plain oatmeal back in Accra. We loaded our things and thanked the staff once more before jumping onto the blue bus. We wound through the hills of Kumasi, the bus stalling and chugging up the steep parts and commanding traffic in the congested parts. We finally pulled into the bead village, Asofuo, where Leslie’s friend Joe greeted us. Before we got off the bus, Leslie warned us that they have a “fertility problem” in the village, meaning not that they have trouble getting pregnant here but instead, that the women can’t seem to not get pregnant. By the time we unloaded, children had swarmed our spectacle of a bus, each one eager to grab our hand and know our name. They were too cute for words in worn out shirts and bare feet, tugging at our shirts with dirty fingers. Joe led us to the bead factory and demonstrated, with the help of Sonny’s translations, how the men in the village melt down glass bottles to make beads. They use bright powders that reminded me of Dad’s glazes in the shop to create patterns and textures. They had clay beads, too, that they cooked in a big mud oven that the village has been using for over 200 years.

Joe led us to where the women in the village sell the beads, their merchandise spread out in front of them on big pieces of cloth. We walked around and looked at them all: big glass beads, small clay beads and everything in between. I wound up bartering for a few strands that shone brilliantly beneath the sun. We wound our way through the mud buildings and back to the bus, where we said goodbye to the children and climbed aboard. We slept most of the way home, but woke up just in time to watch the bright African sun sink below the horizon, signaling the end of yet another amazing adventure in Africa.

Great Northern Adventure, Part One: Kumasi

We’d been dreaming about the Great Northern Adventure since before the landing gear of our plane even skidded onto the hard pavement in Accra. The suspense was something similar to a child on Christmas Eve, his eyes wide awake until he’s sure he heard Santa’s sleigh bells on the rooftop. For the 13 obronis of Okbungalow, there were no sleigh bells on Thursday morning—instead, our alarms jolted us from our deep slumber before the sun had even risen. We shoveled oatmeal and eggs into our eager mouths and jumped aboard the big blue caterpillar bus. Leslie, our director, and Isaac, our driver, greeted us enthusiastically. Sonny, an employee of the Aya Center, was coming along, too, much to the delight of many girls who swoon over his good looks and charm. I made my nest in the seat behind Sonny, across from Katie, in the very front of the bus. With the combination of pollution, windy, narrow roads and no Dramamine, I figured it was probably the safest spot. I looked around me and realized that everything I had brought along had some special meaning: my backpack borrowed from Ellie, a bracelet from Megan, a purse from Eryn, a pillow made by Mom, a carved elephant from Will, a necklace from my sis and earrings from my dad—I really felt like you all were right there with me!

We zoomed through the University of Ghana campus and by the time we hit the open road, everyone on the bus was asleep. I took the down time to listen to music and snap a few photos of signs on the way out of town: “God Time Beauty Shop”, “Glory Be Cold Shop”. The traffic was terrible, with either construction or car accidents obstructing our journey almost constantly. While waiting in traffic lines, hawkers strolled by the bus casually, taking a little extra time than normal on our bus full of sleepy obronis. “Ettesein,” they’d shout, and then laugh hysterically when I replied with a shaky version of Twi. The women balanced huge loads of FanChoco and FanIce (ice cream in little packets that sell for about 30 cents) on their heads, all while hauling their sleeping babies on their backs. We stopped briefly at Linda Dor Rest Stop, shaking my peers from their restless slumber on the bumpy bus. The rest stop was nothing to speak of, though they did sell corn on the cob (which I have become quite fond of since that woman on the trotro practically shoved it down my throat). We clamored back on the bus for another three hours of iPods, Soduko and sleep.

We rolled into Kumasi approximately five hours after leaving Accra, which didn’t seem so bad once we saw the hotel pool. Kumasi is the “kingdom of gold,” the birthplace of Adinkra and Kente cloth and the second largest city in Ghana. I roomed with Jessica and Katie, the two girls with whom I’ve started a sort of impromptu “book club”—there’s a lot of time for reading here. Instead of lounging by the pool, we all piled back on the bus once again after checking into our modest rooms and headed into town. We stopped at Manyhia Place, a decadent yellow and red building with fancy blue and green peacocks strutting across the courtyard. The called to each other in screams that sounded like drowning cats—other than that, the place was nice. We had an interesting tour guide who showed us around the Asante King’s former palace—Kumasi is the center of the Asante region, and therefore the Asante King lives here. His primary duties are to deal with issues of the state, and he often confers with the President to make decisions about Ghana’s wellbeing. We peeked over the fence to see the King’s current palace, which was even more decadent than the first. Inside the palace are wax replicas of the Asante Kings and important women, including the Queen Mothers of the kingdom. The Asante are a matrilineal society, so the Queen mother is extremely powerful. In fact, the children of the king technically have nothing to do with the royal family. This might seem confusing, but it’s probably for the best considering that the king has eight wives. The Queen Mother is usually the sister, aunt, mother or other female relative of the king. We saw the former king’s swords (now used for ceremonial purposes), robes and even his collection of crystal shot glasses.

After our tour, we fended off some eager hawkers and climbed back aboard the big Chinese bus. Exhausted, we collapsed into a pile at the swimming pool, making a few lazy plops into the chilled water to wash the dust and sweat off our bodies. Dinner was, again, a buffet of traditional food: rice, chicken, fish, steamed vegetables, plantains and various delicious sauces. We were especially spoiled with desert—ice cream with fresh fruit salad. There’s no pineapple like Ghanaian pineapple, let me tell you.

After dinner, I took a warm shower. I can’t tell you what a life changing experience that was. After nearly a month with cold water that comes out in drips, a high-pressure, warm shower truly felt like a little slice of heaven right there at the Royal Basin Hotel. I must have stayed in there for awhile, because by the time I finally emerged it was pitch black outside and the mosquitoes made annoying sounds as they whipped around the light outside our window. I curled up on the rock that passed as a bed with You Shall Know Our Velocity!, a fantastic read if you’re looking. After about ten pages, I was snoring louder than all the buzzing mosquitoes in all of Kumasi put together.

We woke up early again to a feast of omelets, toast, orange juice and fruit before heading out on our big shopping adventure. I brought a lot of money, too much probably, and had every intention of spending it on fabric, beads and wood carvings. First, Isaac pulled the bus to a squeaky halt in the little village of Bonwire. Immediately, our outlandish blue bus was flanked by children with outstretched hands—it felt like an ambush. Where did they all come from? We snaked through the sea of children and toppled into a wooden building where a man wearing an Obama shirt taught us about Kente cloth. Asante warriors from years ago happened upon a spider and, after seeing its web, were amazed that such a tiny animal could produce such amazing things. They began to weave, like the spider, and soon perfected their art with brightly colored thread and intricate single, double and triple weave patterns. Only men weave, though, because women are traditionally meant to stay at home with the children. It’s thought that if a woman begins weaving, she will become infertile.

Our eyes were overwhelmed by vibrant colors bouncing across the room from strips of Kente hanging from the walls. I must have bought one in every color, including a large one for myself in brilliant green, red, yellow and black. They had silk kente, too, and it felt so good to run my fingers over the smooth, cold fabric. They tried to explain the symbolic meanings of each pattern, but for them it means something so different—it means something so much deeper than any of us who shell out a measly $5 for a strip of fabric that takes three days to create could ever understand. I left the Bonwire (pronounced bon-wah-ree) feeling humbled by the talent, perseverance and dedication of the men who toil and sweat to create such beautiful items, but was whipped back into the real world by children tugging my arms and begging for something to eat, pens, money, water, biscuits, anything. I climbed back on the bus and we chugged down the road to our next stop of the day.

Ntonso is a tiny little town on a dry dirt road. A few shady trees watch over children as they play, their wise old branches protecting their gleaming faces from the harsh, bright sun. We met up with “Adinkra Dave,” a friend of Leslie’s who gave us a tutorial on Adinkra stamping. The ink for stamping comes from a smelly process that involves stripping the bark from hard trees, soaking it, bleeding its juices, cooking those juices over open wood fires in huge barrels propped up by old, crusty engine blocks covered in ash the color of an elephant. Once the process is complete, Adinkra Dave leads us to a long red cloth where we each pick out a symbol—an Adinkra symbol—to stamp neatly onto the fabric. I chose the symbol for learning from your mistakes, a squiggly upside down heart shape with edges that curl around themselves like springs. Adinkra Dave dipped the carved cassava stamp into the boiling liquid, clicking it against the side of the pot to conserve any excess ink. I stamped down hard on the pretty red fabric and pulled directly up, just as Dave had instructed. Perfect.

We continued stamping and dipping, dipping and stamping until our cloth was all used up. While we waited for it to dry, we played with some of the school children who held our hands as we tried to ask their names. The hammed it up for pictures with us, their wide smiles filling their coal black faces like little light bulbs against a warm summer night. Once the cloth had dried, we once again climbed aboard the blue bus, now smelling slightly like a 7th grade boys’ locker room, and waved goodbye to the children as they danced and made faces at us from the red dirt path.

After Ntonso, the blue bus wound its way through Kumasi to Ahwiaa, a word carver’s market. Both sides of the road were dotted with intricately carved stools, masks, drums and enough knick-knacks to fill an entire airplane. Two of my friends bough enormous drums, their sides stained and carved with a true artist’s touch. I played with the carvings, turning them over in my hand, until the owners started hustling me to buy from them. I turned on my heels and move onto the next shop where the owner shouted, “Free looking for you, beautiful seestah!” as if I were the only one for whom looking was free. The carvings here are so amazing and delicate, each eye, nose and ear of the animal or person carefully thought out and beautifully executed. Ghanaians have a things for stools, stemming from the legend of the golden stool which exists somewhere secretive in a secret room where only people who are extra secretive can touch it, and even then only in the dark. The stool craze swept all aspects of Ghanaian life, and now beautifully carved wooden stools with etched animals, adinkra symbols and scenes interrupting polished wood lie in every respectable wood carver’s shop. My favorite is the unity stool, a tangle of three, five or seven little people whose arms and legs are all interwoven and carved from the same piece of wood. Their heads rest upright in a circle, designed to hold a piece of cut glass for a coffee table or a small bowl, depending on the size of the stool.
After a quick lunch, we again boarded the Chinese blue bus and chugged off to Kumasi Central Market. The market is run by women—all women—and is known for selling beautiful wax print fabrics with bright colors and vibrant patterns. Isaac dropped us off in front of a huge building painted green with little cans of dried tomatoes painted on the side and told us he’d be back in an hour. So we walked, dodged minor traffic accidents and darted between women with giant bowls on their heads carrying live chickens for sale. Their beaks wobbled back and forth with the stride of the gorgeous, curvaceous women carrying them to their deaths.

The market itself in one word was hectic. Dozens of people pushed and elbowed their way through tiny, crowded walkways big enough for one average sized person to walk down. Women balancing bowls on their heads and babies on their backs scowled at my as I tried to jump out of their way. Old women grabbed my arm and without saying a word pointed at their fabrics with tired old eyes that begged for business. Most of the women would only sell fabric in six-yard quantities. If you were lucky enough, some women might cut it down to three or four yards, but that meant you also had to be patient enough to wait while she slowly measured, cut and folded, all while trying to avoid being run over by passing foot traffic. Needless to say, I am patient when it comes to shopping and so wound up purchasing myself more fabric than I could ever use, especially since I don’t know how to sew—no time like the present, right Mom?

After breaking free from the chaos (sort of) and swearing we’d bought our last yard, Jessica, Katie and I stumbled upon a stand full of inexpensive, beautiful fabric. While Jessica and Katie bargained with the authoritative woman behind the table, I struck up conversation with a young girl, watching her fingers as she carefully folded and refolded the fabric. “Buy from me,” she said with shy eyes, and I explained in slow English that I didn’t have much money left. Instead of hassling me, she left me alone—a welcome change from the usual chaos of shopping in Ghana. Instead, she told me that this was her mother’s booth and she was learning how to buy and sell fabric at the market. She wanted to learn how to sew, like her mom, so she could be successful and attend a university someday. Just as Katie and Jessica were wrapping up their latest purchases (“Last one, I swear!”), I caved. I smiled at the young girl and asked her which was her favorite. She pointed a dainty finger toward an ivory piece with dashes of purple and gold strung throughout. I asked her for three yards. Her eyes lit up as the cut the fabric, ripping it carefully just like her mother. She folded it and placed it neatly inside a bag. With a smile that could light a city, she handed the back over and took my 3 cedis. I said, “Medahse” and turned to walk away, but not before I caught a glimpse of her flashing the 3 cedis to her mother proudly.

Again, we dodged traffic and narrowly escaped death crossing the road to the big green building. We weren’t exactly sure where to meet the bus, and it appeared that we were the first to arrive. We stood next to two pudgy women, their aprons stained with unrecognizable juices. One leaned over her makeshift bench to stir a bubbling pot of groundnut soup while the other counted the day’s earnings. They both laughed loudly, with cackles to match the hyenea. They introduced themselves, as did we, and began the typical line of questioning—how are you, who are you, where are you from, why are you here—as we fired back answers. They were kindly women, the type you’ve always wanted as an aunt or grandmother. One of their daughters, Matilda, walked up behind us and started chatting away as if we’d been best friends since the beginning of time. She was 17 and waiting for the results of her school tests—“Soooo nervous!”
She had piercing eyes like coal and clear skin. She was sweet, and asked for my number, proclaiming that she’d “take me as a friend” because I was nice. We chatted with the women awhile longer while waiting for Issac to roll around the bend with the big blue bus, fighting traffic and threatening pedestrians the whole way down the hill. Sheena, one of the obronis, got violently ill while shopping so we fed her water and Pepto-Bismol as the hot sun flashed in bright rays across the sprawling canvasses of the market. Finally, Isaac pulled up in the caterpillar bus and we headed back to the Royal Basin Hotel for an evening of Chinese food (delicious), pool lounging (fantastic) and a night of relaxation before our epic trek to Mole at 6am Saturday morning.

…TO BE CONTINUED….

The TroTro Saga

With their rattling seats, squeaking floors and peeling metal, it's hard not to love the trotro. The mates lean half their bodies out the window and shout "Accra Accra"(except it sounds like crawcraw, like a crow) while waving their hands around in patterns I still can't discern. I've learned that when they chant "dodododo" they're not doing some tribal call, but instead that particular trotro is headed to my house. How they get "dododo" from Legon/Medina, I have yet to figure out.

Sometimes, the people are nice. They ask me where I'm going and then pay careful attention to make sure the mate doesn't forget about me. Today, I caught one little boy seated on his mother's lap running his grubby fingers through my hair, yellow and damp-- I didn't mind. One robust woman seated next to me in a brilliant dress that reminded me of a peacock insisted (literally) that I try a piece of her corn on the cob. Normally, I would have said no, thanks and been on my way but never has my body craved vegetables like this, so I accepted. The corn was sweet and warm in my mouth, the little kernels breaking and leaking their juices down my dusty throat.

I have learned, though, in my three weeks here in Ghana that trotros aren't always the best means of transportation. First, they often leave me in their dust, literally, as I wait and wait for the right one to arrive. There are no real stops, persae, so I have to hope that one will stop at the part of the road I happen to be standing at. Every day, I say a little prayer that one of them won't run me over. Second, they often defy death by swerving all around through traffic, dodging hawkers selling toothbrushes, t-rolls and little packets of "fresh" water. Naturally, this makes me a little car sick and, when added to bumper-to-bumper traffic, exhaust fumes and little venhilation in swelting conditions, is enough to make anyone a little weak in the knees.

Some of the trotros idosyncricies are slightly more serious. Take, for example, the trials and tribulations of my last three days' commute to work. The trotro from home to Tetteh Quarshie Interchange is usually uneventful. The whole ride costs about 20 cents, maximum, and I usually ride with someone from my group. After 'eliting' at the Interchange, I join well-dresed Ghanaians as they clamor across four busy lanes of traffic, dodging Morrocan children who beg with wide eyes while pointing toward their dirty mouths. I walk less than half of a mile through street vendors and stop most every day to buy a mango from a woman whose name might be Janice. Men play ping pong on make shift tables and I breeze past them, waving as they shout "Heeeey obroni!" and wave with pink palms. I hop on the trotro in a large barren field, filled with chattering Ghanaians and trotro drivers soliciting their services. I have to ask "Coastal?" before climbing aboard, since I still can't quite understand the hand signals. I generally get a few stares and some words in Twi thrown at me, but people are friendly and amused that this obroni has decided to brave the trotro system.

Monday began my week of trotro hell. I climbed aboard a white Merceded bus (not as classy as it sounds) and took my seat in the back between a Ghanian body builder and a wrinkley old man. Just as we were approaching the third stop of the trip, the door fell off. Literally, the sliding door that the mate uses to let people on and off of the trotro came lose from its tracks and fell off. Half of the thing was still attached, so the mate held it up and we continued on our way with a wide-open, used-to-be sliding trotro door. No one blinked. Needless to say, my hair was less than neat after a twenty minute breezy ride.

On Tuesday, a young girl with a swollen belly flagged my trotro at a dusty intersection. She climbed aboard, but handed the mate something on her way in. The mate opened the trunk and placed a large, metal propane container behind the last seat, which also happened to be my seat. The can was full, from what I understood, so I was all the more nervous as I watched the hatch fly open and the tank bonce heavily into oncoming traffic. It rolled gracefully across Spintex Road and straight into a gutter of raw sewage. I felt relieved knowing that the potential hazard wasn't below my feet, but was aghast only moments later when the mate came barreling back across traffic with the stinky metal container reflecting the sun's light in his arms. I 'elited' at the next stop and walked the mile further to my job.

Today, Wednesday, I decided to give the trotro one last go. Third time's a charm, right? I caught a big orange bus to Tetteh Quarshie Interchange with my friend Molly and paid 10 cents less than normal- the day was already off to a great start! The Morrocan children weren't begging at the corner for once, so I didn't have to feel guilty for not reaching into my pockets searching for change. I boarded a trotro at the same old lot and we chugged away down Spintex Road. We couldn't have been driving for five minutes when the driver swerved sharply to the side of the road and slammed on the squeaky brakes. He started shouting something in Twi and before I could register what was happening, men and women were clawing my hair and back, grappling with anything obstructing the van's exit. "WHAT? WHAT?" I heard myself shouting, but as the smell of smoke entered my nostrils I knew exactly what. Sure enough, my trotro had actually caught fire. Smoke was billowing now out of the glovebox. While others argued with the mate for their coins back, I ran far away and hopped another trotro (crazy, I know) to coastal.

We're off to the North this weekend in search of elephants, baboons and lions. I have to say, after my trotro saga, I think a safari jeep will be a welcome vacation.

Happy Birthday America! (from Africa)

I spent the fourth of July in Ireland—instead of drinking Coors Light and saluting the American flag, I took a shot of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey and paid tribute to the orange, white and green. No, I didn’t opt out of my Africa adventure early. Instead, the 13 obronis ventured to Accra’s ex-patriot neighborhood, Osu, to celebrate the fourth of July.

I went to work at 9:00 on Friday morning as previously instructed, but I was alone until several hours later. That’s the other thing about Ghanaians—they really take their time. Instead of always being in a hurry to be on time as in America, they instead stop to visit with every random acquaintance they happen to pass by. This isn’t necessarily bad, but it is extremely different than anything I’m used to. Anyway, I passed the time reading the local newspaper with the headline “Rawlings blows Mills.” I’m not quite sure how they come up with these. After catching up on Ghanaian news, I was still waiting on the cold tile steps of the ABANTU house. I was suddenly roused, though, by the beats of drums and the steady chants of women and men leaking through the cracks of the fence surrounding me. Curious, I peeked through a small hole in the fence and saw a church service of some sort going on. Women wore brilliantly colored traditional dresses and men had cloth thrown over their bodies. Of course, the whole service was in Twi but I found myself humming along as if I knew just what they were saying. One man, who I assume was the preacher or leader, would yell something at the crowd, and they would shout “Amen!” Soon, I was saying amen right along with them. Why not?

The hot sun was beating its steady rays down on the dry earth in full force by the time Auntie Grace came. Auntie Rose followed shortly thereafter and I went over my research plan with her. She seemed impressed, and gave me the approval to move ahead. I stayed at work for a few hours reading musty back-editions of newspapers (all with ridiculous headlines). After awhile, I asked if I could leave an hour early to celebrate the holiday. Auntie Grace and Matilda (another intern) looked confused. They calmly explained, with thick accents, that the holiday was last Tuesday, referring of course to Republic Day. With a smile, I explained that it was America’s Independence Day today and the questions started rolling:
“Today?! What does that mean? Independence from whom? How old is America? What do you do to celebrate? What do you eat?”
I answered the questions as best I could, and when I was done I’d attracted something of a crowd for the small ABANTU office. At the end of my interrogation, Auntie Grace chimed in, “Well, what are you waiting for? Go home and celebrate!”

So I did. I loaded up my bags and hopped on the next trotro headed toward Okbungalow. Only it wasn’t headed to Okbungalow, but rather some different stop completely. I’m starting to get to know the streets well enough that I know when I’m headed in the wrong direction, and I definitely knew that this way was wrong. I jumped off the dilapidated bus at the next stop and tried to find another trotro going the right direction. After about 30 minutes in the hot sun, beads of sweat dripping from my brow, I gave in and flagged down a taxi. The driver was a small, bald man with a crusty gold necklace dangling from his long neck. After a typical bartering conversation that ultimately resulted in me probably paying too much, I collapsed into the cab’s deep plastic seats. The driver introduced himself as Kwame, a typical name for Ghanaians here and one I can almost pronounce properly. Kwame asked me every question known to man about America—I felt like I was on a game show climbing the ladder to the million dollar question. He had no idea where Oregon was, but as soon as I mentioned its close proximity to California, Kwame lit up: “Do you see movie stars? Do you live in mansion? Are there palm trees in your yard?” Kwame was especially interested in JFK International Airport (which I had to explain was on the other coast) because his cousin’s son had been there several years ago and said, “It’s like going to heaven.” Kwame wanted to know if everywhere in America was like going to heaven. How do you answer that? Somehow, we started talking about Ghana in comparison to the US—I think Kwame just about fainted when I told him I’d like to stay in Ghana. Why would I want to leave a place like the US that’s so much like heaven?

After a long, hot, sticky and amazing taxi ride with Kwame, I was greeted at home by the few lucky obronis who hadn’t gone to work today. Molly had gone to a school to talk to middle-school children about the United States. She, too, had some hard questions from a room of pre-teens. Some that she recalled included, “Who are your founding fathers? What’s better about the US than Ghana? What can you find in the US that’s not in Ghana? Why do you love America?” That last one was especially interesting—yes, we have a lot to be proud of as Americans, but what exactly is there to love? The mountains, the valleys, the lush forests and sprawling fields are nice…but we’re destroying them one by one with urban sprawl and natural resource abuses. The freedoms guaranteed by the Constitution are great…but people are repressed, paid to keep their mouths shut and violated by government actions like the Patriot Act every day. So what, exactly, do I love about America? I love that education is so widespread; I love that people can practice hundreds of different religions from all over the world without persecution; I love that we have laws to protect people and means to care for the mentally and physically ill. Oh, and a hamburger sounds pretty good right now, too.

We waited around the house all afternoon for everyone to arrive home from work. Soon, we all donned our best red, white and blue outfits and headed out for a night on the town. Molly and Krista had met some students from NYU at a fancy restaurant near their work the day before and made plans to celebrate the holiday with them.

In a group so large, transportation can be tricky. A select few of us have cell phones and so we are strategically placed in taxis with those cell phone-less obronis. None of us really knew where we were going, but we all had a landmark to find where we’d meet up and go from there. Unfortunately, the landmark was apparently different for the different taxis. Two taxis of Oregon obronis wound up at MetroTV; the other taxi found its way to the Walanga Hotel. Those of us stranded at MetroTV saw a flashing neon sign advertising the Monte Carlo restaurant and decided to wait for the others inside, out of the torrential downpour that had soaked us to the bone already. The Monte Carlo was perhaps the most surreal, ludicrous place I’ve been to yet in Africa. First of all, there was no one there. Bouncers stood at every imaginable doorway and greeted us eagerly as we slid like giant raindrops through the front door. The place was dimly lit, with a nice bar reminiscent of somewhere in Vegas. The doors were all padded, with crushed red velvet covering them tightly. There were private, cornered off lounges with leopard skin couches and blown up posters of Marilyn Monroe. Where am I?

Needless to say, we booked it out of the Monte Carlo, with its $10 cover and $9 gin and tonics. We started walking in the general direction of the Walanga Hotel where the other car full of people was supposedly waiting. After ten minutes walking down a dimly lit residential road, we opted to hail a taxi instead of go any further in what could have been the wrong direction. With help from our Ghanaian friend Kelly, we successfully hailed two cars and drove for less than a minute to the Walanga. Krista, an obroni from our group, met us there and walked us back to the NYU house. When we turned down the road to their house, though, the whole group, Oregon and NYU, were standing in the nicely paved street. Apparently, the plan had again changed and we were all headed to some bar in Osu. By this point, I was completely drenched from head to toe and feeling somewhat like a drowned rat. One of the NYU guys whose name I didn’t catch escorted Jessica and I back to their house to use the restroom. I wouldn’t even call this place a house—it was more like a mansion. Four different buildings all faced each other with a giant courtyard in the middle. The house itself was nicer than most in the US—again, where am I? The particular mansion we entered had a huge, spacious living room with a big TV and a fancy kitchen. The tiles were freshly swept and mopped, and I’m guessing the students there didn’t have much to do with that. There were no leaks in the ceiling, no giant cockroaches and no flickering lights like our place. Somehow, though, standing in the air-conditioned house with wireless internet and a washer/dryer combo, I wanted to go home. Okbungalow might not be the fanciest of places, but it really does feel like home.

After our brief visit to the NYU mansion, we jumped in a few taxis and headed to Ryan's Irish Pub. The rain had ceased and the air was hot and humid--believe it or not, I'm starting to get used to it. As soon as I opened the creaky taxi door, I knew we weren't in Ghana anymore. First of all, Obronis out populated Ghanaians--a clear indicator that we had definitely crossed some sort of line. Secondly, drinks were as expensive as they are in the US--what?! But we're in Africa?! We shoved our way up to the bar and ordered drinks all around nonetheless. Jameson's and Guinness flowed freely from the taps as the two groups (NYU, UO) separated like oil and water. The students from NYU have been here for a week--in their posh apartments, they have personal drivers so no one even knows what a trotro is and they've certainly never thought of going to a cheap Ghanaian bar where you can buy a coke for 35 cents. I'm sure they're all nice, but I'm definitely glad to be an west coast gal (thanks, mom!) Anyway, we Oregonians celebrated the fourth of July by starting our own dance party in the middle of the concrete floor, much to the enjoyment of our bartenders (some of the only Ghanaians in the place). We wound up staying out late and sleeping through most of the 5th of July.

Overall, it was a great 4th of July despite the trips to a wannabe Vegas club and Ireland. I have to admit, though, I did miss the fireworks, my friends and family, and good ol' American hot dogs! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMERICA!

Calling Africa

Hey everyone!

I just wanted to let you know that in order to call me in Africa, this is the number to dial:
011 233 247910164

Love you all!

Internship Update

Finally, I have a project at my internship.

Auntie Rose, the elusive boss who I hadn't met yet, called me into her office on Friday. She was dressed in a beautiful Kente cloth robe, and explained later that she'd be attending a wedding after work. Her dark skin was radiant- Ghanaians never age. She asked a bit about me, and what I was interested in. Before I knew it, her pen was flying across the paper, leaving illegible trails of blue words strung across their pristine white pages. Auntie Rose decided that, after hearing my interests, I'd be most useful in conducting a case study about the representations of women in the Ghanaian media. I set up an experiment of sorts and typed out a long description of my plan. I'll watch two TV stations, listen to two radio stations, and read five different newspapers daily in order to collect evidence related to my study. At the end of the study, I'll determine whether women are represented fairly and accurately given the political and social climate of Ghana. The study will be added to ABANTU's library and used for future advancement projects as needed. I think that I have a lot of work cut out for me, but the people at work are extremely supportive and the project seems to be very worthwhile. I look forward to sharing my findings!

Ghana Living

So, I realized that in trying to keep you all up to speed with everything I’ve been doing here, I’ve left out some interesting details of life in Ghana. You’ve already heard about Ghanaians’ love of Obama and you know all about trotros, but some of my most interesting interactions have involved everyday observations of people here.

The children are so free and independent—I touched on this briefly, but I’ve really noticed it more and more as time goes on here. It’s such a drastic contrast from the US where children are always watched over by their parents, even being dragged around on leashes in airports and other busy places. In Ghana, the older children (and by older I mean maybe 10 years old) care for the younger children. I see young girls with their baby brother, sister or cousin strapped to their back with a piece of cloth. Children run wild, often with no parents in site, but they always have someone looking out for them. I’m not sure if it’s just that parents are more trusting here, or if in a matriarchal society like the Akan women just look out for each other’s families but I know that it’s pretty touching to be surrounded by such independent, respectful children.

The women here hold hands with each other, reminding me of myself with Megan, Ellie and Eryn in our younger years (and sometimes still today). More uncommonly, though, men hold hand with each other, too. I’ve seen big, brawny police officers holding hands with their huge guns strapped across their bulging chests. Men dance together, too, allowing their bodies to move together with the beat of the drums. This cultural difference caught me off guard at first, but now it feels normal. Why shouldn’t men be affectionate with each other in the same way women friends are? The funny thing about showing affection in public, though, is that you never really see men and women holding hands or being affectionate in public—this is obviously a stark contrast from the US, but rather refreshing in a way, too.

One of the biggest things that I’ve had to adjust to here is the Ghanaian system of bartering. Dealers at craft markets, taxi cab drivers, street vendors: they all try to sell you their services at the obroni price, which is usually triple what the actual cost should be. A typical transaction is as follows:
Me: “How much for a cab ride to Tetteh Quashie?”
Driver: “5 Ghana Cedi.”
Me: “Oh, no, that’s ridiculous. It’s very close! I’ll pay 2 cedi.”
Driver: “Yes, but the traffic is very bad. The price is 4 cedi.”
Me: “No, for that price I’ll just walk.”
*Here, I turn and pretend to walk away from the cab. The driver makes a sort of whistling sound to draw my attention back to the cab and says…
Driver: “Make it 3 and we go.”
While this system has worked well for me, it’s very exhausting and I’m actually looking forward to coming back to the United States where everything has a price tag, no questions about it.

The food in Ghana has also been quite difficult to adjust to. I mean, it’s basically just rice and chicken, rice and fish, fish and chips or chicken and chips but there are some more adventurous dishes. Jolloaf rice is one of my personal favorites. It has little bits of onion cut up and mixed into the rice, which is covered and cooked in some sort of spicy red sauce. The also have red red, which is basically black eyes peas but really spicy and served in a red soup-like substance (hence the name red red). The chicken that is served with nearly every meal is cut in strange ways, the exact part of the chicken unrecognizable. Fish is served whole, with teeth and eyes still intact. The Ghanaians say that if you eat the squishy eyeball, you’ll gain some sort of a special wisdom. I have yet to test this theory. Banku and Fufu are the two most popular dished here. Banku is made with corn as a base, whereas Fufu uses Kasava for a base. The dough for each is mixed up in huge pots and allowed to ferment. Instead of cooking it like you would bread, the dough is served plain. You are supposed to tear pieces off of the doughy ball with your bare hands and dip them in soup or sauce. When they bring you either dish, they also bring you a huge bowl of clean water to wash your hands after each bite. Needless to say, it’s a messy meal. I think it tastes a bit like the sourdough bread dough that Mom used to let rise in the windowsill in the mornings before Christmas. Fried plantains are huge here, but you have to make sure you order them at the right restaurant because some places make them entirely too greasy. Of course, we’re very spoiled with fresh fruit including (but not limited to) mangoes, bananas, coconut, and the best pineapple I’ve ever tasted. Fresh eggs are sold in the streets by our house for just a few cents each—quite a steal if you ask me. Another delicious part about life in Ghana is Coca Cola. Now, if you know me well you know that I don’t really drink soda. But for some reason, the Coke here is so good—it comes in a glass bottle for 35 cents and nothing tastes better after a long day in the heat and dust.

Chickens, goats and small cows run freely through the streets here, almost as prevalent as the children that scurry about, their bellies bare as the run along the dusty paths to their homes. Chickens peck the ground furiously searching for their next meal, and goats stand triumphantly atop giant heaps of garbage like the kings and queens of their landfill. Cows adamantly insist that they should be sacred, as in India, as they sit lazily in open fields.

I could probably write forever about Ghana and all its little quirks, but I’ll save that for a book someday. For now, just know that if you ever do visit Ghana, you’ll never find a better meal than red red, chicken, and a nice, cool Coke from a bottle.

Thursday morning church service

That's right, I went to church this morning. I know, it's Thursday and church is usually on Sunday but this is Africa (or, as Leo would say, TIA). You have to be prepared for anything here, as I learned on my way to work this morning.

This was the very first time I've taken the trotro to work, and I felt a little ridiculuous all dressed up standing on my dirty, dusty road. I even straightened my hair, but realized that uselessness as soon as I stepped outside. I wound up taking a bus to Tetteh Kwashi Interchange, which was a dramatic improvement from the trotro yesterday. I paid my 10 pesuas (about 10 cents) and slid through the thick traffic to the other side of the road.

After a short walk, I found myself in a giant dirt lot filled with empty trotros, just like Auntie Rose from work said I would. I asked a young man with chocolate eyes which one stops at coastal, the stop in front of ABANTU. He smiled a toothy grin and asked why I was going to coastal. I explained in very slow English that I was an intern, and he took a step closer. Obviously, I was feeling a little uncomfortable at this point and just hoping that someone would show me the trotro to coastal. He leaned toward me and asked, rather bluntly, "Are you marriaged?" Ah, yes. The marriage proposal. They warned me that it would happen, but in a dusty trotro stop? I was expecting something a little more specific. I flashed him the fake band I'd strategically placed on my ring finger weeks earlier and he waved me on to a white trotro, its engine already running. I thanked him and climbed aboard the nicest trotro I've been on in Ghana, compared to the pile I rode yesterday.

It's kind of funny here to know that people are talking about you, but to have no idea what they're saying. In Mexico, I could at least pick up a word or two but here, it's totally a lost cause. I can only tell by their slight smiles and quick glances my way that they're probably making fun of me, but I feel quite proud of myself for braving the trotro when most obronis opt for the significantly more expensive taxi services.

Anyway, it is in this white trotro that my Thursday morning church service ensues. After paying my 30 pesuas, I feel a tap on my shoulder. A young woman with tiny twisty braids in her hair holds out her hand. I shake my head and insist that I've already paid. "No, we pray now," she explains in a smooth voice like butter. So I take her hand and turn around to face our preacher, a tall, skinny man with leathery skin and a scar on his cheeck, indicative of his northern heritage. He speaks of God's divine power in bringing us together, and asks for His assistance in whatever our days might bring us. At the risk of sounding cheesy, holding hands and praying in a trotro made me feel a bit warm and fuzzy. I feel grateful to be welcomed into their circle and say a resounding 'Amen' in unison when it's all said and done. The maid opens the door for me and I step out into the humid, hot air refreshed and ready for another day of work--wish me luck!

I say BARACK, you say OBAMA!

I thought that escaping to Ghana for a summer meant that I would also escape the politics of the upcoming election. I’d miss out on all the “OBAMA 08” stickers, hats and t-shirts and would undoubtedly never come across his name in a newspaper, television program or radio show. After all, this is Ghana and they have their own elections in December. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Around every street corner, there’s another hawker selling colorful OBAMA 08 bracelets in red, green and yellow. Ghanaian men wear hats with the Senator’s name and logo scrawled across the front. I can’t pick up a paper here without reading at least one story about him. And, of course, whose face do I see the one time I’ve turned on the television here? That’s right- Barack Obama. There are even songs about the guy, with catchy rasta rhythms accompanied by chants of “Barack Obama” so close together it sounds like the name of some country we’ve never heard of. And in a sense, Barack Obama is his own country here—one that represents the hope and peace of the African continent. Africa is no longer the stereotype we as westerners still see it as; there’s not always a need to duck and yell “Everybody down!” every time a car backfires (we actually did that). One man asked me if I could vote twice in America, just to make sure Barack secured the presidency. His question alone represents what Obama means to this entire continent—the chance that whites (and especially Americans, who Ghanaians seem to adore) could trust a black man to lead their country. Now, I know Obama is only half black but that’s a step, right? I think Ghanaians see it as a huge step—they all smile and ask us to vote for Barack when we say we’re from America.

Perhaps the most colorful display of Barack-o-mania I’ve seen thus far in Ghana was at Republiq Day 2008, a Ghanaian celebration similar to the 4th of July. The timing was perfect—Republiq Day fell on Tuesday, July 1st so we all had a long weekend and time to celebrate with the Ghanaians. Michelle, Jessica, Elon and I piled into a tiny taxi with torn, sticky seats and missing door panels. We paid the humble-looking driver 5 cedi and he sped down Medina road, somehow knowing each and every shortcut to avoid the holiday traffic. We arrived at Labadi Beach to find utter chaos—people were lined up to pay admission into the beach, men were peeing on the side of the road despite the stern verbal apprehensions from policemen, and cars piled up like dominoes outside the main beach gates. Litter flew through the air with the sea breeze, scattering like fall leaves across the busy highway. We were finally let through the gates—four Obronis in a sea of Ghanaians. We claimed our free drinks (a Coca Cola) and my three companions graciously accepted when a promoter handed us free (sealed) packets of gin. Using my better judgment, I opted for the boxed Sanrgia instead, its sweet nectar running ike honey down my dry throat. We met with a few friends from our neighborhood of Okbungalow—I guess we really stood out in a crowd of thousands of Ghanaians. One of these friends, Tiny (or Tony, we can’t really tell), is a nice guy and gets us a table under a thin metal roof just before the afternoon rains pour down onto the dry earth. It rained heavily for close to an hour, but with our Sangria we were feeling content. The rest of the group arrived a few hours later and we met up with Daniel, our friend from Coconut Grove. Pavi was there too, a sweet kid who makes Obama bracelets. We met him at the University on our first day out in Accra. Once the band sets up, we dance for awhile in a literal sea of Ghanaians. I’ve honestly never seen more people in the same place at once, save for Autzen when it’s not raining. The cowd went wild for an MC saying jokes we couldn’t understand, but we tried to blend in by going wild, too. After dancing and protecting our purses, six of us decided to go home. The beach was beautiful and had great music, though, and I probably could have stayed there forever and been OK.

Back at our humble Okbungalow (pronounced oh-pung-low) abode. Jessica, Ken and I decided to make dinner together. Much to our dismay, the light burnt out so we cooked by flashlight instead. Our meal of pasta and potatoes turned out well, but much to our dismay the light started working again just as we finished—go figure! Cooking by flashlight was an experience, though, but I have to say that I’m glad no cockroaches found their way in to our pesto sauce…

I woke up bright and early the next morning (Wednesday) for my very first day of work. My capris were pressed and dried and my shoes polished—I’d never looked so presentable at 6:30 in the morning! Leslie arrived by taxi to give me a ride to work since I hadn’t been yet. The other 12 students I’m here with started on Monday, but my employer gave her employees a four day weekend. I like this job already!

Along the way, we stopped at a “coffin shop.” People here are absolutely obsessed with funerals, but not in an unhealthy way by any means. They take out huge ads in the newspaper to invite the whole town; they dress in their best clothes, white for old people and black or red for young people. The clan of mourners walk through the streets together, singing and chanting traditional hymns in memory of the deceased. Sometimes, older men beat drums in tune to the wails and chants of the group. The deceased are buried in decodent, hand made coffins carved from the finest woods of Ghana. The coffins are meticulously carved and painted, though their shape varies. At this particular shop, there are papaya coffins, coffins in the shapes of guns, a cruise ship coffin decorated in green and yellow, a chicken shaped coffin, and a huge eagle coffin, its wings outstretched and its eyes fierce and yellow. I wonder silently what each of these coffins represent- if I were buried in a cruise ship, could I live my second life on the high seas? And if I were buried as a papaya, would I lie on a beach in the tropics eating papaya and mango all day?

After contemplating the afterlife, our cab driver wound down Spintex Road, the area I’d be frequenting daily on my way to work. Small shacks dotted the roadway, and the pollution clouded our otherwise healthy lungs. We finally reached a large white sign, where scrawled in red we saw: ABANTU FOR DEVELOPMENT with a giant arrow pointing down a dirt road. After turning, we were met with a swampy, muddy lake where the road should have been; the cab driver shut off the engine in a silent allusion to his unwillingness to drive his car through the mess. Leslie and I hiked our skirts up around our knees, took a deep breath and plunged into the swamp, trying to stay on higher grounds to avoid total submersion in the mucky mud. After navigating through the pond, we finally arrived at the Abantu House, a bright turquoise house with a red tin roof on a small plot of land. A roster crowed a loud welcome as we entered through the big wooden doors. Chickens scurried about in the yard, pecking furiously at the red dirt—I can’t imagine ever working at a place like this again, so I let all the sight soak in as we waited for Auntie Grace. Oh, that’s another thing I can only hope to encounter at my future places of employment: all of my coworkers are called “Auntie.” There’s something very comforting in going to work and greeting your coworkers as aunties—it makes me feel right at home.

The physical building of ABANTU isn’t much- there are a few very small offices, a microwave (hooray!), a nice bathroom with toilet paper (double and triple hooray!) and a large conference room. I work with three other interns here: Nargus is a Canadian working on her master’s degree in conflict resolution, Forzia is a Ghanaian-Canadian working on her master’s degree in political science, and Matilda is a soft-spoken Ghanaian studying social work at the University of Ghana. She has a million questions for me about America and desperately wants to know if I’ve met Barack Obama (again with the politics). I learned that Ghana just recently passed a Domestic Violent Act to protect women—Forzia is focusing her entire thesis on the implications of this Act and I hope to follow her a bit to find out more about it. All I know, really, is that the Act outlaws the marital rape clause in the original 1992 constitution, a clause that made it legal for men to rape their wives. According to Ghanaian culture, when a woman and man marry, despite the circumstances she must submit to him at all times (including the bedroom). No protections were allotted to young teenage brides who were forced to marry, nor to protect those women subjected to widow inheritance (a widow is ‘given’ to her brother-in-law after her husband’s death). The Act has caused great controversy, but its passing is a landmark for Ghanaian women. In fact, a domestic violence shelter just opened in Accra and I hope to visit it before my internship is over.

I read a lot of literature regarding the political climate in Ghana toward women. One of the main goals of ABANTU is to inspire women to run for government office—unfortunately, many women are intimidated by cultural norms, traditions, and men. Women often don’t even support each other for fear of repercussions at home. While there is no clear way to fix this problem, ABANTU is working to educate women about politics and the political process to make them more apt to run for office.

I wish I had more to report from my first day on the job, but I really didn’t do much but read. Once I get my feet on the ground, I think it’ll be a great and very worthwhile place to work.

The real adventure of the day came on the ride home. Forzia and Nargus were kind enough to show me which trotro stop to wait at, but I didn’t expect to have to figure out which trotro to take home. Somehow, I thought that perhaps the broken down, beat up buses would have a sign that said, “LOGAN, TAKE THIS ONE” or something equally as far-fetched. Sure enough, I wound up waiting around for about 20 minutes before one maid drove by, screaming out the window “OKBUNGALOW!OKBUNGALOW!” Now there’s one I recognize. I ran as fast as I could toward the green van and asked the maid breathlessly “Okbunglow Junction?” A faded sticker of Jesus looked down on me from the rearview mirror as the young boy with a white do rag scooted over in the hot leather seat, making a small place for me. “Thank you,” I said under my breath to the sticker as I climbed in, the only obroni in a hot van full of grim-faced Ghanaians. I learned quickly that they aren’t as friendly as usual after a long, hard day at work so I quit trying to talk to them and instead, focused on edging away from the sweaty boy on my right.

My clean, pressed and polished self from 6:30am had morphed into a tired, hungry, pathetic looking thing resembling a person by the time I got off that first trotro. I must have looked pretty green, too, from all the bumps and twists and turns because as soon as I got off, another obroni at the trotro stop asked, “Didn’t anyone tell you to bring Dramamine?” That first ride took about an hour—we narrowly passed under bridges, crept along red dirt roads and creaked over huge rocks lining our “shortcut” path. The second trotro, my so-called “connection,” was a welcome change from the first. The ride only took about five minutes and seats actually had some cushioning left on them. I arrived at Okbungalow Junction right at 5:00—that red dirt road and those dirty goats have never looked to beautiful to me.