On Route Part Two

So there must be some sort of elderly travel group on my plane. It's filled to the brim with old white folk. This is especially hysterical when it comes to the bathroom line and the laps they are all doing around the plane. I was waiting in line for the toilet while the old man behind me was doing what many of us have come to recognize as the "wee-wee dance." I kindly told him to please go before me. Then there are the old women who are walking laps around the plane. It reminds me of the old women in my high school who changed into their Rebok's to do laps around the school during their lunch break. I can't stop thinking about Ghanaian babies. Hearing them cry out whenever they see you, "HELO! HELO! HELO!" I want to make sure I write down all the nursery rhymes they sang at Street Girls. I'll miss all the music in Ghana. I can't stop listening to the few songs I was able to download while in Ghana, and I can't wait to go home and search until I have all the classics I love. It's so strange to think that I won't be able to just break out singing and dancing at any point anymore (at least without someone thinking I've lost it). Just yesterday I was in Kineshi, dancing in stalls, singing every song on the radio as Ghanaian women yelled in shock that I could move my butt AND knew lyrics to Ghanaian songs. (Please note: As I write this the ladies are doing another lap.)

On Route Part One

---I am sitting in the airport waiting for my 11:45 flight to JFK through Cairo. I am listening to "World Trade Center" by 4x4, lyrics: "Go go go, big booty girl...never underestimate my lover, she's got the world trade center, the twin towers to match her booty." It already smells, looks, and feels like America, although the plantain chips I just finished are offering some Ghanian comfort. Kokoto International Airport looks like any other- bright airport lights, recycled air, rolling wheels. Airports are like little pods, there's no sense of time, place, personality, everything is so stale. Yuck. On an equally yucky note, I am going to America. My emotions are.... Hmm... When learning about emigration in Pan-Africanism we learned about the "push-pull" theory. In order for a group to migrate there needs to be negative aspects of their current country that cause them to look elsewhere to live. Yet they'll never leave unless there is another location offered with factors that lure them into that country. I can't really use this theory myself, as whether or not I want to, I am migrating. But its what I base my emotions off of. Ghana's heat, hawking, repetitive chicken and rice dinners, and lack of structure are shoving me out the door. America's food, availability (of food, transportation, communication, anything), customer service, and my family and my girls are calling to me.
---But this doesn't take into account the rebuttal to the "push-pull" theory. Ghana's food, culture, people, environment, music, babies (oh the babies!!) are all screaming at me to get out of this terrible airport and back into their arms. Even the thought of America nauseates me with its lonely society, unappreciative people, and uninspiring atmosphere. I know I'll slip back into American culture easily, but I just don't want to. I love Ghanaian way of life, and its taught me so much. To slow down, to be patient and appreciative, to learn from and talk to everyone I can. I can't begin to try to explain everything I've learned here, and what I'll take back with me. All I can say is that when I am back on U.S. soil I am going to try my hardest to keep the change that Ghana has inspired in me.

My last Day in Ghana

I woke up and headed to Kineshi market, a three-story warehouse filled with everything and anything you could need. I walked around talking to everyone I could, singing and dancing in their stalls while I browsed the fabric selection. I played with a baby named Adom I've met a few times, an adorable two year old girl who loves to be held and play with your face. Her favorite being the, "I've-got-your-nose" game (my eye is currently suffering from a nice scratch straight across my lid cause we got a little too excited). I had a long talk with a man named Kofi who was trying to tell me what a pitiful country Ghana was, and how America is the only dignified country in the world. I was so sad to hear him talk like this, and as he tried to "explain" America to me, I tried to explain Ghana to him. "But this place is ugly! There is nothing pretty here, only smoke and garbage," he told me. "Have you been to Lake Volta? The mosques in the North? That's beauty. America also has trash, and garbage, and factories. I wish I could show you Newark." We parted ways agreeing to disagree. I spent the next few minutes saying goodbye to the city before heading on my last tro-tro ride back to my house. I ran some last minute errands, saying goodbye to friends, picking up dresses, throwing in my last load of laundry, before heading to the airport at 7:00.

Goodbye to Baby

I had my last day of volunteering on Friday. I spent the most time there that I ever had, and it was one of my favorite times. The kids were all there, and were somehow on their best behavior. The fights were few, no bleeding whatsoever, and only a couple full-day criers. I played with Baby (my favorite kid at Street Girls) for a lot of the day, and made sure to hold him as often as I could. I broke out my camera for a while, a dangerous move but I got some really great shots, and my camera made it out alive. At the end of the day me and Baby parted ways, me sitting on the stoop, while he walked away waving and saying, "Bye bye!!" I was a puddle. As I walked out of the courtyard I couldn't help but wonder what these kids lives would be like. Would they get an education? Would they remember me? Would they end up working the streets just like their mothers? Would they get into trouble? I couldn't stop thinking about their future. I don't think I'll ever stop imagining Baby and what'll happen to him. I am only happy that I can think of him, and look at my pictures, and remember all our smiles.

An Obruni at Home

Today I ran around running some errands and eating all the Ghanian food I knew I would miss (fried plantains, jollof rice). I brought an instrument around with me to keep me entertained on all my walking. They are two small balls connected by a rope, and inside are tiny seeds, so you can shake and spin them to make music. I walked past the school letting out and a boy called me over. He took my shakers (I never found out their true Ghanian name) and taught me tons of new moves and beats to create. I sat with him for a little as he tutored me and I fruitlessly tried to imitate his music making. It was something that is so commonplace in Ghana and something I've learned to appreciate so much. Everyone's willingness to stop and chat, and help, and teach each other. It really goes back to Ghana's value in community and family. Even though I was an obruni (foreigner) and am treated so differently than Ghanaians, I still feel part of a community in Ghana.

"They Try to Hard"

The other day I was discussing with my friend how we felt about going home. She said she wasn't coming back to Ghana, she had enjoyed her time, and would be willing to stay for another 2 weeks or so, but after that be done with Ghana. She said it was a country that tried too hard. I couldn't get this phrase out of my head. "They try too hard." It's true. Ghana tries desperately to Westernize itself, not realizing that modernization does not equal westernization. They still have a confused sense of themselves and their personality. They're still digging through their past and trying to separate what is colonial habit and what is African culture, and then what beliefs and practices should be kept and what should be abandoned. I agree that this is something Ghana needs to work on. They're still suffering under the colonial self-depricating idea that was forced upon them. Yet I think their effort is remarkably admirable. Despite their history they are continually trying to better themselves. They might not be going about it well, but they are going about it. They're being pro-active. And as my parents always told me, You always get an A for effort.

Just To Let You Know

Doing work here is impossible. I have 3 final papers to edit and finish, and I just can't seem to do it. I have today and Sunday to finish everything, and I just can't seem to find the care in the world to do it. Don't worry Mama, they'll get done, its just seemingly impossible. My roommate Ava also has finals to worry about. She just asked me for thread so she can braid shells into her hair to match the rastas of Ghana. My roommates Sophie and Sara also have finals to finish, they're at the market, and then they're getting lunch. And the entire house next door is outside tanning.
Today I went to Street Girls to Volunteer in the morning. Then I went to the market to get lunch (bean stew and rice, sooo delicious), showered and watched an episode of Law and Order SVU. Now I think I'll edit one paper, read Fear and Loathing, and then maybe go to the beach? Tomorrow I am hoping to head off to Winneba for an annual festival.
Finals? Nahhhhhhhh.

14 Days till Departure To Do List

---With only two weeks left and finals stressing everyone out we are all beginning to get homesick. Not homesick per-say, just longing for certain things at home. Everyone talks about what they'll do the moment they get home, the first food they'll eat, the first people they want to see. As soon as I don't have a twelve page paper hanging over my head I am sure I'll be more focused on my time left here. I still have plenty of activities planned, and last minute things to see, I just also have a conscious awareness of the amount of days till I get home.
---So today I went to make a list of things I am excited for in the United States. I started with concepts--efficiency (at restaurants, stores, general life), availability (of anything, but mostly food). I suddenly felt so... selfish? pretentious? ungrateful? I know that I am not these things, and that I appreciate everything about Ghanian culture and everything its taught me, but I felt so guilty wasting the little time I have left here. I immediately erased the list and thought instead about what cool adventures I'd go on this week. So here is that list instead:
-get dresses made
-go to the market
-go to Bojo beach in Kokrobide
-Volunteer at Street Girls Aid for a full day
-Visit Liberian refugee camp
-Learn how to cook bean stew, groundnut soup, jollof rice

Ghana, the One and Only

---Ghana is probably the most successful, developed country in West Africa. It's got a good economy, stable politics, and is developing well. But there is a lot under the surface.
---I've talked often about how Ghanians are the happiest people I've ever met or had interactions with. Still true. But there's more there. They seem to be proud of their country, always talking about how great their country is and how proud they are to be Ghanian. Yet upon a deeper look it's just not there. The grandfather of hiplife, Reggie Rockstone, came and talked to my class yesterday, and said his country was the most unconfident, and most shameful of themselves. Ghana is probably the only country where you can here a man say to someone else, "Look at your BLACK face!" in a offensive manner. Or talk about how people in Ghana have "backward Black man thinking." Colonization has taken the biggest tole here, and its evident everywhere. If you don't speak adequate English in Ghana you're seen as uneducated and backward. Yet English is not the native language, Twi, Ga, and Ewe are. My philosophy teacher often blames us for thinking that "development equals westernization." As guilty as I am of this at times, I think Ghana is the ultimate culprit. Clothes stores offer "British styles," posters show women with bleached skin and straight smooth hair, and hiphop is sang in English to Western beats. Colonization brain washed this country so much that they still are trying desperately to be as Western as possible. As Reggie said it, "Ghana needs therapy the most out of all the African countries."

The North

---NYU planned a trip to Tamale, and it was only because I trusted their planning skills that I let myself travel again (for fear of getting my life stolen). It turned out to be a wonderful decision because the trip was a true success.
---Tamale was a 12 hour bus ride, (nothing compared to my 24 hour Burkina Faso trips) so I got lots of reading done and luckily everyone stayed pretty quiet. The north is very different compared to the south. It's hotter, drier, has a large Muslim community, and is very rural. The people are the same, friendly, caring, always willing to talk (although sometimes in French due to the close border with Francophone Burkina Faso).
---The north brought me my first encounter with the Harmattan. I thought I had seen it in Accra, but I had no idea. It should have came earlier in the year, but global warming shocked Ghana and didn't deliver till April. The Harmattan is a season of the year that brings a remarkable amount of dust from the winds of the Sahara. In Accra this means everything is covered in a thin layer of red dust, but in the North this means whipping cyclones of dust soaring down the streets. The wind is so strong, whipping fine red dust all over you, causing you to shake off like a wet dog when you finally come inside. I had never seen anything like it, and I felt like at any moment the sky was going to open up and swallow me whole. But it didn't! : )
---Our itinerary included the usual market visits, touring of local mosques, and meeting of local officials. The mosques were beautiful, the markets were the same (except this one had shea butter) and the discussions with the officials were boring. However then we took a trip to see a local free clinic, headed by a man named Dr. Abdulae whose entire family (mother, father, and 8 siblings) had died of leprosy. He showed us around his clinic, introducing us to the lepers, mentally ill, and HIV positive patients he housed in his facility. One man had been cured of leprosy but you couldn't tell. He had no fingers, or toes, and he will strictly skin and bones. There are many people who are seen walking on their hands here, because of a disease that takes all the muscle out of their legs. They sit cross-legged with their legs folded perpendicular to their chest, and use their arms as legs. Unfortunately this man was too weak to do that, so he had a cushion strapped to his bottom so he could push himself around while remaining constantly seated on the ground. He pushed himself out of his room, a withering skeleton with the biggest smile I had ever seen. He was so happy to have visitors (his family abandoned him) and have a group of people to talk to. I stayed behind to chat a little with him, and he was so happy and so grateful to have had someone visit upon him that day, it had been his first visit that year.
---We also met a man who was paralyzed from the waist down. He was walking from the field to his village carrying something on his head, and he tripped and broke his spine. He was placed in a hospital that didn't take care of him, so he developed such a huge bed sore on his back that his bone was exposed. Dr. Abdulae took him into the clinic and placed him in a water bed so his sore could slowly heal, hopefully allowing him to be placed in a wheelchair someday. Until then the man was stuck in a tiny room, with no visitors (his family abandoned him), on a waterbed, unable to move, with a fully active mind. I couldn't handle being in his room for very long, because I couldn't handle how miserable his life had become.
---The trip to the clinic brought a lot into my mind. All of the patients had no family, almost all were abandoned by them when they were diagnosed with their illnesses. I wanted to sit and simply visit with them all day. Play games with them, read them a book, keep their minds active so that while they're bodies were failing on them, at least their minds and hearts wouldn't. I also became frustrated at the American health care. Many of the staff at the clinic were not medical students or doctors. They had been trained right there in the clinic and learned procedures and skills to help them succeed in the clinic. One woman was completely illiterate, couldn't even spell her name, but she was voted by every patient as the best nurse there, to which Dr. Abdulae agreed. All the people in the United States who want to help those in need but can't because they dont have the right letters after their name or the right piece of paper to show their status. It's such a waste!!

The End is Near!

---I want to explain a little bit about how I am feeling knowing that I only have 3 and a half weeks till I fly to the United States. I don't miss things, because I know they are at home waiting for me. Sushi, salad, peppers, berries, Julia's porch, basketball on my daddy's big tv, they're all going to be there when I come home--so I don't miss them. I just yearn for them. I am like a twelve year old shopping with my mother, I know my mom will buy me something by the time we're done, but I want it nooowwwww. But as much as I want these things I know I don't want to leave here. I want to go to New York for two weeks then come back here.
---All my close friends tell me I am the happiest I've ever been here. That comforts me, and confirms everything that I've felt so far while I've been here. But its a bit scary at the same time. What if I never find happiness like I do here? Could I really move my life away so far from my family and friends? There is a lot that I miss about home, but there is a lot more that I'll miss about here. The eager smiles of kids, the way women take you under their wing, the constant conversations on the street -- I don't know how I'll survive without all this in New York. Strangely enough I think of a place like the city and feel more comfortable with the idea of living there than I do on Long Island. Making friends with all the store owners on the street, passing the same people very day and sitting to chat for a minute before heading home-- that's what I want. Long Island filled with its avoiding eyes, passerby conversations and uninterested listeners scares the you know what out of me.

Preface:

---These next three posts detail my trip to Togo. The first tells the pre-text for the story, followed by the story itself, and then my insight on it. It's a lot, but it's something I think you'll want to read.

Our adventure begins...

---My trip traveling around the Kwahu Platteau was so wonderful that the next weekend I wanted to travel again. My friend Kaivon and I were the only two who wanted to travel because that weekend shared a big event--the funeral of our administrator's mother, also known as the last President's wife. (Yup, the director of my program's father was the last President. He was put out of office by a coup, touchy subject.) So me and Kaivon decided we would go to Togo, the country to the right of Ghana. We left Friday morning and made it to Togo where we checked into our hotel and checked out some of the markets before heading to bed. The next morning we took in the main city Lome, comparing how different the city was from Accra. Because of all of Togo's political troubles the city is in shambles, certainly not the place for tourists, but a place to experience none the less if your living next door. It helped to show me how far Ghana had come since its independence in 1957. All of Lome's buildings were decrepit, and there were few businesses that really looked like they were making any real income. The city told you the country was in trouble.
---Although the recent elections went relatively peaceful, weeks later I was still witness to lots of political rallys, protests, and marches in the street from the opposing party, unhappy at their newly elected president. The people on the street quickly told me to shout and jeer along in an effort not to get harassed by them. Standing in the market I watched as the parade passed by and everyone in the street quickly pulled out a yellow handkerchief, shirt, or anything, to wave in the air in fake support of the protest. I was honestly a little frightened until I realized that this is that rough, corrupt Africa experience everyone looks for. I was in it. If only I knew how far into it I would get.
---Within twenty-four hours of my arrival in Togo Kaivon and I had our passports, all our money, and both our phones stolen.
---Let me repeat. I got my passport, money, phone stolen.
---Again. I GOT MY PASSPORT STOLEN.
---One more time. I GOT MY PASSPORT....back!

The Story.

---We had been sitting on the beach eating lunch and playing with babies. Someone came up to sell us something to which we looked up and said, oh no thanks. Well while that someone was catching our attention, his friend was stealing our bag. We got a big search on the beach set up, which presented nothing. We found a wonderful security guard named Pastor, who vowed to find our bag. After much crying and pleading and crying and searching, we found the bag on Sunday. We weren't allowed to get the bag till Monday so we took the afternoon to be shown around the market by a new found friend Isa. We hadn't been in the market for more than ten minutes before Isa saw someone trying to pick-pocket us. (Funny, since we literally had nothing). Isa began a street brawl with the man and it turned out it was 4 men who were in on the steal, all of whom Isa tried to take on. Isa was loosing pretty bad, as he had been up all night looking for our bag, has a bum leg because of a moto accident, and was one against four. The street people told Kaivon and I to run as fast as we could in the other direction, which we did. We sat locked in our hotel for the night, eating avacado sandwiches and planning our escape from Togo the next morning.
---Monday morning we came into the police station to collect our bag and were presented with the responsibility of deciding the thief's punishment. We passed the jail cell on the way to the back office, at which point I saw the 4 men who had tried to rob me yesterday. (Isa's friend had called the police when he saw the brawl and the 4 men were arrested) When we reached the back room of the police station, Harmon, the 21 year old thief from Nigeria was presented to us, naked, having spent the last 2 nights in jail with no food, slightly beaten. Sitting on a couch with Harmon kneeling in front of me I begged the police officer to let me outside and have my "husband" deal with this matter. The whole weekend I was not allowed to handle any business because I was a woman, but now at the most heartbreaking moment I was told to stay exactly where I was and watch. The police captain noticed me squirming in my seat holding back tears, and told the officer to take Harmon back to the cell with the other men. After lots of discussion the punishment was decided. Harmon would spend the next five days in jail and his uncle (who was there to represent the boy) would pay us 20,000 CFA (About $50) for all our lost items. Kaivon and I booked it out of the police station and headed to the border.
---I skipped into the immigration office, happy as a clam that I was about ten steps from being home and out of this cursed country. "Miss your visa is expired. I cannot let you into Ghana. Please go to the Ghanian embassy in Lome and purchase a new visa." what. no wait. what? I tried explaining for about thirty minutes that my visa could not possibly be expired, breaking down and bawling to the head officer that he had to let me into the country. I was a student there! He screamed at me, telling me this was not his problem, it was mine, and to get the hell out of his office. I sat on the back of a moto hysterically crying all the way to the Ghanian embassy. I explained to a women there what had happened and she told me to go see her boss, the Secretary of Ghana. Oh. Ok then. The Secretary of Ghana explained to me that my visa lasted till 2014, so there was no way I shouldn't be allowed into the country, and to return to the border. When I explained what had happened to me there he gave me his card with his cell number on it, and said tell those ass holes to call me if they have a problem with your visa. Well that card made a good impression at the visa as I sat trying not to scream at the immigrant officials who had just sent me on a wild goose chase. The officer who had yelled at me previously was pissed he was wrong, and wasted the next hour of my life yelling at me and making me go through fake procedures. Finally I stomped over the border, cursing Togo and vowing never ever ever to return to the damned country.

"Forgive them Father, for they Know not what they do"

---While Kaivon took care of some paper work Monday morning I sat outside the police station, remaining calm. Sitting next to me were two women and their young babies. They began wimpering to me in French (the official language of Togo) and I apologized for only speaking English. They kindly switched to the little English they knew, and began begging me to let their husbands out of jail. They were two of the wives of the men who had robbed me yesterday. My heart broke. They explained to me that if they're husbands weren't let out they would have no way to feed their children and they would be forced to beg in the streets. It was heartbreaking. I felt responsible.  These women's husbands were in jail and they were crying to me, of all people, to let them out.  Like I wanted them in there, or put them in there.  If only they knew.  My heart went out to them, it was practically breaking out of my ribcage.  Those men were doing whatever they could to get money to support their family.  Screw support, to feed their families. How can I blame them?  How can I blame someone trying to mug me when I am a student at an American university studying in Africa just for a little adventure?  Jeeze. 
---Now let me explain the punishment we gave Harmon. The police firstly told us that he was lucky, because if the police had found him on their own he would've been sent to a war camp for five years since he was an illegal immigrant. Then they told us that if we didn't want to choose the punishment they would, which would be beating him till he learned a lesson. We realized that community service was not a realistic option, and neither one of us had the conscious to allow him to be beaten. The police then informed us that we had the option to send him to trial. Great I thought!  But then I thought it out.  A trial?  Yeah right.  He would never get that far.  Somebody would pay the cops off, and that would be the end of it.  Its too expensive to go to trial and too much work for the middleman.  Cops don't want people going to trial, its too much work for them, and they can just get paid off instead.  We had the boy sent to jail for 5 days, but Isa later told us that his uncle would pay off the cops enough to let him go probably in a day or two. Isa also informed us that we had to request money from the uncle. We explained that Harmon was responsible, not his family, so we didn't want him to pay. But Isa told us it would be rude, and not nearly enough punishment. So when the uncle offered 50,000 CFA we told him 20,000 was plenty, and that Harmon should be held responsible for paying his uncle back. As for the other four men in jail Isa just wanted them to pay him a small fee, and then they could return to their families.
---Do I think they "learned their lesson"?  Nope.  I don't think there was a lesson for them to learn.  They have to steal to feed their kids, so they do.  And who am I to stop them really.  What other option do they have?  The boy who stole from me turns out comes from a rich family, ironically.  Why he's not in school is clueless to me, because that's why he's out running in the streets like this.  He's 21, with no family of his own, no school, nothing.  What else does he have to do besides try to live the big life by stealing and getting big money and becoming some big gang guy.  And funny thing is its probably Western ideas that got that idea into his head into the first place.  It's a terrible circle I do believe.  So many of the ideas the West has forced on Africa has turned so sour over time.  One of the main things I've realized while I am here is that modernization does NOT mean westernization.  It's something I wish more people realized earlier, but it's history, what can you do but look forward.

Monday's Paragliding Adventure

---We were told that our time to paraglide was 10:00am on Monday morning. So we were on the top of the mountain at 8:00am. We knew it would be a mad house, filled with people who would be begging for a last minute ride, and we wanted to make sure we got ours. Around 8:45am people in charge started slowly showing up ontop of the mountain and everyone began hawking them for when they would be flying. We were polite, gave the people some time to sit down, and then reminded them that we should be flying first this morning, as we had already bought our tickets. "Ok, sit down." And then I watched as someone got dressed in the paragliding gear, and flew off the mountain. Oh helll no. Liz went up again and reminded them, listen, but really, we're going next. "Ok, sit down." I did a little snooping around and found the girl that we had bought our tickets from on Friday. I went and made some small chit chat with her, and she asked how my paragliding had gone this morning. I put on the saddest puppy dog face I could and said, "We still haven't flown. We're just sitting patiently waiting, hoping that they'll put us up sometime soon." Luckily I am cute as hell, and she brought me over to the woman in charge and said, this girl bought her ticket on FRIDAY, so she should be flying next. Put her on the list as next. Friday?!!! They all asked. Yup. Friday, I told them. I was told to go find a pilot and start getting dressed. WAHOOOOO!!!!!
---My pilot's name was Nick, and as he helped me put my harness on he asked where I was from. The good Ol US of A. Yeah Where? In the hot state of New York. Where? On the shitty bubble of Long Island. Oh really? He said, what side? North Shore I said. Oh, I live in Glen Cove he tells me. And my mom works at the high school at Port Washington. Can you believe it?!! My pilot for paragliding in Ghana, Africa was a man from my town, who's mom works with my mom at Schreiber. Small enough world for you?! It was wild.
---After our small freak out about living in the same town, he gave me a very short debriefing on how to paraglide. And then it was time.
Nick was strapped to my back and the parashoot lay on out on the ground behind us. He said, ready, set RUN! And I had to run as fast as I could, down a mountain, off a cliff. The parashoot lifted off the ground behind us and flew us shooting into the air right as my feet had no where else to run to. I sat in the harness, looking out over the land I had just spent the weekend running all over having adventures on. It was stunning. The view was something I hope I never forget--seeing the tiny towns below me, and behind me was this magnificent mountain, a vertical rain-forest leading up to the clouds. Nick is a professional paraglider, he takes pictures of his adventures and publishes them in magazines for his cash flow, so almost all his time is spent paragliding. So he knew a few tricks... He asked me if I liked heights, Well yeah I replied, I am kinda flying in the sky now so I hope so. So he took us super high, making everything look even tinier. He asked me if I liked roller coasters, to which I replied Hell Yes. So he took me on one. He told me to lean to the right and he pulled hard on the right wing of the parashoot, sending us in a straight down in a spinning shoot. If you can imagine: the shoot spinning perpendicular (instead of usually parallel) to the ground, with the two of us in the harness spinning around the shoot as it headed straight down. It was awesome!!!! We played around a little more in the sky and he told me how we would land. It was easy as pie, as I just stretched out my legs and ran as hard as I could again till the parashoot was laying out behind us again.
---It was extreme. It was gorgeous. Amazing, adrenaline rushing, fun, the best, all positive adjectives injected here. It also showed me I can do whatever I want in my life. Nick spent his first year after college in Wall Street. After that year he said no way, quit, and moved to the West. He fell in love with a girl who's parents owned a paragliding school so he said why not, I'll learn how to paraglide. And that's his career now. Flying to different countries and getting paid to paraglide, the one thing he loves most in life. As he unhooked me from the harness he told me, "It just goes to show, you don't have to follow the norm. You can make it doing whatever the f you want."

Easter Break

My easter break began like this:
Liz: So we're thinking we might, maybe, be able to get a tro-tro to the Kwahu plateau from Circle.
Liza: And we know paragliding is somewhere on the Kwahu plateau. As in one of the 10 towns that are there.
Neisha: Alright then. Off to Circle.

---As we wandered around Circle (Ghanian bus station) looking for a tro-tro (decrepit bus) we told a man we were looking for a way to get to Kwahu plateau. The words that finally caught his ear and got him to recognize the area we were headed to was when we said, "the really big Easter festival!" And he said, OH!!!! Kwahu!!! (This happens often in Ghana. I say a word and then ten minutes later after hand gestures and explanations, the Ghanian repeats the word to me in its correct form, having being unable to understand what I was saying as I butchered the pronunciation). About four hours later we made it to Atibi Kwahu, where the bus told us in unison, Obruni!!! Get off here!! Go paraglide!! Oh!! the three small white girls replied, as we hurriedly gathered our blue Jansport backpacks and jumped off the bus, waving goodbye to the bus of friends we had made.
---We took a 15 minute taxi ride up a mountain, the road crumbling beneath the tires and seeping in through the windows all over our clothes, hair, and skin. We walked around the top of the mountain, signing up for paragliding on Monday so we could avoid the long lines, waiting, and possibility of getting pushed back till the next day. We went back into town and made friends on the street, getting shown around town to a place to eat, a hair salon, and lots of bars pumping Ghainian jams. We took a cab to a tiny village called Buruku where we had heard about a giant rock pillar shrine the townspeople believed was the eye of God, watching and protecting them. We decided to bushwhack up the mountain that had no trails, was incredibly overgrown and dangerously steep (as we would come to learn). Two hours later we were at the top of the mountain, cut up, filthy, and completely satisfied. We fell down the mountain and on the process lost the phone that held our taxi driver's number. As we were far from town in a very remote village our only option was to start walking and hope a taxi or tro tro passed by. Well after being on the road for about 5 minutes a giant yam truck passed by.... Yup. Definitely hitch hiked back into town on a giant yam truck. Liz, Neisha, and I climbed in next to the four men and we all got to know each other for the next twenty minutes. The driver thought it was hysterical that he had picked up three American women off the side of the road, and couldn't help but call his brother in Virginia to tell him the comical tale, going so far as to make each one of us get on the phone and talk to the man. Writing about me and two other girls hitchhiking with four men sounds incredible dangerous in retrospect, but honestly I couldn't have been safer. I felt safe as could be, and the men were concerned for us, asking if we had any troubles, and if they needed to take care of any locals for us. They dropped us into a town called Tafo and we began our search for where we would stay for the night.
---The first thing we wanted to do was hydrate and shower. We went to a store to buy water and bumped into a fellow Obruni. She was volunteering in the town, teaching at a school and coaching a football team. She brought us to her hostel where she introduced us to a few other volunteers who we spent time with. One of the guys, Ross, found a room for us to stay in for the night, and made sure we were safe and sound before leaving us for the night. The next morning Ross took us to a local waterfall, a beautiful scene that pictures can't even give justice to. Our next adventure was crossing Lake Volta. We went to the major port and found a fishing boat to take us across the 30 minute journey for only 2 cedis. It was so wonderful to be on a boat again, and I had missed being close to the water. Yet another reminder that I need water need me in living my life. We drove to the next major city, Donkorkrom where we found a giant Easter parade and a long night of live music. We treated ourselves to a real hotel room at Genesis Hotel, an adorable tiny inn owned by a local family where rooms were a pricey 10 cedi a night. We met a fabulous man who spent the evening with us, discussing love, God, and Ghana. He was a very very interesting man, and definitely one of my favorite people I've met so far in Ghana.
---Sunday morning we began our trek back to Atibi Kwahu where we would paraglide first thing Monday morning. We found a set up of tents on the local high school and parked ourselves there for the night. It was a small field with lots of tents set up and couldn't have reminded me more of my family on Saranac Lake. We stole some of the high school's water and took quick bucket showers before heading out on the town to watch the nights festivities. I was so unprepared for the giant swarm of people that clogged the streets. Cars were packed on the road but completely unable to move for danger of knocking over a crowd of people. Food stands were everywhere, along with people, music, and cheap alcohol. We spent the night meeting people, telling men to leave us alone, and dancing with the nice people we found. By the end of the night I was having a fabulous time declining men, making up stories of my husband waiting for me at home, or just calling them out on their offensive hawking of foreign women. We went to sleep long before the party ended (which was somewhere around 5am), and had to sneak back into our tent field in order to avoid trailing home a line of eager prospective husbands.
....read next time to learn about Monday's paragliding adventure!!

My Second Attempt at a Homestay

---After my big day of construction we all walked back into the village to be paired with a local family for the night. I was introduced to Matilda and Francis, the siblings who would be my family for the next 24 hours. They explained to me that they were orphans, so they were all that they had, although they had a woman in the village who had taken them into her own family, and who they referred to as their mother. Francis was 25 and had a daughter, and Matilda had 2 girls, a 5 year old and a 7 month old named Gifty. I was never formally introduced to Francis' wife, and never asked where Matilda's husband was, weary of what the answer would be. Matilda lived in a compound and had one room to herself and her two children. The room was big enough to fit her single bed (where the 3 slept), and a single mattress on the floor for me, which left only a small walking space to the door. There were a few small piles of clothes on the floor and that was all.
---After showing me her home Matilda fetched me water and brought me to the local shower, three stone walls that went up to my mid-waist. I believe the village had a great time pretending not to watch me shower, laughing at my tiny curves in comparison to their beautifully full Ghanian bodies. After rinsing off I helped Francis and Matilda sift and roast garri, a local farm product resembling wheat. The siblings sell garri throughout the town to make money, as well as using it as their food source of every meal every day. That night the elders organized a big dance, where Francis and his friends sang and played drums for everyone to dance to as three rubber tires were burned as a sort of bonfire. Matilda was dancing the whole night, pulling my tired body into the middle of the circle at every chance she could. She was happy to see my try to copy her Ghanian dance moves, and I tried my hardest not to embarrass her in front of the other towns people. As my legs beg me to sit down I reminded myself that the more tired I was the easier I would sleep through the night, so I danced and danced and danced till the elders told us it was time to go home. When we arrived back at the compound Francis asked if I would sit outside and talk with him for a while, he had some questions about the United States. He asked about money, how much it cost me to come here, how much it cost me to live in the US, how much schooling was. He told me about his trials and fails at getting a visa to go to the US, where he wanted to raise his daughter. He begged me to talk to my father about the wonderful farm Francis worked on, and how they would grow anything my father wanted in order to make enough money to go to the US. I gave Francis an empty promise of talking with my father and went to sleep with a heavy heart.
---That morning I woke up early with Matilda to do chores. I helped her sweep and wash laundry, and I asked her to teach me how to carry a baby on my back like all the Ghanian women do. Well I got my wish, and the rest of the day I had Gifty wrapped up on my back as I went about my chores and walks around town. When I left that afternoon Matilda and Francis gave me their address and phone numbers, reminding me of the promise I had made them about talking to my father. I took lots of pictures of them and their family, promising to send the developed photos before I returned to the US in May. As I got on the bus I was sad to leave, but so happy I had the time there I did, being placed with such a kind and interesting family that I will never forget.

Bailey the Builder

---Saturday we left our dorms early in the morning to make the drive to a rural village in the Volta region. We got there and were introduced to the whole village through a series of songs and dances. They invited us up to dance with them yet no one volunteered, so they grabbed my arm and dragged me into the middle of the circle, motioning for me to do the moves they were doing. I did something that resembled the running man, and tried to imitate the fishy face the man who pulled me up was doing. I got a good laugh from the crowd and a big round of applause. After the dancing we were each given a bracelet, a simple piece of rope with a bead attached. It was such a simple thing but as the women tied it onto our wrists they told us that this simple piece of string was a symbol of our lasting inclusion into the community. It was a really a remarkable moment. I can honestly say that I felt like the community really was making me one of their own for the day. Everyone was so friendly, and so happy to be able to talk to me and get to know me. It was the closest thing I've felt to being part of a family since I've been here, and it was a feeling I miss very much.
---The construction was really fun. I made sure I did every single step so I could say from start to finish I had made a concrete floor. I went to the stream about a 1.5 mile walk from the town, filled my metal bucket and carried it back to the site on my head just like a Ghanian woman!! It was the hardest physical labor I did all day. It was so heavy on my head, and I felt like my neck and shoulders would crumble from right underneath me. My head wobbled like a bobble head doll--as the water moved around in the bucket my head wanted to do the same thing, following the weight that was pushing down on it. As I walked through the village everyone in town pointed and laughed, my shirt soaked in stream water and sweat, my mouth trying not to burst out laughing which would only cause more water to splash out of my bucket and onto myself.
---After finally reaching the site I poured the bucket of water into a larger container and volunteered to wheelbarrow sand to where we would be mixing the concrete. Then I shoveled rocks onto the sand and lastly added water, mixing the whole concoction with a shovel till it became something similar to concrete. I carried the concrete into the school and poured it out onto the floor, spreading it flat with a flat piece of wood. After 6 hours of this we had poured and smoothed the concrete for two floors in the school and I was ready for a shower and a good nights sleep. Little did I know I had a lot more adventure in store for me at my second attempt at a homestay.

Alright, Spring Break, Here We Go

---We took what was supposed to be a 12:30pm bus, but which actually was a 6:30pm departure. We drove directly north from Accra to Bolgatanga for 14 hours. Driving through the north was one of my favorite parts of the trip, so different from anything I had seen on my travels thus far. Mud huts, animals, tiny communities smooshed together hundreds of miles away from actual towns. It was remarkable. That part of the trip reminded me a lot of Steve, and I wished he had been able to stay for longer so I could've taken him there.
---We made it over the border so easily, a quick pay of about 20 USD for a visa, a walk through a gate and poof--we were in Burkina Faso. We made it to Camp Nazinga about two hours later, after traveling on an incredibly bumping dirt road. The camp was about 15 bungalows, 1 dining hall, 1 reception building, and 1 watering hole filled with elephants. We had breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the dining hall every day, rotating between the little food they had: spaghetti, rice, cous cous, stew, and chicken. As they were 2 hours from a village it was very difficult for them to get food, they needed food that they could buy in bulk, and would stay fresh for a long time. The chickens ran around the camp, and when you ordered chicken they picked one up, killed it, plucked it, grilled it, and served it. It was the most delicious chicken I had ever had in my entire life, and I don't think I'll ever eat chicken as good. Over the 5 days we relaxed, went for long walks, and saw lots of animals. In the end, my animal sights consisted of elephants, warthogs, baboons, monkeys, antelopes, water-buck, white-backed vultures, and lots of other deer like animals. Surprisingly I saw lots of really cool birds, and each time I went out on safari I would come back and look at a chart to try and figure out what birds I saw. The most beautiful was probably the Abyssinian Roller, check it out on google image. The elephants were the best though. I would be about 10 feet away from them, watching them move and splash around in the water. It was wild. They're amazing--giant, strong, powerful, slow and gentle but still so fierce. I couldn't stop saying to myself, these guys are dinosaurs!! I think they might've become my favorite animal.
---We tried to watch sunrise and sunset every day because they were so beautiful and wildly different compared to anything we'd ever seen. Sunrise was fantastic. It was dark out, and gradually it got lighter until poof, the sun was already up and out of no where 1/8 above the horizon line. It was cloudy and looked more like the moon then the sun, and I was shocked that instead of rising, it just appeared. There also weren't any colors like there are in the United States. Sunrise and sunset are merely light to dark, no pinks purples blues--its light, and then its dark. In the bungalow it would get so pitch black, and only a sliver of light from the moon was sneak in through the bottom of the door, it looked like a freeze frame of a fallen shooting star.
I have so many anecdotes and stories to tell about my spring break, but as I flip through my journal there are just too many to tell and too many favorites to tell just one. You'll all just have to hear about the rest of my trip when I come home and have a giant slideshow of me standing next to 15 elephants : )

Building Suspense

I can't wait to write all about my Spring Break in Burkina Faso, there were tons and tons of elephants and adventures and it was the best!! Unfortunately I have midterms week this week, so I am going to try to upload pictures this week, but don't expect a blog post till next week. Sorry! But it'll be great when it comes I promise!!

Hospital Trip

---Before leaving for Spring Break '10 I realized I wasn't feeling quite well. Before heading off on a big excursion I knew I should get checked out before jumping off on adventures. I took a trip to the hospital, which in short was just lots and lots of procedure. First I sat in a reception area, where I was handed a number and a form to fill out. When I handed in my form they also took my number and my health care card, and told me to be seated. About an hour later I was handed a laminated ID card for the hospital, and they even laminated my health care card for me. Then I was directed to another room where I waited to get my weight, blood pressure, and temperature taken (which they did through my armpit, that was a first). After that I was directed to a waiting room where I would eventually see a doctor. It was only about an hour before I was called in, and I sat down and told him what I thought was my diagnosis, which he thought was very brilliant. He told me I would have to go to a few more rooms, then report back to him later. Slightly confused, I headed out the door where a nurse directed me to the billing room, where I waited some more. I went to the lab to get some tests done and waited for two hours for the results to come out. I was given a form which I was told to bring back to the doctor I was originally seen by. The doctor read the form, wrote me a prescription, and wished me good health. The pharmacy in the hospital filled my prescription and told me that was it, I was all done.
---Things to be noted. The hospital was clean, nice looking, and most notable--very spaciously open. The whole place was filled with courtyards and open room with no walls. The hallways and reception area were all just covered by awnings, otherwise open. There were lots of male doctors, female nurses, and I kinda felt like I was in a 1950's hospital because of that. It felt very World War II. However the thing that shocked me the most was that as I walked out the door, I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that my wallet was still located at the bottom of my bag. Not because it had been made much lighter by paying hundreds and hundreds of medical fees. It wasn't touched. It wasn't manhandled by Ghanian health care! I was completely shocked, and thrilled. Ghana, Canada. United States, I think it's time we jump on the free health care train because I love it!!

Spring Break

I remember being at Loyola in the spring of last year, reading a blog called about a girl in Ghana. I remember specifically her posts about spring break and wondering where I would end up planning my break a year later. Well it's official that I am off to Burkina Faso for spring break! I leave tomorrow morning on a long long bus ride up to the north (on the opposite side of the big meningitis outbreak), and finish getting to Burkina on Saturday afternoon. I am staying at a great camp where I'll be sleeping in a bungalo for five nights and four days before heading back to Accra. I'll hopefully see lots of wild animals and have lots of adventures to write about on my return. Until then, wish me luck!!!!!

"I am not a pretty girl. Least last time I checked. I am too easy to roll over, I am too easy to wreck. I just write about what I should have done, sing what I wish i could say, and I hope somewhere some woman hears my music and it helps her through her day."--ani
"I am not a pretty girl, that is not what I do. I am no damsel in distress and I don't need to be rescued. So put me down punk, wouldn't you prefer a maiden fair? Isn't there a kitten stuck up a tree somewhere?"--ani
I think this is the transformation I have magically made while I've been here. I've grown from ani lyric one to ani lyric two. I've always had a boyfriend. I don't know how to say that without seeming cocky. I like boyfriends, I like having them, I've had them for a long time. I never liked to dive too deep into why, for fear of finding out that I am insecure or unconfident or, worse of all, that I need a boyfriend. Yet coming to Ghana has fully revealed to me that I am not ani lyric one, but ani lyric two. Now, don't get confused, because I do have a boyfriend back in the States, and he is absolutely fabulous, best boyfriend so far in fact. But I don't need him. I like him, I want him to be my boyfriend, but I don't need him. I am alright on my own. Its just a very comforting thing to know, and I am realizing I haven't known that for a while now. I am so comfortable, happy, and in love with me.

Somebody's Heart is Burning

---Hm. Lets see.
---First thing that is on my mind is simply a chapter I read from a book I picked up today, Somebody's Heart is Burning by Tanya Shaffer. The book tells the story of a white woman exploring Africa, and the chapter that is clinging with me was called Telegram. It was about the authors interaction with an African-American woman in Ghana named Nadhiri. Nadhiri came to Ghana with Marcus Garvey imprinted on her mind, a man who believed that African's and those of the diaspora should all live together in one country, without any obruni. Nadhiri believed in Garvey so deeply, and fully supported complete segregation between blacks and whites. I was blown out of the water. Unfortunately when I read or hear about someone supporting segregation I immediately picture a Southern, white, messy red headed hic with bad teeth and a bad education. You have to be completely ass backwards to believe in segregation, if I may be so blunt. To read about an African-American, highly educated woman who refused to go to school with people of white colored skin was just mind blowing to me. I was so sad and weary after reading the chapter. It's so sad and confusing to me that some people can honestly still believe in a thing like segregation. We are humans. Why and how do you separate one from another?

A Week with My Man

---This past week my boyfriend came all the way to Africa to visit me. Just to think, a guy traveled around the world for little old me! That'll be a confidence booster for years to come. It was a fantastic time and it was great to be able to show someone around instead of feeling like the tourist. I felt like I really knew what was going on, and I was very in control of my environment and situation in life. I took Steve on all the adventures I felt were really necessary while in Accra, and although it was very adventurous and a lot of travel I think he enjoyed himself. Sometimes I think I am too adventurous for the poor kid, but he stays around all the same and comes with me on whatever adventure I say. Truly a great guy.
---Having Steve here felt like home was coming to Ghana. It was bizarre. Coming to Ghana I was completely estranged and alone. I knew no one, knew nothing, I was a newborn. Having Steve come was bringing something that I was so comfortable with, and knew so well, into a place that was always surprising me with wild new things. It was bittersweet. Having him leave was really hard, yet I soon realized it was just a return to normalcy to be alone in Ghana. It helped to remind me that its important to be alone. I need that alone time to get back to myself, back to my roots. Yet as I thought about this on the tro-tro today I realized that coming to Ghana, I was not as far from myself as I thought I was. I came to Africa thinking I would recharge my batteries--be stripped of everything but my necessities to again expose my core. I often feel the need to do this. Go somewhere new and different to help get back to myself, my inner core, the real raw me. Being in Ghana has helped me realize that for the first time in my life, I feel as if the raw me, and the me in the United States with all the glitz and glamor, were not too different. My change of self was not so drastic after all.
---God I feel good in my skin.

My Homestay Experience...

---So I had a homestay. I knew that expectations were a dangerous thing to have, so I made sure the only thing I was expecting was a family. Who knew if I would have water, electricity, dogs with rabbies, it could be anything, so I let my brain only expect a family. SImple as that. Well it turns out such was too high an expectation. I, along with my friend Liz, were placed with Denise. Denise was a 40 something year old single man. He picked us up from the bus stop in his Mercedes Benz and took us into the compound his mansion was in. As we walked into the house we asked Denise to tell us about himself. "Well," he immediately replied, "I am looking for a nice young woman to marry so I can go to America." I knew from that moment I should worry. We sat down on his leather couches and told him a little about ourselves. He asked if we knew any Twi, the local language, and we said we did know a little. He said, "Let me teach you some. Let me teach you for the word for come. What is the English word for what you use to hold those luscious tits in?" Bra. The Twi word for come is bra. I almost started to cry when he showed me our room and I saw there was no lock on the door. I don't like to think back to that house, so let me quickly and briefly tell what I learned from my homestay. The rich are all about show, appearance, how people perceive of them. When uncomfortable in an elite home, make friends with the house help (Denise had five house help for himself and his brother). I dont know. It sucked, I didn't learn alot, and I will never go to their town again. I will do a homestay again in March, and I know it will be better than my first experience. Ghanians are the friendliest, happiest people I have ever met, and I refuse to let Denise and his creep show deter me from making a great relationship with a great family for a weekend.

Beads and Red-Red

---I went to a bead making class last week. You would think I would continue to describe a super cool experience where I made real African beads, eventually creating some necklace or bracelet or some accessory. I expected that too when I showed up to the class, but we can't have expectations friends! I did not make beads. I made a necklace out of beads bought from a market. It was a little disappointing, but I was taught by one of the most famous jewlery designers in Ghana, she even held a class for Obama's children when he visited Ghana! So I was upset that I didn't get to make my own beads, but I made really pretty earrings for myself and a great necklace for my Mother (hope you'll like it Ma!)
---This same weekend I had my first attempt at cooking Ghanian food on my own. I cooked with my friends Liz, Neisha, and Kevon. We made red-red and fried plantain. The red-red was pretty tricky, but came out great. (A spicy bean dish) The fried plantain were easy and delicious, and I can't wait to make it for my roommates next year.

Memories of Elmina

From Elmina there are a few select things I remember the most. The effect the church on me was obviously one. The creepy hauntedness of the castle. It was so obvious that there were thousands of ghosts throughout the castle, there's no way there couldn't have been. I'll never forget the smell of the women's cells. Around 100 women were placed into a tiny smell, all sleeping on top of each other on the floor in piles and piles, because there simply wasn't enough room. The only ventilation they had was a tiny window that lead into another room, one that held gun supplies, so the women were constantly breathing in thick chemical filled air, never exposed to fresh air. They were kept in there for months, and there were obviously no bathroom facilities, so all of their bodily output (blood, sweat, excrement, urine, menstrual blood) covered the floors of the room. Those same floors that they piled on top of to sleep every night. Hundreds of years later andy you could still smell everything.

Cape Coast Journal Entry, A Deeper Look into My Head

A few weeks ago we went on a group trip to Cape Coast. In Cape Coast is one of the largest and most utilized slave castles of the Atlantic Slave Trade. It is called Elmina castle, a large white stone structure primely located right on the waterfront. I haven't been able to write about the situation in blog form, but here is a small glimpse of what I wrote in my journal that weekend::::

"February 5, 2010
Some things I don't understand:
1. How the white man looked out along the perfect beautiful stretching coast of Elmina, saw the mothers, fathers, children, lovers and said--Yes. These people are mine. They should be commodities, not humans. It is my place in the worlds to do this. And I will.
2. How anyone can walk through the castle, come to the church was God supposably was, and still believe in him. Nothing good came from the AST. {Atlantic Slave Trade} So why would any God make it so? If there was a God how could he be witnesss to everything that happened and say Yes. This must be done. These people must die and sufer and their country must be digressed and pushed back developmentally.
Yes, Africans benefitted, I suppose, by going to America and making a place for themselves, but there could have been another way. This did not need to happen. If a God made this happen, I do not want him to be my God.

February 6, 2010
If a God had deamed a certain race heathen we would KNOW it.
Nature does not discriminate. The ocean rushes out to everyone, foam giddely jumping over and over itself to try to reach you faster. Sand embraces you, barely containing herself as she holds onto you, all over you. She comes in different colors too you see, it makes no difference to her. Rocks do not crumble from underneath you because you are black, white, yellow, purple. With our limbs and our skin and our brains--Why can't we learn from our founding mothers? The elements who have been here centuries before us, and have survived and thrived and been. The sea will never hide from the sand. And rocks will never move away from the touch of the ocean. And sand and rock will live side by side without ever a qualm. So why can't we be, like sand and rock and sea. Why can't we."

Wallets

---Recently my roommate was talking to me about wallets. And how when her boyfriend didn't have one it had bothered her so much-- it was a sign of his inactiveness. This really got me thinking. Wallets are such a sign of personality, of who a person is both literally and still so much deeper. A wallet can hold the characteristics of a person, show what they find valuable and important, how they view themselves and what they enjoy.
---A license gives you the basics--full, real name, hometown, age, eye color. It also shows whether or not they are an organ donor. A seemingly simple answer, yes or no, yet something that reveals quite a lot about a person. Answer yes and you can immediately know the person is not a devout Hebrew. As their bodies are sacred they are only allowed to be placed into the ground as they were placed on this earth--intact, holy, and unmarked.
---After a license comes the next expected thing, money. Naturally the amount of cash in a person's wallet can provide some information into a persons economic status. But look deeper. Big wads of cash? What are they using it for? Are they irresponsible? Or involved in something illegal? Or were they merely on their way to pay a bill. Do they only hold a few bucks? Are they poor or did they just finish spending their whole paycheck.
---What else is in there? Credit cards, library cards, mass cards, receipts, scraps of papers, notes? What do they say? What does it mean about the person? What do you think it means? Are you wrong? Are you right? Do you even really know this person at all?

Ani on my Mind

An Ani lyric I find myself singing often under this African sun. Something to think about.
"they were digging a new foundation in manhattan
and they discovered a slave cemetery there.
may their souls rest easy now that lynching is frowned upon,
we've moved on to the electric chair." --ani

Lord of the Flies

---Last week I was sitting in Street Girls Aid with three crying kids in my lap, a girl putting her pencil in my hair, and a toddler trying to offer me his lollipop. As I sat juggling all these kids I noticed a man outside the courtyard wall. He was just standing and looking at the kids, until he picked up a rock and through it at one of the little girls. He walked along the wall until he came to a small group of boys who were playing on the ground. I put my kids down, gave the little girl back her pencil, and went over to the other volunteers. "Any idea what the hell that man is doing?" I asked. "Looks like he's just talking to the kids" my friend Ariel answered. "Well he makes me nervous," I said. "Let's keep an eye on him." "Alright. Let's just see how things play out."
---I went back to my still crying kids and kept my eye on the creepy man outside the courtyard. With his eyes rolling back to his head he would whisper to the little boys. My stomach was turning, and I knew this was trouble. As he burst out laughing I saw the three little boys begin to fight each other, ripping at each other's clothes and pushing each other. Ariel and I quickly broke up the fight, and told the boys to play nicely. I had barely turned my back before one boy was laying on the ground, getting his stomach kicked in by the other two boys. I ran over and grabbed the little boy off the ground and carried him over to the steps, letting Ariel reprimand the abusers. After telling the boys off, she went over to the man at the wall and asked him if he needed any assistance. "No, I am not talking to them." He replied. "Well then I think you should leave. Now." Ariel's motherly instincts were radiating, and her voice held the power of an American woman. He began to turn to leave, but made sure to yell something in Twi before he went on his way. In a flash, the two boys ran over to me with terribly devilish smiles. They grabbed the beaten boy's arm and leg and began to pull. I pushed them and grabbed the boy, trying to run to the other side of the courtyard. The man at the wall yelled something again, and suddenly I was playing tug-of-war with this little boys body, me holding his abdomen while all the children in the courtyard began pulling at his limbs. I screamed for help from the Ghanian women inside as the little boy was literally getting torn limb from limb. They're stern voices and sharp hands quickly broke up the battle, and the bruised boy was brought inside. Frightened, and spent, I told Ariel it was time to go.
---That twenty minutes at the crutch was one of the most bizarre, and frightening moments I've had in my life. That man scared the life out of me, the way he looked at the kids and spoke to them, it was surreal. On my cab ride home I had time to think about what in the world had just happened, and Ariel and I exchanged our reactions. The thing that couldn't get out of my head was actually the Ghanian women. I thought about what would have happened if Ariel and I weren't there, and hadn't had the courage to tell that man to get the (expletive) out of there. There would have been no way the Ghanian women would have said anything to him, and he could have stood there all day telling those kids to fight, and after that who knows what. It makes me reflect on my own society and how grateful I am that women have the place that we do. I only wish women were treated and respected like that in more countries.

Basic Street Girls

I have a friend Ana who is volunteering at a group called Basics. It helps prostitutes and young mothers get somewhat of an education. Unfortunately the organization can't fund the girls enlistment in public schools, but they have their own schools where volunteers teach. Ana is currently teaching a fifteen year old mother how to write the letter N. Listen to Ana talk about her experiences at Basics I can't help but make a connection to my own volunteering. The effects are so obvious. Ana is working with the teenage prostitutes and I am working with their attention deprived children. Many people find fault in the mothers, leaving their children in these unwatched slums that try to call themselves a 'day care.' I sympathize with the mothers, I can not blame them. I've watched the mothers tearing themselves away from their screaming children, waving goodbye as they lock them in the courtyard. They need money to provide what little they can for their children, and they do it any way they can. Their children need food more than they need attention.

Street Girls Aid

---I have begun my volunteer service at a NGO called Street Girls Aid. Street Girls Aid works to get street girls off the street and into schools. Many women sell in the markets, fabric, clothes, food, whatever they can spare. However many many many of these girls don't have any tangible goods to sell, so they turn to prostitution. They have a field-service program, where volunteers make friends with the girls and try to lure them off the street. For volunteers like myself who are only here for a short time however, this is not a well-matched job. Instead I work at the day care center, a place where the woman are urged to leave their children for the day, at a whopping one cedi a month. In actuality, this is indeed a large sum of money for most street workers, as many earn as little as 1 pesawas a week (100 pesawas = 1 cedi). At first I was quite discouraged from the news that I would be baby-sitting as my volunteer work. However as soon as I entered the crutch (what Ghanians call day-care) I knew I was needed.
---There are about 5 other women volunteering at the crutch, three Ghanian and two German girls. The children range from anywhere between one to five years old. There are about 100-150 kids a day. Five women, watching after 100-150 attention deprived children. A mad house? A danger zone? A answer to a prayer from 100-150 women? I don't even know how to describe it. As soon as I walked in the gate I was swarmed with all the kids, screaming "Hello! Hello! Hello!" I spent my 3 hours there playing with them, keeping them out of trouble, and giving them as much attention as I could. I left covered in dirt, tears, snot, and urine.
---I came to the crutch thinking I was going to be disappointed. I felt that I had so much to give, and baby-sitting restricted that. After going into that courtyard however, and seeing all those kids, it was more than obvious that there was where I was needed. Many of the volunteer opportunities offered by NYU are geared toward helping children. At first I thought this was simply an 'easy way out' I suppose. But boy was I proved wrong. The kids are where the need is, so then that's where I belong.

A How To For My Blog

So internet is very terrible in Ghana (except for rare, wonderful occasions). So what I do is write my blogs, and then when I get a glimpse of internet I upload as many as I can. So read them as if they're updated on normal intervals, but unfortunately they'll have to sometimes come in sets of three like this. Enjoy!

A Book Report

--I wrote this as a blog, but realized it would do better as my book report that I have to do. But I'll put it up anyways, so you can know what some of my reading is like. I guess. I dunno, read it or skip to the next one.
---I am reading a book for my literature class called "So Long a Letter" by Mariama Ba. It reads the diary of a African Islamic woman, abandoned by her husband on his conquest of a co-wife. Ramatoulaye decides to remain in her town, with her twelve children, constantly confronted with the shame her husband has placed upon her. This new co-wife, Binetou, is the same age as her eldest daughter, and was ironically introduced into the scenario through friendship with said girl. Ramatoulaye's courage and perseverance is remarkably admirable. She adopts the duties her husband had left behind, paying bills, repairing the house's leaky faucets, extinguished light bulbs, broken windows, while still holding onto her womanly tasks of cleaning, cooking and caring for her children. Her modern feministic views were obvious from the beginning, even during the happy parts of their marriage, yet by the end of the story the woman shreds all cocoons that held her back. She adherently rejects the proposal of her dead husbands younger brother, shaming him for asking her while still in mourning, reminding him that women do have hearts, brains, and options too. Her strength only continues to grow. After her mourning period ends she learns to forgive her husband, and wish him only the best in his afterlife. She listens to both her head and her heart, making smart decisions that although at times hard, will lead to the best results. She rears her children with a modern touch yet still with a respect for the past, teaching them to love each other, respect each other, but to remain smart, capable, and strong. The book ends with a changed woman. In the beginning of the book her suffering is heart wrenching. Her constant inner struggle between leaving, starting somewhere new afresh, and her staying, remaining headstrong and brave, thrusting her strength into the face of those who doubt her. Her lack of confidence, and self-inflictiong doubt and pain are brutal. Yet over time, with the help of her children, she transforms. She becomes a strong, independent, loving woman. Free of the stereotypes and pressures placed upon her by society she lives her life as she pleases. Raising her kids in a way too new for her community yet fully confident in her practices, declining marriage proposals that were so very convenient but not true to her heart. We met Ramatoulaye living her life as a woman, yet she departed from us divinely human.

The Obruni Price

--I previously wrote about being a minority, yet still having the upper hand. Most times I feel this way, sometimes though, the minority bit really hits home.
--When I go to the market, or try to get a cab, I am always told double or triple the actual price. I get so jipped! Now Ghana thrives on being a bargaining country, its a cornerstone of their economy. However even in this style I am giving the 'obruni price.' I get so frustrated! I would like to think that I am somewhat of a traveler. I've done my fair share of flying, training, driving, walking, and I think I am pretty damn good at it (best when I am with a certain special 4 girls). Its offensive to me that when in Ghana I am treated like a dumb blonde slizzy freshman getting a cab at Newman Towers for the first time! Or from those not hailing from Loyola, getting ripped off on the streets of Manhattan! I am a good bargainer! I am a good traveler! Please don't treat me like some lost bo-dunk Southerner in Times Square!
---As I reflect I see that this is only one of the few ways I am treated as a minority, a obruni. However it also shows to me how easy I have it. I complain of being treated unfairly because cab drivers want me to pay them 10 cedi for a 2 cedi cab ride. My African-American friend here wasn't allowed to rent an apartment in the Manhattan because the building was evidently only filled with white people and she was turned away as soon as the realtor saw she was black. I never thought I would learn so much about the United States when I was in Ghana.

On 'Coming Home'

---During my stay in Ghana I have found that too many white folk have too many opinions on Africans and those in the African diaspora(excluding of course professors or other experts of Africana studies). I have listened to many discussions on the topic and how many Caucasians feel attacked as being white. Listening on a conversation, I noted one person say they felt ostracized from the "secret club that I can't even be a spectator of. I am the outsider in an enemy way." I could barely keep my jaw from smacking against the floor.
---Africans have gone through too much for others to be able to relate to. Learning about slavery, and the suffering and slaughter that Africans went through is not enough. Those not of African descent cannot understand. They cannot walk a step in an African's shoes.
---Many African-American's emigrate back to Africa, hoping to find some connection to their past, which may lay anywhere on the gigantic continent of Africa. (On a side note, many people, including myself, forget that Africa is a continent. A very, very, very, large continent.) Many African-American's refer to this journey as 'coming home.' After talking to a Ghanian I have been informed that this is "bullshit." As he explained it, 'white Americans' come to Ghana with their cup half empty, waiting to learn and experience anything and everything. Whatever expectations they may have can be altered, and then added upon. 'Black Americans' however come with their cup overflowing, expecting to be pulled into Ghana with open yearning arms. According to my Ghanian friend, this is nothing but the truth. Ghanians see 'black and white Americans' in the same light, as an obruni--a white foreigner.
---I could only imagine how harsh this could be heard by African-Americans, yet as I looked around to others listening to the conversation, the 'white Americans' were all nodding in agreement. Although many times I feel this 'coming home' aspect is pretty cheesy and unrealistic, I can't relate. Many of my fellow study abroad students try to compare their lives to that of the African diaspora, saying "I am not running around Germany or France calling it home and looking for where my great-grandmother lived. I don't understand why African-Americans need to." Again, I believe it is a feeling and an experience only those of the African diaspora can understand. To compare their experience to mine would be offensive. I know exactly where my family originated from, and I know they all came to America with their own will. As with all movements, there were push-pull factors that lead them to move, but they were not forced to leave their homes. Comparatively, Africans were uprooted from their countries, packed into cells, beaten, raped, and murdered, and then shipped to America, where they were lived the rest of their lives as slaves. There was no choice, no push-pull factor, only severe force and brutality. I could never imagine.
---Ghanians believe the saddest way to live is alone. I believe the saddest way to live is without a place called home.

Monkeys!

--No insightful thoughts in this blog, purely facts. But facts about a day that was so amazing I just had to give you all a play by play of everything that happened.
Eight others and myself headed out at 10 this morning to find the Solo Monkey Sanctuary. We knew what town it was in, but also had heard it was very very very difficult to find. We finally found two cabs that were willing to make the journey and set out on our way. As soon as we arrived in the town we began asking about Solo. No one had a damn clue. We had directions from a friend that said, "after the 'Welcome to Israel' sign, make a right next to the soccer field." Awesome. Thanks.
--Well we passed the 'Welcome to Israel' sign, and made a right on the next street after the soccer field, but nope. Everyone said we were going the wrong way. Finally we found a cabby from the area who was willing to lead us in the right direction. We went back to said soccer field and drove onto it. At the back of the soccer field was a tiny dirt road that looked like it could fit maybe one tiny tiny car, but required Hummer driving gear. After a lot of bumps, twists, and what felt like driving through people's front yards, we came to the forest! We met a man named Keemasi who was the owner and caretaker of the forest. He ended up taking us all over his beautiful property, and into the village, which turned out to also be part of his property, and his father was the king, making him prince. We were all shocked that we were getting a tour from someone who was so prestigious! And he was a rasta none the less! As we walked through the town it became obvious that Keemasi was someone very important. Everyone knew his name, and most people came up to him to shake his hand.
--After touring the village Keemasi took us down to the beach to see the fisherman and go for a swim. Well we came down to the beach and it was Filled with fishing boats! It turned out that the area we were in was famous for fishing, and boats from all over the world came to fish right where we were standing. We walked along the beach and Keemasi stopped alongside one of the boats, and suddenly motioned for all of us to get in! We happily all jumped in the boat, and before we knew it were were getting shipped across the coast to a tiny island, his brother's beach resort!! The hotel and ugly stuff was on the mainland, the island was strictly for swimming and relaxing. It was stunning. It was paradise. It was all ours. We all had brought bathing suits but couldn't be bothered, and we thew off our clothes on our run to the water, jumping in with our bras and underwear. The water was so warm, so clean and so beautiful. We swam and splashed and sang for two hours, finally dragging ourselves out of the water to go back to the forest.
--We walked up a big hill that overlooked the forest, hoping for monkey sightings and most definitely got our fill! As it was their dinner time they were all our hopping from one tree to the next, gathering fruits before nightfall. It was a magical end to such a fabulous day.
--I want to keep writing and elaborate and tell all I've learned from the day, and all I saw inside the village, but all my adventuring has gotten me preeeetty sleepy. : )

The Black Stars

I went to watch Africa play Egypt for the Africa Cup in the town of Osu. They closed down about two blocks and placed a giant mega tron television in the middle of the road, paired up with giant speakers to match. I was immediately welcomed into the crowd and I started celebrating. Everyone was screaming and chanting and raving at every chance they got--a missed shot, great defense, everything. I bought a FanIce (a small plastic bag of ice cream, yumm) and during half time took the opportunity to get a Ghanian flag painted on my face. The screaming and chanting continued, but with only four minutes left in the game, Egypt scored. For the remainder of the game the crowd was practically silent in comparison to the beginning of the game. The crowd lingered after the game was over and the jumbo screen was shut down. I walked around and saw that for the most part, the Ghanians were still pretty happy. I asked a man if he was sad Ghana had lost and he said, "What? Why would we be sad? We got second place!!" I was shocked. I have never in my life heard a team celebrate after loosing, saying 'We got second!" It really made me reflect on Ghana as a whole, and the positive attitude they all have, even after all the horrors that have been committed against them. Obviously second out of fifty two countries is an amazing placement, but most sports teams don't think like that, they only know they didn't come in first. But Ghanians are just so different. They don't seen to consider the 'what if's' of their country, only on the here and now. They do not reflect on the setbacks that the slave trade caused them, and think about where they could be if the past was different. They don't think Instead they praise their successes so far, and leave the past behind. It's something that I really admire, and am definitely going to try to keep in mind as I live my life.

A Slumdog Millionaire

---A common theme throughout the NYU students is their feeling of displacement. Of being the minority for once in their lives. Coming to Africa I knew this would be something I would deal with, I just didn't know what it would be like. After three weeks I can so far say that it is so different, and so similar to being white in the United States.
---As much as of a minority I may represent here, it doesn't change the color of my skin. There may only be a few Caucasians in Ghana, but they're all still wealthy, well off, white people. I feel as if I am constantly stared at for two reasons, one being that I am white and therefore something rarely seen walking through Accra. The other being that I am white, and therefore my pockets must be overflowing with cedi and American hundred dolla bills. As I think about this, the first thing that comes to my mind is that I may be white, but I am definitely not packing heat in my pockets. Many Ghanians are under the illusion that Americans are all millionaires, with plenty of money to share. Yet as I say this I realize that, compared to the life they live, I am a millionaire.
---As I think about my worth as a white woman here, and how much I can give to the Ghanians, I reflect back to my own home, and wonder why people don't care about the beggars and homeless in our own country. Is it because they're white? Cause they're not under the hot African sun? Why do people give their money to infomercials of starving Africans, when there are starving people in their own neighborhood? Comparatively yes, I am slightly wealthier in Africa than I am in the United States. But the money I have in Africa is the same money I have in America. Yet here I find myself in the mindset of the wealthy. What are the differences that make us feel like millionaires in Africa, but not in Manhattan?

"They Look Just Like Normal People."

----Wednesday Night we watched documentaries that past NYU students had made. The topics were wide ranged: deaf people in Accra, boxing in the slums of Jamestown, being African-American in Ghana and lastly homosexuality. This last topic raised quite a few questions and comments, as homosexuality has recently been made illegal in Ghana. The main film man for the project stepped forward to introduce the movie, and in doing so I already gave him a lot of credit. Filming the movie meant a lot of risk for him, and he still undertook it. It's upsetting to think that I am praising a man for interacting with homosexuals, but the context is so different than the United States. The culture here just shuns it, and for him to so openly support homosexuality takes a lot of courage. Ghana is his home, his culture, and by making this film he took risks because it will stay here, he will stay here, and whatever becomes associated between him and the film will stay here.
----As Isaac introduced the movie he talked about all the things he learned through making the movie. One of the things he learned is how "they look just like normal people, you can't even tell when they walk down the street" AHHHH!!!!!!! Those words came out of his mouth and our jaws dropped. To think there were still people who believed that homosexuals were actually physically different from heterosexuals. And to compare them to "the norm!" At first I was shocked, but after some time I realized I couldn't blame Isaac for his statement, or expect him to believe any different for that matter, as sad as that is. In a culture where homosexuality is illegal in any way shape or form, openness cannot be expected. Isaac had never seen or had any interaction with a homosexual, nor ever learned anything about it, so he only had his own mind and the words of others, to teach him about homosexuals.
In reference to his use of the word "normal," to expect Isaac to know the proper terminology to use when referring to homosexuality would be like expecting him to also be wearing a gay pride shirt, just in support. Ghana is just not on that level yet. There are certain levels some people have to go through in order to fully accept and understand homosexuality. Appropriate terminology is one of the last ones.
----It's so sad and frustrating to me that homosexuality is so taboo, oh wait, illegal, in Ghana. To think that the friends I have at home struggling with homosexuality have it easy, who would have thought.

Goodmorning and God Bless

My father has been asking about religion in Accra, so Daddy-o here is a quick one just for you.
Accra is largely Christian. Somewhere around 91% I believe. There are lots of churches around, with plenty of signs for mass times and such, but this is not mainly where you can see Ghana's Christian spirit. In the morning, neighbors greet me with, "Good morning and God bless." On my return home from school they say, "Welcome, you've gone and come back! God is good." God is not a ritual or routine like in the United States. God is part of their culture, part of their day. It's so refreshing to see an unreserved, enthralled opinion of a person's religion, while still remaining benevolent and gentle.
The last 9% of religion in Accra is Muslim and Other. The "other" I have yet to come across. I look forward to the day I meet an African Witch Doctor, but none yet to report of. However I walk past a family of Muslim's everyday on my way to school. They have a small cement structure built outside their home dedicated to prayer. It is a tiny thing, resembling the base structure of a house, yet with no walls or entrance. It was shocking to me to see men praying outside in this homemade cement creation, yet it's come to be something I really appreciate walking by everyday.
The best way to describe religion in Accra is through the architecture of their places of worship. It's best done with words and pictures, so I'll try to take some this week so you can get a better idea.

The Particularist Theory

----My last blog I talked about my desire to be taught in a Ghanian style. After a week of classes, I have to ask myself if thats even possible. In philosophy, the Particularist Theory says that "philosophy is its own time apprehended in thought." Meaning that whatever idea a philosopher comes up with is only relative to his own culture, of his own time. This can be argued right or wrong, yet as I read more about it in my philosophy homework I thought about in terms of what I want from my education here.
----Many teachers teach through examples. It is at times easiest to learn something new when it is compared to something familiar. Macbeth's finding of self as paralleled to King Edward II. Spanish past tense compared to our own. Foreign history connected to our relative present. So how can I really be taught in the Ghanian style? Their connections, parallels, and comparisons are far to different than mine. My teacher makes connections to Avatar, a movie that most Ghanians don't even know exists. A Ghanian teacher makes reference to a novel by Chinua Achebe, an author that most Ghanians would have read, and although many English scholars have read some of the works, few American students would be able to relate. So with all these divisions its pretty impossible for me to ask to be taught in an exact Ghanian style, because I would have such difficulty in comprehension.
----So the ideas and culture the Ghanians have been raised in, is particular to themselves, something that I can learn about, but unlikely ever fully understand without becoming intensely immersed in. Likewise, the culture and ideas of Americans are so difficult for Ghanians to understand without experiencing them. The other day I tried to explain snow to the security guard at my residence, Uncle Eugene. As I told him that I had about a foot before I left, he said to me, "But when you step on it... How...What.... How do you feel!!!?" He was so curious about what snow felt like, what it feels like to walk on, how you stay warm, and he couldn't even fathom the ideas I was telling him. Shaking his head accompanied with a high pitched, "Ah!!" (a Twi noise used to show surprise, a common noise heard throughout Ghanian-Obruni interaction).
----With all these differences between culture it seems crazy to think I could ever really feel immersed here, or have any similar experiences to what Ghanians have. But as Uncle Eugene tells me, "I protect you. I protect your home here... I hope this will be home here." Maybe, Uncle Eugene. One day at a time.

Back To Schoool

----I tried my hardest not to come to Africa with any expectations. This way I could not be let down, instead just learning and happily accepting things as I made my transition. However one natural expectation I had was that in Africa, I would be exposed to African schooling--especially since I would be taking a class in an African University. Well this expectation was wrong wrong wrong.
----I am taking two classes at Ashesi (the African, private, University). The school is well known for being for the upper class "rich kids" of Accra, and filled with obruni (white foreigners). I knew this, and had no real problem with it, because it would all be new to me, it was an African school, rich or not. The teachers would be Ghanian, some or most of the students would be Ghanian, and the information I would be learning would pertain to Africa. Well I walked into my first class at Ashesi on Tuesday, African Philosophical Thought. The entire room was filled with obruni. Not one native. Well I said to myself, this kinda stinks. Half of the excitement of studying in a African school is that I can easily make friends with (or at least interact with) African students my age. It would also be interesting to see how our ideas and opinions differ on whatever topics we discuss in class. Oh well, at least I would have a Ghanian teacher, thereby a class taught in Ghanian style. ERRRR. Wrong again. In walked Erin Robinson, my African American teacher from Los Angeles. After discussing "Avatar" and the Golden Globes, we talked about Philosophy, and how she would make sure she tried to alter the syllabus to help relate to us (as obrunis) more. Bummmmerrrr.
----Well then Erin Robinson surprised me. She said, I am sure many of you are a little upset to see a whole classroom of obruni with a African American teacher. Well I've gotten that before, and I promise more native students will show up, they're just intimidated by you, and by humanities in general [most Africans study medicine, law, computers, i'll explain in a different entry]. As for me not being a native, I am sorry if that disappoints you. I've actually had American students say to my face, "I didn't come to Africa to be taught by an African American." However I swear that I'll not be teaching you about the United States, and if I do it certainly won't be in a light your used to.
----Man did that shock me. She's a very young, straight forward woman, and I really applauded her for being able to speak to the class like that, addressing us about possible criticisms we could've already formed. I guess it could be seen as insecure, but it was clear that she was confident in herself, and simply addressing the issues for our own assurance.
----So Philosophy seems like it won't be too bad of a class after all, and filled with obruni or not, it'll be a great learning experience.

A Black...err....White Sheep

Today I started my classes and am waiting for my first class to start. I just came back from having lunch at the university next door, Ashesi University. It was such an experience I had to come right back to the Academic Center and write about it.
Besides the other three people I had gone to lunch with, we were the only white students on the campus. I finally understood what living in America, as an African, must be like. Completely alone, feeling everyone's eyes on you as you enter the room, and stay on you as you eat, drink, move. No one talked to us, except the security guard on the way out, Daniel. A real nice guy. I truly felt like a black sheep, something I've never dealt with before. I can't imagine the NYU students who are going to school at the University of Ghana, the university that most students go to.
Well I want to be off the computer when my professor comes in so thats all for now. Wish me luck!

Be that way!

Tomorrow I start my first day of classes! All I have on schedule is a class called History of Pan Africanism, it sounds really awesome and I am pretty excited. I am really nervous however because all my classes are 3 hours long. The longest class I've ever taken is only 1 hour and 15 minutes, and even that is rough. We'll see, I am sure it'll be alright. It's at 1:00 so I have some time in the morning to get organized, maybe go for a walk, explore, we'll see what's in store for me. My roommates have class at 9 so I'll have the room to myself till class, it might be nice to have some 'me' time away from all the 'we' time I've been having.
Today was a very great day. We got to sleep late as we had a brunch at 10:30. My roommates and I planned to sleep till 10:00 but our bodies were so used to waking up at 7:30 that none of us could sleep past 8:45. We went to the brunch and were surprised by a big African drumming band! Then out came lots of dancers! It was amazing! They put on a small show and at the end invited us up to learn some of the moves! It was awesome, we all participated and had a wonderful time. And everyone had a great time laughing at us all too.
After brunch we went to a local public beach. It was filled with people and unfortunately quite dirty. The water had too much trash in it so I didnt really go in, just mainly dipped my feet in while I was walking along the beach. There were horses, tons of kids, tons of crabs, and lots of activities. You could take a surfing lesson, rent a boogy board or a surf board, ride one of the horses, it was pretty cool. I chose to opt for the cheaper activity and play with all the kids on the beach. They would all run up to us and ask us to play. Giggling and pointing the whole time. We made lots of friends with all the 8 year olds, and learned lots of fun games. My favorite game was called, "Change your pose." There is one leader of the game, who is in charge. The rest of the players stand around in a circle, and when the leader yells "change your pose!" you must strike a pose. He then yells, "Be that way!!" until he so chooses, making you stand in funny or lopsided stances for however long he decides. Then if you fall, or sometimes if he just doesnt like your pose, your "dead," or out of the game. He yells "change your pose" again and again, and the last person standing wins! The kids here are just amazing, its great to see what fun they can make for themselves with so little.
Its interesting to see all the kids interacting because of how much love they have for each other. They all call each other brother or sister, and have no shame in constantly giving each other hugs, or walking hand in hand. Even the boys will walk around hand in hand, or with the arms wrapped around each other. Although this public display of affection is common and perfectly acceptable, in Ghana homosexuality has been made illegal. It is so bizarre to me that a country so built on love and community can still hold such an offensive view on homosexuality. Young boys and girls are taught to love each other, no matter of sex and gender, and treat one another like family. However the government then says that they can only love those of the opposite sex. It's so sad to me, I wish there was something I could do, but I just feel so powerless.
Well its off to bed before the big day of classes. Wish me luck.