---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."
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
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!!
---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!!
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
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.
---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.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
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!
---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.
---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.
---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."
---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."
Monday, April 12, 2010
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!!
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!!
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
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.
---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.
---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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)