I think I'm Ghana like it here...

2006-05-22T08:15:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Austin a week ago today. One of my biggest worries coming home was that there would be this disconnect—this four month gap in my life at home just floating in my mind like a dream, separate from my American reality. The New York kids would return and have their Ghana compound reunion and reaffirm for one another that all of their experiences were real (Did we actually witness a Banku eating contest in the Osu Night Market? Did we really ride for hours on a bus of singing school children on their way to a football match? Did we help? Were we changed?) and furthermore, that all of those experiences are fully a part of the life they are living at ‘home.’

I have been worried. Already life has this incredible inertia. The Summer of familiarity begins. I do things that I have done before: eat at the places I know I like, drive with the radio on, not thinking about the route… Lately I am shocked when I arrive. This internal map has stayed in me for the past four months; it pulls me along so softly that I don’t even notice it at first. I have been excited about bringing something new to the old things—if only I can keep these new things in the forefront of my mind.

But perhaps today, as a sign of good faith, I should attempt to practice this (mental connecting the dots between my life in America to my life in Africa and back again) instead of just declaring to the world that I want to. ‘nuff said.

I read this article in the NY Times this morning (http://www.nytimes.com/2006/05/22/world/africa/22nairobi.html) about the parliament in Kenya, who (and this has become so common among groups of politicians all over the world) have voted to quadruple their pay and give themselves other perks, like a decadent mileage allowance to cover driving expenses, etc. Meanwhile, Kenya is experiencing a severe draught that has killed tons of crops and livestock. The article estimates that 3.5 million Kenyans will be facing food shortages in the coming weeks and months. Many Kenyans are pissed, rightfully so. The most disturbing part of this, though, is that these guys aren’t really accountable to anyone because they’re not trying hard to get re-elected or even to maintain their honor in the eyes of the people that they are supposed to be representing: “apparently many of these lawmakers already believe they are short-timers, which is why they are feathering their nests as much as they can, while they can.” Materialism becomes more and more desperate and reckless. Its arms reach further and further across the globe.

And then I am reminded of another article I read recently about these online Nigerian money scams. There are different types of scams, but basically some Nigerian scammer will email an American (I can’t remember how they obtain these lists of email addresses) promising tons of easy cash for help in storing some large amount of money in their bank account. In the end, the American “sucker” winds up paying thousands of dollars to the Nigerian and doesn’t ever see a cent of the cash they are promised. The article that I read was actually about the pastor of a church—how he got sucked into this scam, lost over $20,000, deceived all of his friends and family, was finally sent to prison, and still, in the end, had faith that the Nigerians would come through with the money. He lost his whole life, a process that began with pure and simple greed, with the desire to get a lot without working for it. So often, as Americans, we are told that this is acceptable. We are encouraged to find the loopholes. We see the easy way out as an opportunity, instead of what it is: cheating.

What strikes me particularly about both of these articles is that this is a brand of greed and materialism that I recognize from home. This helps me to connect the dots, and it helps me think about how to proceed with my life wherever I am living it (and I do not intend for this to sound as self righteous as it does. I know that these tendencies are in me too). I do think that America and Africa are profoundly interconnected. Over the past four and a half months, so many Ghanaians approached me mainly because they saw me as a potential ticket to America. I tried to avoid being offended by this, because it was tough to know how hungry someone might be at the time of this interaction. Yet my gut says that western materialism spreads this greater disease of dissatisfaction with all that one has and is—dissatisfaction with your own history, your homeland, your relationships, yourself. This is a dissatisfaction that helps us to buy more and that is why it exists. There is no four month hole in my life. Having a “real” life (or getting back to “real” life) implies that there was a fake life somewhere. There isn’t. This is evidenced by the pandemic of dissatisfaction. We are one and must begin to think of ourselves as such.

final word: this will be my last blog here since I don't live in Ghana anymore. You know where to find me...Thank you for your time and interest, whoever you are who sat down to read this every now and then. Thanks.

2006-05-11T12:30:00.000-07:00

With three days left in Ghana, I just got around to going to the Accra Art Center for the first time today. The art center is actually like a market where you can buy carvings and masks and kente cloth and so so so many beads. It's very touristy. I ran out of cash pretty quick, and then akwardly had to explain to each vendor pulling me into his shop that I could not buy. I would say, "I have no money. My money is finished" and they would say, "How much do you want to bring?" and I would say, "My money is gone. I have none left," and they would say, "I'll give you a small price. small-small." Small-small is a Ghanaian-english phrase that people here use all the time. "Dash me small small" means "give me a little bit" or "give me something small." Strange to think that in three days, I won't be hearing this around town.

Another turn of phrase that I'm going to miss a lot is "Go-come" or sometimes, "go and come." In Twi it's "ko-bra" but most Ghanaians just say "go-come" to me. Generally people say this after they greet you on the street or something like that. You'll say, "Hi, how are you today, Kofi?" and Kofi will say, "I'm fine. How are you? Are you going to school?". I'll say, "yes," and then he'll say, "okay... go and come." It means see you later I guess, but I like it because it implies this gap in interaction, as if you should just hurry up and get through whatever errand or chore you have to do so that you can pass by and greet your friend again. The interim seems strangely unimportant. People come and go, and they always always greet.

Thinking about coming home makes me feel this way. Ghana is definitely giving me the old "go-come," because today at the art center, a man named Edy told me that I must come back to Ghana soon, that I should bring my two brothers (he asked first if I have sisters, of course, but when I told him that I have two brothers, neither of whom have been to Africa, he said, "Oh! You must bring them! You must organize the trip!" You must go and come.) I feel that warmth. Seven kids from our compound have already flown, and all of our goodbyes were quick and lighthearted and surreal... see you later, peace out type of stuff. I'm not so good at this... I want flamboyant ceremonial goodbyes always. These half-goodbyes blur into each other, so I keep expecting faces that are already many miles away.

At the same time, Austin said go-come to me about four months ago--and on the plane ride here, as excited as I was, at the time I was comforted much more the coming home part than by the going away part. I thought so so much about seeing people after four months... how satisfying and exciting that would be. In my mind, I lessened the importance of the frightening intirim--the intirim which has now become my very full daily life. How weird. But I guess part of the beauty of this phrase as I walk around the Earth and people tell me to go and come is that I have all of these away experiences, all these inbetween experiences that only I can fully know... and that I always have someone to return to, no matter where I am. Always someone waiting for me to come. And that is a blessing that is very comforting to me.

One last Ghanaian englishism that I particularly enjoy: someone sitting outside their house in the heat of the day says "How are you?" I say, "I'm fine." They say, "Thank God."

2006-04-16T08:46:00.000-07:00

It is Easter Sunday in Accra. The sun is relentless; no April showers today.

The continuous stream of questions raised for me about my culture, my life, my future remains confusing after three months living here in Ghana. I am thinking of this now because a friend of mine said that today was the first Easter that she’d ever spent away from her home and her family and her church; she was sort of down. This morning a few of us visited a great big Catholic church called Christ is King. We arrived late and it was packed (apparently there are usually three masses at different times on Sunday mornings but on Easter there is only one big one). We ended up having to sit outside. I made my best effort at participation—could sometimes hear the prayers, could sometimes hum along to the music, which was absolutely joyful, sung at the tops of peoples’ lungs and danced out of them… I tried to forget distractions and think about grace, new life, but for some reason, it didn’t come easy. I was comforted by the babies running around, the little girls in gold hoop earrings and pastel ruffles that made them all look like cupcakes or flowers, the little boys dressed in full traditional suits, draped from head to toe in bright African prints and looking like miniature grown men—all across the world, it must be a universal joy to see the children gussied up on special occasions. So I had this to cling to and to be thankful for.

But still, I am missing the most trivial things. I boiled eggs yesterday without having a way to dye them. For the first time in my life, I began to think that the ridiculous connection between the day of Christ’s resurrection and the Easter bunny is absolutely correct. Being in Ghana makes me realize that plastic grass in a pastel plastic basket filled with more chocolate then any child should ever be given at once, plus the women who break out such old fashioned things as white hats and gloves only on Easter now, plus fresh flower arrangements drawing bees to the alter of the church—all of these things are married in my mind to images of Mary Magdalene finding the stone rolled away, Thomas reaching his hand into Jesus’ side…these have been wed to each other (arbitrarily?) by American culture. Ghana is teaching me (among many many many things) that I am an American, that I have a culture… which is full of contradictions that play themselves out in me, and it is mine (ours) to sort out and change.

A few weeks back, I interviewed one of my Ghanaian professors, Kofi Awoonor, for a school project. He attended the University of Ghana at Legon back when it was run by the British. He was a student when Ghana became independent. He studied in the U.S. for some time, writing poetry. He was a strong member of the orature movement, seeking to give respect and a larger voice to traditional African story-telling practices. So, he has this huge wealth of knowledge. He has lived through a lot of history in a short time and this has given him an over arching perspective on life and his community and Ghana and Africa and the world… This is what being an elder is all about, I guess. During the interview, he said a lot of things that struck me (one of which was that he is full of fear and trembling for the younger generation of Ghanaians who have, by in large, accepted American brand capitalism and who spend too much time and energy devising ways to get out of Ghana… I have found this to be somewhat (not by any means entirely) true… After this, he also told me that Ghana doesn’t know how to be itself. When he said that, I immediately felt the frustration behind those words. Ghana is having an identity crisis which is common to all who have been made aware that the forces of oppression (and these are clearly different in different cases) have given us a philosophy which has taken root in our brains and come to fruition in acts against ourselves. When you are made aware that you have been programmed against your will by this conquering force, you are left constantly trying to dissect your internal self, to take the real self and throw away the fabricated identity; This process may be necessary, but it is also, after a certain point, maddening and impossible. Many Ghanaians are in favor of putting traditional practices up for critical analysis to see which of these practices are still positive, beneficial and relevant… many of them are and some aren’t. When I think about it now (based on my very limited knowledge) this type of analysis seems so much healthier than the type that tries to divide the actions of the self (and the nation’s cultural practices) based on their origin rather than on their function in and effects on the society and the individual.

What I mean to say is that young Ghanaians are often scolded by the older generation for not knowing traditional ways of life and belief systems or for dressing in Western clothes, not speaking their regional dialects well, etc… (certainly I believe that these are important values that should not be brushed aside)… but whenever this generational divide becomes apparent, the older generation claims that the youngsters cannot be true Ghanaians if they do not have this cultural literacy. So a huge portion of the young generation of Ghanaians are accused of not being Ghanaian at all… as if it is possible not to be what you are! (The same idea has been very recently used toward different ends to persuade Americans that they are not American unless…) This is dogma. Instead of accepting tradition blindly, and inversely, instead of carelessly throwing out the old in favor of the new, we must find ways to critically sort and select our philosophies based on what will work toward betterment of the self and society. This process should be continuous and should hold nothing as sacred beyond the good that it actually does. Right??!

But what does that mean about my love for the Easter bunny… a love which I never fully acknowledged or appreciated until now?? I can condemn the excess of American materialism and isolation until I’m blue in the face… I can even look around me in Ghana and see how these philosophies are being exported here and how they affect Ghanaians today, but on Easter Sunday, I cannot divorce my faith from these confused symbols which give them life. I wonder if this holiday of bunnies, chocolate, and Christ’s triumph over death is really in the realm of academic, critical analysis. Today I can only think of it emotionally… Today I can only remember my excitement as a child, finding colored, dew-covered eggs in the grass and giving myself a tummy ache with my 100% chocolate breakfast. I am reminded today that culture exists beyond academics, beyond the ability to sort and categorize. I am reminded that time, repetition, and memory have an inertia which often leaves function forgotten somewhere along the road— it is this inertia which woke me up this morning to tell me that Easter doesn’t work this way.

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Looking over this blog entry again, I realize that I made myself sound bluer than I was. Yesterday was a good day in Ghana; it simply felt nothing like Easter.

I feel like a lot of this last entry is confusing or maybe like I didn't say exactly what I mean, but rather than withdraw it, I will try to simplify things a bit: Yesterday I felt that I really began to empathize with this Ghanaian confusion in attempting to separate the 'good' or efficient or progressive aspects of the culture (influenced by 'traditional' ideas as well as ideas brought in from colonial forces) from the bad or 'regressive' or even outdated aspects of the culture. Ghanaians are forced to undergo this process of finding themselves (or selecting what self to be culturally) all the time, and it is a really confusing and difficult process... seeking identity is a confusing and difficult process.

Yesterday I empathized with this problem... I have been down on American culture a lot lately. I visited this Ananda Marga yoga center and spoke with a Dada for a long time about ways of connecting spirituality to social justice, and afterward, I was ready to dismiss everything about what being an American means. But then the next day was Easter and I found myself missing American Easter in spite of myself, because it is IN me... and the fact that it's in me makes things complicated. That's all I meant to say.

Don't worry. I'm still having a wonderful time and learning so much. I still love jolof rice and pineapples and trotros.

2006-03-27T03:01:00.000-08:00

Preview of Spring Break: more pictures and stories to match coming very soon!

2006-03-17T10:58:00.000-08:00

Oh, it has been too long! I must admit that I have been a bit overwhelmed lately. There are readings and midterm papers even in Ghana... and always right before Spring Break, too! So much has happened in the last few weeks that I find it difficult to begin.

Our little compound crew is breaking up for Spring Break--bits and pieces headed in separate directions for the next ten days or so. Tomorrow Brittany and I depart for the eco-village on Lake Volta close to Ho. Our plans are flexable (and admittedly not entirely formed), but basically, we'll be taking a whirlwind nature tour of Ghana by bus/tro tro, stopping notably at Mole National park (where there are many elephants and monkies to be seen!), Green-Turtle eco-lodge on the coast, Techiman and the monkey sanctuary close by. It will be nice to have a week to explore Ghana more thoroughly. Accra is quite a bustling city, and it always feels like such a relief to be out among the trees for a few days... and nothing beats travel by tro-tro, really... so high off the ground, I feel free. People are very understanding when you go over a big bump and accidentally end up in their lap.

I should have a million stories about my adventures, but I don't. Every day is an adventure here. So here are the small recent news stories or perhaps the main small news story: I have met several interesting cab drivers recently. Coming back home from Osu the other day, me and my friend Celeste got into a cab with a driver who said he would take us to Tante Marie for 10,000 cedis and then lectured us about how it should really be $15,000... he said that we are all the same and we must help each other out now and then, and that he used to live in France so he knows about all kinds of people--he kept saying that he would accept ten but he just wanted us to know that it should really be more. At first we were both frustrated (it happens often that cabbies raise the price after an agreement has been made and that can be shady of them), but then when we steered him in the wrong direction and said that we would "get down here," he said no, no, we shouldn't have to walk and that even though it took more time than it should have, we would not have to pay extra. We thought that was nice... and so we finally agreed on $15,000.

Then, day before yesterday I met this cab driver named Mr. Debu who was already acquainted with my friend Dave (from the program)... he talked non-stop about how tall and thin Dave was, and most importantly, how Dave was a man of little words... he liked him, but wished that he would talk a little more on the cab ride. Then Mr. Debu proceeded to talk the whole 20 minute ride to Legon about how he was 53 years old and he'd been driving a cab for 35 years and had never been outside of Ghana--he talked about how he thought that was a shame and said that I should feel very lucky to travel to different places and learn about different people, and I said that I do feel lucky. He liked asking me about all of our states (had I been to all of them? I said no, that would take a long, long time... explained how far it is just to get out of Texas... and then had to explain Texas). He also really enjoyed talking to me about airports, and how many cities in Ghana have airports but you have to come to Accra to fly internationally. He was very curious about our international airports in the U.S. as well, and it made me wish that I knew more about how our airline systems are actually set up. Mr. Debu told me where he usually hangs out and told me that I could come find him whenever I need a cab to Legon. What a good conversationalist!

Then yesterday, I met a cab driver named Steven who I like a whole whole lot, because he listened to gospel music very loudly in his cab. He told me that he comes from the Volta region and that as the only male in his family, he has a great responsibility to earn money and that is why he's working in Accra. He would like to drive for a company so that he could travel further distances and see more of West Africa. He invited me to his church. I cannot describe my affinity for cab drivers lately... perhaps the bargaining process is becoming less strenuous for me, but it is nice to have the chance to learn about someone totally new. I am aware, of course, of how I am treated differently from a Ghanaian in this situation. The mutual curiosity is pleasant... the feeling is still very fresh for me, and I am sometimes suddenly uncomfortable when I begin to sense that more is wanted of me than I can really offer (such as sudden declarations of love) or that more power is being given to me than I really want or merit in these kinds of social situations. Despite these difficulties, I believe that I will continue to enjoy my good fortune in cab drivers and to complain about the bad ones for that matter.

What else is new? My friend Kate has an exciting project for raising awareness about stigma for those with HIV/AIDS in Ghana. My part in it so far is helping to teach workshops in middle schools about the injustice of the stigma assiciated with HIV/AIDS and how we should work to treat people with kindness and compassion. I think that this will be fun and challenging and educational. My eyes have definately been opened to differences between American and Ghanaian school systems. Many students that I have interacted with here have been smart as a whip, but it is difficult to get these kids to trust their own original thoughts... to speak out with an idea that is creative or unique to them. The idea of sharing examples of personal experiences in the class (which we often ask for in the workshop) is very strange to them... often the feeling in the classroom is that the entire class is filled with painfully shy students, which isn't really the case at all, but the intense fear of being wrong (which I think is found in all public education systems to a certain extent) is incredibly strong in my few experiences. I have much to learn about how to draw kids out and how to read what they are giving me in order to help them really gain understanding or really allow themselves (in this case) to be given over to empathy for others.

Enough babbling for now... this stuff just pours out of me, and I think it is proof of the fact that what matters most to me about this experience now is my interactions with people who are often overwhelmingly warm and sometimes overwhelmingly demanding... both rightfully and unrightfully so. More about this soon. I must go eat free delicious dinner, but do not let me forget to write about my interview with my creative writing professor. Pictures of rocks, trees, water, seashells, monkies, and Brittany Larson riding an elephant (I hope!) are coming soon.

Wish me luck!

2006-02-28T09:44:00.000-08:00

Trip to Beyin & Axim Beach

2006-02-20T13:13:00.000-08:00

This past Saturday, February 18, 2006, shall be known hereafter as the day on which everything that could have gone wrong didn't. We trekked out of our gated castle of a compound at about 11:30 am (me looking completely silly strapped in to my huge camping back pack) to catch a share cab to the STC bus station. We had planned to take the bus departing for Takoradi at 2:30 pm, but it was sold out so we bought tickets to catch the 1:30 bus. The funny thing about that was that the bus to Takoradi was one hour late, so we left at 2:30 according to our original plan. The bus was pretty packed. STC buses get filled up to the absolute brim; they have these little seats that fold out and fill the aisles of the bus the whole way back so that if someone in the back decides they have to get out, every single aisle person in front of the trouble-maker must fold up their seats and move out. But personally, I think that the best part of the bus ride was my attempt at eating the digestive cookies that I had bought at the Shell station just before departure--they had been completely crushed in the top pocket of my backpack, but I tried to eat them anyway, spilling crumbs everywhere and grossing out the lady next to me with my mess. I caught a few zzzz's on the trip and did a little reading. We arrived safely in Takoradi at around 7:30, and our remarkably kind driver escorted us accross the street to catch a tro-tro. When we discovered that there would be no other tro-tros leaving for Beyin until tomorrow, this too too kind man helped us to negotiate a reasonable price to charter a van over the Beyin, and then proceeded to give us his telephone number so that we could call "if we have any trouble." Perhaps he was nervous for us, because it was just after dark and we were apparantly too dumb to be nervous for ourselves. What a caring and helpful individual!

So, we take the tro-tro... the driver had not wanted to go for a cheap price because he said, the roads are very bad. This turns out to be true. The roads from Takoradi to Beyin are largely unpaved, and the dirt has not been relaid in a while, so there are these deep ridges from the rain, and when you ride over them in the tro-tro, they shake up all your organs and turn them into stew. The organ-shaking action goes on for about an hour, and since we have chartered the van, each of us is alone in a huge seat, sloshing all over the place. Once we get close to Beyin, we mention that we don't know where the guest house is--the extent of our knowledge is that it exists somewhere in town according to the Bradt guide. Our driver pulls over, spots a group of three or four guys hanging around (and by this time, it's maybe 10 pm) and asks them if they know anything about the guest house or where the owner is. The answer is yes, so rather than point us in the right direction, the entire group of them jumps into the van to personally escort us over to the owner's house--and this is a bit nerve racking to be honest. The possibilities for being taken advantage of in some way are overwhelming to me at this point. We are a group of oborunis, totally vulnerable and clueless, sitting there with pockets full of money in a van of strong men who know the area and chat and laugh together in some Asante dialect. Who knows what comes next?

BUT,
the worst does not happen. Instead, they direct the van over to the owner's house as promised, and call him out from the middle of his evening shower to let him know we're here. He climbs into the van in his towel (hasn't bothered to get dressed) and points the van off the main road, to a sandy beach that looks like the middle of nowhere except that there is also this line of people just snoozing away in the sand like sardines. We are instructed to get out, and I cannot comprehend that we are really where we are supposed to be. It doesn't look like there is anything there! The owner leads us toward the darkness of the ocean, which we can now hear very audibly, (though we see nothing), and then we are led around a stick fence to the guest house: a hut with three rooms in a row, plus a bucket-shower stall, a bathroom stall, and a covered outdoor 'living room' with a little table and benches. I was hands down in love with this place the second I saw it. Not sure why. Maybe because everything that could have gone wrong didn't. Instead we found our spot against all odds, our secret water-hole in the desert. The breeze from the ocean made its way through all the cracks between the stick-walls and we slept soundly on our slightly damp beds, though a few times in the night, I actually woke up feeling chilly.

Saturday was another eventful day. We took an hour long canoe ride to the stilt village, though we had to get out a few times and walk since the water is pretty low this time of year. We arrived at the village and took a stroll around the middle long deck, which folks there referred to as "the main street." We met a guy who took our donations for the school, which we got to see--just this room. desks in a row, small blackboard at the front, window facing the water. It was a strange thing, actually, because after a few minutes walking along the decks of this village, I began to feel very obtrusive. I mean, it was a fairly small arrangement of wooden rooms on stilts in the water, and the villagers were clearly going about their daily business of washing clothes or feeding their kids or sleeping outside on the decks; everybody's door was open, so as we passed along the 'main road' we could look into folks houses and see four or five people sitting around together in small, dim rooms. This was the first time that I really felt that I was invading--we were too close to their real lives to have come without invitation. Even worse, we had come as tourists to gawk and leave... I felt strange, though I tried to explain to myself that they are used to it--it is fairly common for tourists to come visit this village. The village does provide accomodations and they also charge visitors a small fee to come, so they do receive some reward for these awkward encounters. I don't know how to judge if it's worth it though. I guess I would have to ask them that. Oh, the good thing about the stilt village was that we got to swim right next to the village--the water is apparantly quite clean in the area, but the leaves that fall into the water turn it this orange-red tea-like color. The water felt great and these two kiddos (who were clearly very comfortable with white tourists) jumped in to play--swimming up to us and bumping their heads against us underwater to scare us. They were so silly and fun--jumping into each of our arms and demanding that we repeat our names to them.

From the stilt village, we went on to Axim beach which was breath-takingly beautiful and relaxing and uneventful. We found this island of rocks and climbed it and watched the waves and the fisherman scattered in their boats accross the water further out.

Goodness! Time passes so quickly here. I tried to begin this a few days ago, and now it is Thursday and so many new things have happened. We're already getting ready for our trip to Kumasi this coming weekend. I think that since the Ghanaian conception of time is more laid back, it is easy to let time get away from you. I have no command of the days as they pass here; days are not controlled by the chores that one finishes or doesn't finish, but instead they are commanded only by the sun and my body's demand for sleep. I have truly been letting this processing of events fall by the wayside as I attempt to accumulate this collection of people and places in Ghana. As I close each of these entries, I am plagued with the feeling that there is so much more than I can tell and that what I do manage to put out there is so much less than the experience itself. Of course.

This will have to do for now: the whole world feels different than before.

2006-02-16T02:20:00.000-08:00

Me and a wendy-gremlin on our way to Koff-town + Boti Falls (a bit thin during the dry season, but beautiful none the less) + hiking around

2006-02-08T09:24:00.000-08:00

Now that I am over the hump, I can confess that this past weekend was the first since I’ve been here that I felt homesick. I woke up on Saturday morning thinking about a leisurely stroll down the drag to Peet’s Tea and Coffee, and perhaps from there to Perry Castaneda (where students are allowed to actually take books out of the library) and perhaps from there to a bench under a tree on campus where I could read until falling asleep, and then catch the bus back home to my Austin house where all my Austin girls live and lounge. (I remember now that it is probably cool in Austin as I write this, though I find that hard to imagine here in Accra, where the constant state is sweaty.) But no, that is not true. The breeze in the evening is perfect. At any rate, I was in a funk on Saturday… I threw myself a pity party and wondered what I was thinking to not be having an amazing adventure on a free Saturday in Ghana. This funk was decidedly cured by Bob Marley’s birthday concert, a huge event that happened in Accra last Sunday evening. Though I am completely ignorant of reggae (outside of redemption song, of course), I was blown away by the power of the music and the impossibility of standing still while listening to it. Damien Marley is ridiculously talented… my horizons are being broadened, and art that I have always felt “too white” for in some silly, self-conscious way, now opens its accepting arms to me.

Speaking of which, from where I exist now, fully outside of my funk, our hip hop theatre class finally held our first practicum today, in which we had a beat-boxing workshop (I learned how to make the percussive bass, snare, high hat sounds with different parts of my mouth… well, I’m working on it) and then our first sypher, in which we stood in a small circle with the larger circle of classmates outside and waited for all of our individual sounds to collaborate and create something coherent to our ears. What an amazing and terrifying experience… The students who have had experience with hip-hop theatre back in New York are going to be a wonderful resource for us here; not only do they bring a great deal of talent and knowledge of the form, but there also seems to be a good sense of these students monitering what's going on in the group--letting the new kids be vocal when we need to be, but also reminding us to pull back, listen, and learn. Theatre kids (in my experience) are pretty anxious to get their word in, to present themselves to the room even when they have little to say, and though I sensed some nervousness about this yesterday, some pushing of the sipher in inadvertantly self-centered directions, I could tell that our more experienced peers among us knew when to bring us back to the moment, asking us to express something relevent to the group in that moment. I am more than excited about this risk... and I'm working now on opening myself up to being foolish and wrong and inexperienced without shame or inhibition. Quite a lofty goal, I know.

Today there is a lot to celebrate. It is Stephane's twenty-first birthday and it also marks one month since our arrival in Accra. After one month, I feel like the gears in my head are finally beginning to spin in a productive way, as I search for how I can possibly be of use to the people around me. I am spending tomorrow visiting schools to figure out where I ought to teach/volunteer over the course of the semseter (which is admittedly, a fourth over) and as my classes are finally turning toward the content of the material (instead of the logistics that have taken up so much discussion over this past month), I am finding ways of connecting my classes and thinking about how this academic knowledge can be used in a practicle way... which is really what I came here to do, so that's good. I think that being here is changing me as a student. There are different requirements, and basically, a higher level of personal initiative is involved. I have been probably overly frustrated with the library at Legon, because students are never allowed to check books out of the library. Rather, they must read the books there or make a photocopy of the entire book (though each time I've been there so far the copier has been broken or closed... though I hear there's a trick to getting a copy made that involves knowing the right name or a great deal of charm or something.) At any rate, back at home, I was the type of student who would check out twenty books at a time because a subject sparked my interest and then I would flip through the first few pages and usually, never pick it up again. I am learning how valuable each book in the library at Legon really is. Many of them are under lock and key. You must show the librarian the call number that you want and he will hand you the book and let you know to bring it back by 4:30. This is also changing the way I read. No longer able to have the material in my hands at all times, I must remember details that strike me. I must jot them down, recall the structure, wording, character names of a piece... these details are not meaningless and cannot just be skimmed over.

Despite this frustration, the Balme Library at Legon has a dusty, antiquated beauty about it. Though it is not air-conditioned, it is always cool, with high shady ceilings, great big open doors for ventilation every few feet, and neat rows of dark wooden desks and chairs. There is no artificial lighting in this library. The students read and take notes quietly and seriously. It a peaceful place... a good place to cool your jets after having been told (for the third time in three days) that the copier is broken... come again tomorrow.

There is much more to say, but as I've had an impossible time actually posting this entry, I'll go ahead and put it out there. This weekend we are travelling as a group to Aburi to see the gardens there, and have a bike tour around the area. Then we're staying over night in Koforidua (about two hours outside of Accra) and heading to Boti falls on Sunday morning, where we will be able to hike and swim (provided the fall is not dry this time of year). I can't wait to take a few days outside of the bustle of the city, and return with my energies renewed... so many books to be copied and read, children to teach, places to ride on my lovely $35-dollar bike.

More to say (and hopefully pictures) soon.

2006-02-01T00:59:00.000-08:00

Me and the wandering beach dog, Pegleg.

2006-01-26T04:29:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I feel like one of those kids who gets everything she wants for Christmas and winds up playing with a box full of packing peanuts all day long. It's a cliche, but it's also true. I have had some amazing experiences so far, experiences that were intended to affect me dramatically and they have. But at the same time, my most joyful moments here have been the simplest.

Last weekend, our entire group travelled to Cape Coast and Elmina in the Central Region of Ghana. We visited a slave castle, and we walked into the rooms where African men, woman, and children were held captive, crowded and hungry and robbed of their lives. We saw the bars on the windows and the door that the captives walked out of, and into fresh air for the first time in many months, then onto a ship that they were even less likely to survive. We saw these things together in the hot darkness of these undergound rooms, which still carry the stench of past wrongs, and we cried and were silent, and then sang a chorus of "never again." When we left, we went to watch a group of wiry children dance traditional african dances. They ran around with the heavy Ghanaian flag to welcome us, and smiled and looked back and forth at one another to remember the steps. As the sun sank last Saturday, we let ourselves be swept up in the ocean until after the sun went down and the sand turned blue with moonlight. We sat at a campfire on the beach and I patted this filthy wandering beach dog who had found our group (we nicknamed him Pegleg) until he fell asleep with his chin on my lap. I was overwhelmed by the fullness of the day.

But what sticks in my memory more even than this was the three hour long bus ride that we took from Accra to Cape Coast, in which we passed numerous small villages, and I was able to quietly look out the window at busy people preparing for the day. We passed men holding tools, fixing bikes or cars or chopping brush away. We saw women with babies sleeping in tight slings on their backs while they hung the wet laundry on lines running between two brown houses. We saw kids playing together in puddles with their smiling mutts, then looking up at us and waving as we passed. I watched two ladies walk home from a funeral--one in black from head to toe and the other all in red. They walked lively together, no sign of mourning in their steps, but with a look of celebration. And the trees, as we passed, grew taller and more dreamlike, these thin telephone poles with green branches reaching strait out from their center across the horizon. I consumed these images as we passed, and turned my head when I needed a longer look. We were on the bus by six a.m. but there was so much to see as we passed that I sacrificed sleep.

But what I mean, about playing with a box on Christmas morning is that the smallest things delight me here and capture my imagination. Yesterday was one of the best that I've had since arriving, but it got off to a pretty bad start. The University of Ghana takes a very long time to organize class schedules, so even though this week was supposed to be the first week of classes, neither of the two I plan to take there have been given a set meeting time. I had spoken with the TA of my Drama in African Societies class to ask when the professor would be holding class and he told me Wednesday from 10:30-12:30, so I took a van over to University of Ghana (was briefly scolded by Esi, Academic director of our program, for my late notice on needing the van, but easily forgiven)... Anyway, I took the van over to Legon only to find that my class was not being held, and furthermore, that Reverend Asiama, my professor, was attending a program over in the African Studies department and would not be available until afternoon. I wandered around campus thinking about the futility of my efforts and drinking cold coke from a straw. I was sweating and decided that I'd had enough for the day. I took a cab into Osu, and "got down" to explore the used bookstore there, which was full mostly of self-help/motivational texts. From there, I walked for half an hour down Cantonments road until I found a man selling these great big woven baskets. I spoke with him for a few minutes... the usual chatter about what I am studying here and how his store is beautiful, etc. I bought a really big basket (to be used as a sort of laundry hamper) for $40,000 cedis, which is about four dollars. Linda, my CRA, tells me that this is a fair price (I was not ripped off), but that I could have gone even lower if I were more persistent. There's always next time.

As I walked back home, everyone I passed smiled at me, and many complimented me on my new basket. Mr. Tago, at the gate of the academic center, told me that it was very nice, and my friend/foe, Joseph, told me that it should be used to store the ingredients to make tea. I am not sure why that is, but I thanked him for the advice. He asked if I would take the basket when I return home in May and I said I wasn't sure. When the conversation turned to its familiar topic (marriage and my contact information) I told him that I could not help him and that I would make him absolutely no promise, except that I would definately leave my basket with him when I went back home in May. By the end of the conversation, we were both cracking up. I thought he was acting rediculous and I think he thought the same of me... that I was a stubborn and silly American, and he laughed and I said, "I like you tooooo much Amelia" and I walked home, chuckling at the enthusiasm that my basket had caused among everyone that I passed.

And that feeling was like Christmas morning, and it's tough to say why. It is nothing that I can take a picture of, and nothing that I can hold onto for days and weeks and months to come, except that the small joys of living in Accra accumulate in me and balance the difficult things (the hunger, poverty, disease, misconceptions.... the annoyance of disorganization at University of Legon and the possible effects that this may have on the morale of the students there, etc.)... It helps me to balance these difficulties without neutralizing their power to change me as well. I may have paid too much, but I am grateful for my basket. I am protected here by the smallest kindnesses and grateful for it all.

2006-01-18T06:26:00.000-08:00

I do not mean to keep anyone in suspense about my life in Accra and the things that I have experienced so far. I arrived about a week and a half ago, and have a sat down to write this entry several times, each time realizing that what I'm writing is so dissatisfying to me. I think that when everything looks and feels new, it is more difficult to interpret the events of the day, difficult to create a story of where my thoughts go. My interactions with people here (as I attempt to ask some small question in Twi) are each little lessons. I walk around like a baby figuring out new ways of interpreting my interactions with people. It is fun, exciting, and mentally exhausting. And then when I sit down to write something, I have no clue what just happened to me or why or what it means.

Enough generalities. Today was a good day. I awoke at nine o'clock, and turned on the water heater, so that I could hop in the shower ten minutes later. My showers are always quick because the water temperature oscillates between cold and scalding, and I must step out of the shower head as I wash and step back in to rinse. Most people in Accra do not have running water in their bathrooms, so we know how lucky we are, and I do not mind my quick showers. Our home itself has become very comfortable. There are four apartments on our compound with a courtyard in the middle. I live in apartment one with seven others, and in my room, there are four of us together. As we have settled in, we've begun reading, studying, chatting and cooking in our place, and after travelling just a bit around Accra, I am realizing how luxurious our place really is. I feel very much at home there, but also quite set apart from the great majority of Ghanaians. A common theme in discussions among all of the NYU students here has been the difficulty of feeling so sectioned off from people and how that may alter the way others think of us and we think of ourselves. I am glad that we are talking about it, and that each of us is actively looking for ways to break out of the residence area as we get to know Accra better. For some of us, this will be through beginning to take public transit (crowded vans called trotros) and for others, it will be through beginning community service... but the general itch for freedom is growing among us.

This morning, I went to University of Ghana, Legon (for the third day this week) to see if the course schedules were posted. At Legon, they post papers up in each different department showing class meeting times and places, and then people sort out their schedules and register on their own. Though registration supposedly began Monday, hardly any course times have been posted. I was able to sit down with Rev. Dorgbadzi, professor of Drama in African Societies, to ask him a few questions about the class. He said that there will be a large element of observation of theatre, and also of dramatic events (he gave the example of a traditional Ghanaian funeral) so that we can explore the line between life and formal theatre, and where that line blurs. I am very excited about this course, and this line of questioning. He told me I will have to work hard and read a lot... I am not used to such a tone, which in America would be immediately labeled condescension. Education will be very different here, and young peoples' relationships with elders also carries a very different obligation here. I will try to learn all I can from Rev. Dorgbadzi without letting my over inflated ego (inflated from studying the U.S.) get in the way of absorbing all that I can.

After Legon, a few of us needed to go to the grocery store. While they were in the Koala market, I walked across the street to a cheaper place, Quic Pic, to get some Omo (laundry soap) and this amazing coconut&pineapple juice that the sell in boxes here. I also got a pineapple from a lady's head, and as I darted accross traffic, bags in hand to meet my friends, I suddenly felt very satisfied. I felt this immense satisfaction of accomplishing such a simple errand. For the cab ride home, we negotiated a price of 10,000 cedis, a little under a dollar, and back at home, I broke open the juice and washed the dishes in the sink. Then I began the ten minute walk from the residence to the academic center, which ended up taking about twenty minutes because I met several people. Victoria and Isaac live on my street, and were interested in why I am here and how I like Accra so far. Then, on the very last bit of my walk, I met up with Joseph, a guard for West Africa Drilling Company who is very serious about finding a white wife. He says that it is his intention to marry a white woman. We went back and forth about what my role should be in finding him a wife (I already told him that I am not going to marry him, and he assures me that he will not bother me about that again) but he does feel strongly that it should be one of my sisters (I don't have any) or a friend from NYU (you'll have to ask them yourself, Joseph). The conversation was silly and took longer than I'd hoped, but I am careful not to promise anything that I cannot deliver. Only that when I see him around the neighborhood, I will say hello.

Judging from this entry, friends and family may believe that I am not doing anything except grocery shopping and walking to my school. In reality, our first week here was jam packed with tourist stuff--we ate out a lot, visited the national museum of Ghana, the Kwame Nkrumah mausoleum, the beach. I had more small, illuminating moments than I can remember and name. This weekend we are travelling to Cape Coast and Elmina. I am very anxiouos to see this area, though I know that it will be difficult. In Ghana's history, this was a major area for slave trade and we will be visiting an old slave port there. The wonderful thing about this group of people, is that they talk incessantly about their ideas and their opinions, and they are full of both... dialogue pours out of these kids, and I find myself (so overly opinionated) often wanting to listen more than I want to speak. If there is any environment in which it is productive to be exposed to the cruelty of history, this is it.

Much more to write and think, as I celebrate the confusion and joy of all of us here together.

Three more days...

2006-01-04T07:11:00.000-08:00

until I'm in the air for many, many hours.

Four more days until I arrive in Accra, the urban capital of Ghana, which will be my home for the next four months. I will be studying Ghanaian theatre and performance and how it relates to larger issues that Ghanains deal with in their every day lives. Beyond academics, I hope that with this trip I will gain a bit of perspective which I intuitively believe can be found only outside the borders of home.

I will try to keep you (friends and family) posted regularly on my discoveries, observations, and feelings so far away from Austin, Texas.

With that said, I'm off on my first big adventure...

My next post will be made from Accra.