AllVol: Incriminating Photos Will be Taken ...

So, I'm sitting in a bank, watching time pass and it only makes sense that I forgot my book. Lucky, I brought my handy-dandy pocket journal (and was smart enough to bring a pencil or this might be worse). So, ladies and gents, as well as clocking the time (and enjoying the air condition), I'm going to tell you about All Voll in the only way I can: the handy-dandy pocket journal pre-blog (it's kind of like pre-gaming, but with a lot less alcohol ...)

Getting to (and from) AllVol was probably the worst part. It always is. It involved 12+ hours to Accra (kind of like the cousin you don't want to acknowledge, but have to in order to win Gran's approval - AllVol is Gran in this situation). On the updis, beside being uber-expensive, I did have some amazing ginger Talapia and some cheap draft beer (thanks to Becky Pfleuger's cravings). Unlike most Saturday nights spent in Accra, it was an early retirement for us ... we would be leaving for Volta early the next morning.

I was impressed, not only with the fact that I can now *deftly* navigate Accra, but the swiftness with which our tro filled on a Sunday. It's a strange phenomenon I've stumbled across: there are never any Ghanaians in sight, but the moment a mass purchase of tickets by travelling o'bronis occurs, it is almost always followed by the sudden appearance of enough Ghanaians to fill all remaining seats. And it is glorious. Every time. So off to Hoe we went ...

The ride through Tema is beautiful (and quite jarring, considering it looks like a suburb of Beverly Hills). Though my ipod was dead, I'm happy to admit that I've grown quite accustomed to staring out of tro windows for unbelievable amounts of time (and with the efficiency of a mule pulling its cart without needing to be whipped for motivation ... the verdict is out on whether or not this is a good thing ...) Aside from having a driver who's childhood dream must have been Nascar, stunt-double, or any other profession where wreckless driving is acceptable (bank robbing?), we got there in one piece. DPT Rob Moler's greeting: "Wow! You all look so healthy!" was met with a quick inventory of existing limbs and a nod of agreement ... if our driver had only had his way ...

Chances Hotel: swimming pool - need I say more? I was poolside before my pack hit the floor. What ensued was the kind of catching up only pool-giddy volunteers drinking palm wine in Ghanaian sun can pull off. Beers were discounted. And we celebrated. I had a girl's night, of course - three to a bed and a channel dedicated to only American movies. It was bliss (and we didn't even need the air conditioner).

Monday began with news of Bin Laden's death, as we crowded around the TV in silence (a few muffled 'Murica's' made their debuts) and shuffled into meet the biggest breakfast most of us have seen in months (three: count them. THREE cups of tea for your's truly). The thing you should know about AllVol (besides the food, and the pool, and the air-conditioning, and prom, and the talent show ...) is that it is, first and foremost, work. They just butter us up first :)

This year was PEPFAR - next year is food security. Though also an opportunity to meet second year volunteers (and reunite with first years), it's a chance to re-energize and motivate to keep going strong. It's exactly the kind of break needed to do both - you'd be hard-pressed to find a volunteer who isn't ready (and excited) to go home after AllVol. (Wow - I just call my site 'home' - teehee!)

Now, I don't want to brag, but WatSan pretty much kicks ass at PEPFAR and HIV-related activities. This being said, it was nice to learn a few things - get new ideas and access new tools. Peace Corps is punctuated, always, by the ability to learn something new. Like a session on MSMs (Men Sleeping with Men) and how to support (or identify) them in rural as well as urban settings. Or getting to experience 'Theatre for Change' and how interactive theatre can be used to teach Ghanaians in a creative, fun way (they do love their drama ...)It was really a great time, regardless of being unused to the 8-5 grind and power-point presentations. But that's not the best part.

You know what the best part of AllVol is? The good ju-ju between old and new volunteers. We had some seriously positive energy; we were 'gellin';' there was a lot of love being thrown around. There was also excitement as we, the newer volunteers, realized we would soon be the 'big fish,' so to speak - the next group comes in June for training.

I couldn't believe it'd almost been a year since I set foot in Ghana, that we would soon be the same fountain of information that the second years were to us (and that the second years would soon be homeward bound - sad face). I suddenly found myself really excited to be welcoming a new group of fresh faces ... and then there was the talent show (and the craft fair) ... (and prom) ...

I was a little disappointed in the lack of a 'bromance' duet from CD Mike and DPT Rob, but we did get bonafide American candy lobbed at our faces so ... it's pretty much a give and take. I decided to make a cheeky re-write of 'I will Survive,' PC Ghana style. It was pretty much a lesson in what happens when rehearsal is limited ... I credit the fun I had fumbling through it to my supportive and forgiving audience (and a purple diva boa). The show as a whole was hilarious and ended with a second year flash dance - an idea I'm pretty sure I'm going to steal next year ... The craft fair left me broke, but happy in a way that only shopping can - I am currently wearing at least two pieces bought that day. And prom was ... well prom. There are plenty of incriminating photos that I will treasure forever and it involved enough dancing that the only way to cool off was to jump into the pool fully-clothed. On at least three seperate occassions. Eventually we ditched the dance floor all together for a dance party in the pool because, in the Peace Corps, we are efficient.

I went to bed sober, but way too late for an 8am departure time to catch a tro to Kamasi. Away from air-conditioning and suffering from severe lack of sleep (let's face it, conference or not, *this guy* likes to socialize), my heat rash made an angry come-back and my mule-like efficiency disappeared with the presence of a toddler who fake-cried for FIVE hours straight on the way to the KSO ... I think Connor honestly considered tossing him out the open window at least a dozen times. None of us would have blamed him :)

I wish we could have stayed at the KSO longer - we were all still feelin' the love, but my AllVol reboot left me anxious to get home (plus I really missed my kitties). Being that any kind of travel in Ghana leaves one exhausted, I passed out in Tamale and barely found the motivation to haul my ass to Bolga the next morning. Home at last, I've had a kitten attached to my lap at all times (and both have taken to following me to the latrine, lest I disappear again). My support group meeting yeilded 50 shining faces and some real bonding time.

I am currently committing myself to no long trips until my mum comes to visit (hi mum!) and I'm happy to be back in the groove. There's nothing like going away for a while to make you realize where you really want to be. And where your kittens really want you to be too. And that, my friends, is what All Vol is all about.

I should also add here that our Youth, Gender, and Development group raised over seventeen hundred cedis with their date auction - when PCV's love, they really LOVE ... by the way, Rob: I'm winning that date next time!

Until next time
xx

My Friend With HIV is Still My Friend

I have found some new friends - fifty of them, in fact. Sometimes their numbers ebb, sometimes they swell, but my friends are always there to meet me every Sunday at 2:00pm. My new friends are all HIV positive.

Most of them are punctual, arriving even before I do - all of them always greet me with a shining smile. We start with an opening prayer, always led by a different friend, and then I proceed to teach a lesson. The lesson is different every week and while I fake it really well, I'm just pretending to know what I'm doing. I teach straight out of a book.

Like any class, there are the same few 'students' (though I'd rather call them friends) who actively participate, but all of them are always listening. I can't quite figure out why they, so faithfully, hang on my words (and Joe's), but I'm grateful that they do. I am humbled, in fact, every minute I spend leading these lessons - floating above this capable, commanding, knowledgable person I become every Sunday at 2:00pm.

You see, we started a support group, Joe and I. The capable, commanding, knowledgable teacher exists because she needs to - she provides them with the answers to their questions without judgment (a commodity in a country with such high stigma). Sometimes it's hard to believe the stories I hear, the way they are treated by the very people who's job it is to help and educate. They look at me and say, "If you saw me on the street, you'd never know I was HIV positive. You'd treat me like a normal person."

I suppose that's why we're friends - I do consider them normal people. And I guess that's why they're so eager to meet with me every week - they get to be free. There's no stigma amongst friends: my friend with HIV is still my friend, as the saying goes...

Friends exchange stories; friends laugh and smile with each other; friends seek answers and advice from one another - there is nothing friends do that we don't, every Sunday at 2:00pm. I am convinced it's not a support group they need, anyway. The word 'support group' suggests an inequality between us - the helper and the lesser fortunate who are helped. I am learning just as much from them as they are from me and, if that isn't a friendship, I've been wrong for most of my life. All any of us ever needs is a friend.

Lucky me: I've just gained fifty.

Is that a ... Snail Kebab?



I’m a firm believer in travel buddies. In other words, I believe the success of any trip depends on the people involved. In Ghana, where traveling anywhere can take a few hours or a few days (and neither is predictable), this rule has become my golden.

A close friend of mine, Chris Adams, had been organizing his town’s first Kente Festival for quite some time. Being that I’d never been to the Volta Region, I decided to do two things: 1.) Support his fabulous efforts and 2.) Finally visit the region so many of my friends inhabit. To my delight, I realized my road-trip would be complemented by three girls – Katie, Kimmy, and Zoe – all of which can make anything sound fun, even ‘travel-ankles.’

I met Katie first, showing up late to Tamale, to share a bus to Kamasi. What seemed to be bad luck – an empty independent bus, which prompted an ill-fated attempt to find a quicker-filling metro bus – turned out to waste the perfect amount of time. The independent bus, upon our return, was no longer empty – in fact, we were buying the last few seats available. Score one: out of Tamale by 2:00pm.

Travel in Ghana is usually supplemented by terrible Nigerian films. This can either be endlessly amusing or unbelievably frustrating (both of which largely depend on whether or not sleep is involved). They tend to be played loudly, badly recorded, painfully acted, and terribly long. Katie and I hardly noticed. In fact, if I were ‘a betting man,’ I’d say it’s highly possible we annoyed the Ghanaians around us by ignoring (and talking over) both films accompanying our seven-hour, air-conditioned cruise. I don’t know about you, but I think not noticing the same seven hours your ankles do is a pretty great experience in travel-buddy-ism … Score Two: time-travel.

A small side-note: I have to say that Kamasi is my least favorite city in Ghana. It’s half the size of Accra and yet, as quickly as I figured out Accra, Kamasi makes no sense to me. I usually avoid it at all costs; unfortunately, it was unavoidable. We ended up spending too much money on a cab to take us straight to the sub-office - there was no way I was getting lost in Kamasi.

The Peace Corps Sub-office, as well as being a place housing bunk-beds and a kitchen, offers an endless supply of stimuli. I usually become temporarily insomnia-tic and this visit was no exception. After meeting up with Kimmy and Zoe, checking our watches and realizing it was already after midnight, we decided to pull an all-nighter – departure the next night would be at 6:00am. Of course, I ended up falling asleep at 4:15am, face-first in a triple-sized coffee mug with American Tale playing in the background ... Kimmy was stronger than all of us.

Kamasi, as well as having streets I’m convinced rearrange themselves at will (think stair-cases at Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry), is very close to Accra. This means incoming traffic is plentiful and, in the case of tro-tros, seriously lacking empty seats. In order to get to the corresponding tro-station, we finally flagged down another expensive cab and bumped our way through NYC-worthy traffic to 2-Pac (which ended up canceling each other out, making Kamasi startlingly neutral on the hate-scale).

Once the tro to HoHoe (Ho-hoy) was identified, tickets and breakfast were bought, and we were effectively squished in, I glanced over and made a startling find: the book. You’d be mistaken to assume this book is ‘good’ or otherwise related to the Christian religion. It is, in fact, the source of all awkward love-texts sent by Ghanaians to PCVs and Ghanaian love-interests alike. I have, on several occasions, wondered how Ghanaian men (who supplement their text-vocabulary with things like ‘2,’ ‘4,’ ‘dis,’ and ‘eva’) seemed so suddenly eloquent and rhymed. Apparently this was how.
Zoe: “OH MY GOD! You found the book!! KIMMY!! BUY ONE!!”
Kimmy: “I’m buying TWO!!”



Naturally, we spent the next hour reading all manner of inappropriate paragraphs out-loud. I was certain (though they secretly had to be enjoying the ridiculousness of it all) we’d gain a tro full of enemies by the time we reached Kpandu. Thankfully, I was wrong. For the remaining seven hours, we (and our elephant ankles) managed to entertain the entire tro; they couldn’t get enough of our stories, our strange ways of stretching the not-built-for-travel-o’broni-muscles, and enjoyment of everything (from Volta cuisine to being rained on through the open back door). I think Zoe racked up a few marriage proposals getting out, while Kimmy had managed to convince the driver to back-track on command (we missed the drop). As we waved them off (and scrambled to find somewhere, not public or bush-like, to relieve more than seven hours of water consumption), we dodged traffic and caught the next tro. Tro, private car, and a short walk later, we arrived at Chris’s site just past night-fall. The drumming and dancing had begun – perfect timing.

If you know anything about me, you know I love any kind of sporadic beat-related movement. If you know anything about Africa, you know that, as a continent, it is perfectly suited for any number of beat/shaking/Emma duets. Katie was first (something we’ve all come to expect, after many-a-dance-sesh during training), Zoe was next (quite the natural, she knocked the socks off of every Ghanaian there), and then me (as I enticed almost all of the remaining volunteers to join in the boogie). The well-planned drum-circle attracted a big enough crowd to air Chris’s debut as a rather convincing travel host in his short tourism film. After which, having a large screen and projector at their mercy, the Ghanaians decided to hold a private screening of The Passion of Christ.



It’s right about then that we took our leave … you know … because there was a lot of catching up to do (not because my skin was itching in an almost-guaranteed explosion of human combustion). After several hours of catching up, half of us snuck back to Chris’s house for some much needed rest. I haven’t slept so well in a long time – seriously, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

As most PCV events go, the O’broni sets a schedule and the Ghanaians sleep in. Considering we had some time to kill (and Chris seemed okay with it), a dozen of us decided to visit the Monkey Sanctuary down the road (after we watched Chris, donning a traditional Chief’s outfit, walk with the Chief’s procession through the town, of course). The monkey sanctuary was filled with adorable displays of desperation-for-banana, a pleasant stroll through a forest housing trees larger than my house, and, New Orleans worthy brass from the very large funeral procession being held. After seeing tie-dye batik (and wooden penis carvings) at the gift shop, we returned to the festival just in-time to see it kick off.

The festival, complete with a speech from Country Director, Mike Koffman, and closing comments from Christopher, himself, was fantastic – I really enjoyed participating in his success. Afterwards, we were offered some amazing southern Banku (which, if prepared right, tastes like cheddar cheese) and relaxed. Our game of Phase Ten was rudely interrupted by some seriously ominous-looking thunder clouds, and so the party moved to the safety of Chris’s gargantuan home (with the promise of more fabulous southern cooking). Once again, my head hit the pillow after I was asleep as my body (and almost-normal-looking ankles) prepared for another long journey back home. This time, Katie and I would try to make it to Tamale in one day.

Perhaps it isn’t only the travel buddies you bring along, but the collective luck they bring with them – we had pretty amazing luck again. Catching two tros almost immediately, we were on our way to HoHoe by 7:00am. Because it was Sunday, the car to Kamasi was attending church with its owner, so we snagged four of the last seats in a tro for Koforidua – our old haunt during training. Eating a typical Ghanaian breakfast – a mixture of beans, rice, noodles, and hot sauce – we were on the road again by 9:00am. Over the next four hours I played hide and seek with Zoe’s toddler-neighbor, took-in enough greenery-includes-mountains scenery to last me a few months, and tried the local finery: snails a la’ kebab (which kind of taste like mushrooms, if you ignore the fact that, in addition to rubbery bodies, you’re also munching on the same squishy snail eyeballs you used to poke repeatedly as a child).

Kof was exactly as I remembered it, though the love affair was short-lived as we were hussled into a surprisingly plush tro. Aptly named a ‘hit-it-and-quit-it,’ we were hurtling down the highway in the direction of my nemesis, Kamasi, within five minutes.
(Sorry, Kof, I’ll call you soon: I promise!) 

Much quieter this time, we passed the hours with gossip and PCV-catch-up, until Zoe and Kaming (Kimmy had business in Accra) went in the direction of The House of Excess Stimuli while Katie and I continued to the Tamale station. Mixing the stations up, we arrived just in time to buy the first two tickets of the next bus leaving for Tamale (Damn you, Kamasi, you thwart me again). We hunkered down, refusing to sit until we absolutely had to, and made small-talk with anyone within ear-shot. By night-fall (8:00pm, and three hours after we’d arrived), the bus was finally full (mostly with Kayayo) and we calculated we’d be in Tamale by 3:00am. Much more boring by comparison, this bus ride involved lots of uncomfortable-napping attempts (thank God there was no TV – no Nigerian films) and, right on the money, we arrived in town by 3:30am. Which was just in-time to see people waking up for morning prayers, but not late enough to warrant cheap cab-fare. By the time we walked in the door, no amount of stimuli could keep me from passing out immediately (and practically in the doorway). We’d made it – there’d be plenty of stimuli to process in the morning, elephant ankles and all.

xx

Here Comes My Girl: A Feminist in Ghana

Feminism in Ghana is a subject I've wanted to talk about for quite a while, but wasn't sure how to approach without sounding culturally insensitive, angry, or both. Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of great changes occuring that I'm lucky to be able to witness, but feminism still has a very long way to go - even for one of the most advanced countries in Africa.

I may be a woman living in Ghana, but I'm also a white, American woman. There's no doubt in my mind that I'm given a lot more consideration because of these two facts. I can only imagine what it's like to be a Ghanaian woman so, naturally, I'm inclined to constantly observe. Of course, being that I am, above all things, equipped with a xx chromosome, I am offered an array of experiences, myself (which I will get to momentarily).

Historically, Ghana is considered matrilineal because it's largest ruling tribe, the Ashanti, follows a matrilineal tradition. As one moves away from the Ashanti region, however, it becomes clear that the rest of Ghana (like most of the world) is patrilineally inclined. It seems that, over time, as the influence of Christianity and Islam grew over Traditionalism, so did the 'culture of man.' Since I am almost as far north as one can get, its safe to say that my experience, being the feminist that I am, has been akin to time travel.

The issue of gender equality exists somewhere in-between the rush toward modernization and a desire to keep with very strong cultural traditions. This causes a great amount of tension because it means challenging a lot of long-standing beliefs tied mostly to religion. Unlike America, Ghana hasn't had ninety years of practice between 'serve thy husband' and equal rights. It's clear that women, and Ghana as a whole, very much want to move forward - they're ready to embrace the kinds of opportunities that come with change - but it's hard for women to define a more 'modern self' within the context of their traditional roles (sound familiar?). Add to this the fact that some men can be threatened by such movements and you end up getting a petri-dish teeming with activity.

I can only speak for myself, of course, but speak, I will:

As a rule, female volunteers recieve marriage proposals almost daily. In the very least, Ghanaians are simply curious about our personal lives, and generally they mean no harm. But there is always at least one person who is legitimately concerned that, at my age, I remain unmarried and without children. Many young girls in Ghana get pregnant before they finish high school, sometimes sooner ... so it seems odd to them that, even though I'm not married, I don't have at least one child waiting for me back home. Small girls becoming pregnant is almost an expected occurance, which makes it a lot harder to motivate parents in rural areas to combat what they consider inevitable.

When I tell people that I neither want to be married, nor am I ready to have children, I get anything from confusion to outright anger and it's always implied that there must be something wrong with me for being perfectly satisfied on my own. They usually insist on offering their services (only half-jokingly) and so far, I have collected so many potential husbands (and possible impregnations) that if I found myself in a pickle, I'd have my pick of the litter!

I recently spoke with a male volunteer about gender relations and, being a teacher, he mentioned a girl he was attempting to encourage back into school, into anything really. Her response each time was to laugh it off, while her mother explained that all she need to do was pray for God to bring her a man she could marry. They were more concerned with her ability to wash clothes, than the fact that an education was a great thing to have as well as a husband.

In America we have the luxury of education and the option to marry, we get to enjoy both - the ability to pursue our passions and tap into our potential without settling or neglecting our desire to be loved. In Ghana, women aren't expected to go very far in school - at a certain age it becomes more important to perfect their house-making skills. Sometimes, a woman will be expected to test her baby-making skills; it's not unusual for a man to get his girlfriend pregnant before marrying her just to make sure she can have children. (Of course, if the couple doesn't get married, she's left with an illigitimate child, and can face problems in her next relationship.) Sometimes very little love exists, the arrangement is strictly an endeavor for procreation, and cheating is rampant.

Divorce is very, very unlikely, but if it does occur, it leaves a woman with barely anything. In the even of a divorce, she leaves the house with exactly what she came with. In very traditional communities it's likely she'll never see her children again, her husband gets sole custody and (culturally) his new wife becomes their only mother. Sometimes, when a disagreement or fall-out occurs between husband and wife, he finds a new one. In my experience, this leaves the shunned wife cut-off from his monetary support and leads to a strained existence between her and the new wife. 

In my village the men and women are farmers by profession. I see the women work all day, all year round, juggling their time between house-hold duties, the children (which includes all children within the household, not just their birth-children), and undertaking any side-projects that will bring them extra income. A few of the men work full-time for the state, but for the most part the most I see a man do during dry season is to follow the shade of the tree he's sleeping/drinking/playing games under. Sometimes it's really hard for me to observe the disparity, to see their general indifference in supporting their wives endeavors. With no job to speak of and a 'healthy' appetite for the local alcohol, I often wonder if the money their wives work so hard to procure is their main source of funds.

With as much as the women work, there are very specific ideas that go along with that work. When I was painting my world map, I received confirmation from a local painter that he would help me do the work for the price of a lunch. We settled on the following week, but Monday came around and my painter did not ... Tuesday came around and my painter did not ... Wednesday came around and I biked to Bolga, bought a few large brushes and a roller (the supplies he originally agreed to provide), and set to work painting the wall myself. It took a few days to finish, but I was able to lay the ground-work ... and attract a little attention while I was at it.

I was told by my neighbor that labor is a man's job. More than once in the span of a week. It became clear to me that my inclusion into that world offended him, so I told him that I'd wanted to paint the wall, that I'd enjoyed doing the work, and that I'd had asked a man to do the work with me, but he'd never come ... still, he couldn't accept that, instead of paying someone to do it for me (I am white, after all), I had finished the work on my own. His justification for his disbelief was that I was weaker, so I should stay in the house and hire a man. Because that's the way it is. I told him that I didn't mind bending the rule (it's what I'm here to do, after all). We then had a lengthy conversation about feminism, women's roles, and equality - you can't imagine how much I enjoyed that conversation, considering its unexpected cause. Of course, it's not always enjoyable.

His resistance was, in-part, playful and he was willing to have a discussion in the first place; sometimes my interactions are unpleasant, almost aggressive. Most men are cordial - being a volunteer, I tend to attract a lot of attention - but being a female can get me into a lot of uncomfortable situations, despite my 'visitor' status. Heading projects in a male-dominated society can be difficult when the people I'm trying to advise don't consider my opinion informed or useful. My degree doesn't change a thing, even if I'm in a room full of people with high school degrees.

Though I'm not unused to being considered a sexual object in America, I'm very unused to being seen as little else. I've have had to bite my tongue more than once when comments strayed beyond the realm of 'appropriate.' An example? One man, having spotted me in a car next to his, proceeded to tell me he would like to drive me to Sherigu to visit my house (this normally isn't unusual); he then proceeded to tell me he expected privacy when he came into my room. He was not playing coy - he likened me to a prostitute and there wasn't much I could do about it besides denying his request. I've run into my fair share of Ghanaian men who are personally insulted when I don't give them my phone number upon request (or stop at their hissing, for that matter). Most times it's easy to brush off (or quickly peddle past), but it's an issue that's currently on the brain. I've spent my life in an existence of freedom and power that many women in Ghana will never encounter. It motivates me to work toward change.

America is far from perfect, feminism still has a place, even if it's met with dislike, at worst distain. In some ways, being that I focused on women's history in school, I'm glad the role of feminism in Ghana is new and legitimate. It's still considered important and useful, which allows me to actively focus on the things I find interesting and important. There are men and women, alike, in America who think we've somehow managed to solve gender issues, that feminism is outdated and useless. Though I'm met with an entirely different kind of resistance here, it's nice to be surrounded by active motivation, rather than toleration - at least there's a reason for resistance in Ghana. America has no real excuse for the way it regards feminism.

Sometimes it's extremely frustrating to be patient, to realize that it will take time for Ghana - and Africa - to change. It can be challenging to be considered less in worth than I am, to be demoted to a second-class citizen simply because I sport different equiptment.

This is why my time here is a journey - for everyone. We are all learning. I think, in the end, my neighbors have begun to appreciate my insistance to do things on my own; they often comment on my strength and my ability. I get to have conversations about gender with people who consider my views foreign, but are willing to consider them. It's a step in the right direction. Most importantly, my presence here is enough to dispel a number of traditional gender myths, I have the potential to inspire a lot of young girls and boys (women and men) to change the system.

If there's anything I'm willing to do, it's rattle the cage. I just have to settle for doing it patiently.

xx

There's Something About PC Ghana ...



This is really hard to explain without sounding like a Hallmark card, but I’m going to try:

There’s something about Peace Corps Ghana that’s caused me to see the world in slightly better, slightly brighter colors ... it’s like being re-introduced to myself.

I didn’t apply because I was soul-searching, but a few welcomed changes have begun to occur. Stealthy and gradual, they reveal themselves in quiet moments like bursts of light through a darkened room. I’m recognizable but my tone has changed. Every experience is like a tiny game of cellular Tetris, shifting and settling until the board fills up – in this case, I can’t lose.

Even if one doesn’t complete service, failure isn’t possible. It’s not about winning or losing, staying or going; it’s about learning something. And no matter how long you stay, no matter what you do while you’re here: you will learn something. That’s the thing about the Peace Corps, the great mystery of the ‘journey.’ One has this magnificent opportunity, like any great leap of faith, to examine two things: the world and oneself.

At some level this is why we all apply, why we’re all willing to challenge ourselves for the better part of two years … I guess it comes down to whether or not we choose to recognize that a journey has occurred and that it was worth it.

I’m of the mind to take everything in stride – even on the worst day. There is always something worth laughing about, something worth leaving the house for - a high-five from the little guy who used to cry when he saw me, the possibility of a Ghanaian understanding American sarcasm, or the people who've learned my name as I pass them on my way to town. If there’s one piece of advice I’d give to new volunteers, it’d be that every day should be taken as an opportunity to greet the world as an old friend and yourself as a stranger.

Sometimes, I come across things I don’t like, but as journeys go, that’s par for the course. More often than naught I realize there are things about myself that I love, things I want to share and develop and adopt permenantly. If there’s one truth I’ve found during my service so far, it’s that if I can survive an open market every three days: I can rule the world.  

So, here's to the self-explorer, the world explorer, and the eternal student: you're always welcome here.
xx

Animal Farm: Ghanaian Edition

-->

Animals

 If the animals in Ghana serve any purpose, it is, in the very least, to be the comic relief of volunteers. I’m not talking about the ‘African’ animals you see in national parks and calendars; I mean the every day kind of animals you find in a farming village. Take goats, for instance ...

Pigmy Goats:
While staring out the window of a moving vehicle, it’s quite common to see a number of goats doing a number of things. What catches the eye is that most of them (if not playing ‘chicken’ with your automobile) are balancing on top of things - strange things.

There is the neatly stacked pile of bricks (which happens to be tall enough to cause a double-take and immediate rejection of its possibility); the rather narrow porch wall (which offers the option of a view, but is rarely ever utilized because goats always prefer to stare at a very specific spot on the wall); or, as I was lucky enough to see a few weeks ago, the various ‘peaks’ of a parked farm vehicle (the highest of which is maybe eight feet off of the ground and houses a rather pleased, but preoccupied, goat – I can only assume he’s wondering how he’s going to get down).

They are the most amazingly ridiculous creatures. I catch them constantly – frozen, mid-chew, and staring suspiciously at anything non-goat-like moving within thirty feet (most of the time it’s me). They're prone to making loud, startling noises, while stealthy perched beneath bedroom windows at 5am and have inspired a little game we like to call ‘Goat or Baby?’ You’d be amazed at how many times we're wrong.

When they mate it’s even worse. For days, all you hear is the scuttle of hooves making a continuous circle around the same building (unless they get caught in a corner – which they do), while the males make absurd mating calls that range from “Was that a fart?" to “Goat? Baby … wait … goat; definitely goat.”

I’m prone to picking up their newborns – adorably narrow little things that go around, butting their heads against other adorably narrow little things. They get these hilarious spikes of energy which send them trouncing about with, what seems to be, very little control over any of their limbs. They aren’t very fast (mainly because they’re not very coordinated) and they’re quite easy to catch. When caught they usually produce a loud, startled little scream (which, in turn, causes their mothers to panic, walk back and forth hurriedly, and also scream loudly). This never fails to be amusing.

I like to think of them as stubby little practical jokes, put here to remind us not to take things too seriously. It could always be worse, right? Imagine having to live with the urge to climb everything and anything, despite its dimensions or your dainty little hooves. How awkward would that be?

Guinea Fowl:
How, oh how, should I describe the Guinea Fowl? First of all, they’re ugly. They looks like a cross between a Turkey and the Dodo bird (except something went terribly wrong and not only did they all come out the size of a chicken, but they managed to get a feathered bed skirt wrapped around their legs).

Secondly, they’re stupid – I don’t know how they survived before humans domesticated them – they don’t even raise their own young. Farmers have to foster them with chicken mothers. So, along with all the normal chickens and chicks, you end up seeing the inevitable “foster mom” with hordes of baby Guinea Fowl gathered closely around her. She has no idea – even after they get much bigger than her (rendering her little more than a chicken-sized pocket amidst a crowd of ugly, squawking bed skirts).

They can’t fly very far … not that they don’t try: I’ve walked into my kitchen quite a few times to see a long line of Guinea Fowl who have, for some reason, found it necessary to wrap themselves along my wall. Sometimes they even managed to get up onto the rooftops. Many mornings have started, not by alarm clock, but by a dozen of The World's Most Ambitious Guinea Fowl clumsily plodding across my unforgiving tin roof. A friend of mine likened the little bastards to a creature someone designed for a video game; they neither look real, nor is their a shortage of them.

Only last week, I looked up into the tree towering over my latrine and, much to my amazement, found myself looking at a handful of Guinea Fowl bums that had managed to lodge themselves onto a branch ... I’m now waiting for one of them to come tumbling down onto my head one of these days - give the lizards a break …

Donkeys:

I know, donkeys aren't exactly exotic, but in America, we don’t have the privilege of donkeys being tied to a post every twenty yards. It makes one hell of a difference. Have you ever heard a donkey expound loudly on his philosophies concerning life? It starts out really strong – you can hear it a mile off – and ends, prematurely, in a ‘huff’ that sounds as though he gave up on whatever it was he thought was so interesting in the first place. Luckily, I have a wall around my house and, soon, it will even boast a working gate, but Kirsten and JJ told me of their frightful encounters of the donkey-kind. Their first few months were peppered with late-night incidents, startled into consciousness by the ungodly racket coming from a donkey-shaped blotch in the window. Unlike flies, you can’t swat the ramblings of a donkey away with a hand, which only makes them more zealous to include you in their cause.

Sometimes they toss out the idea of speaking in full sentences – squeaking in what sounds to be the voice of an un-oiled door, opening and alerting you of its presence. Perhaps they don’t want to discuss the merits of their full thesis today, but want you to know that it (and all other ideas of particular worth) will be up for debate tomorrow morning. They’ll wait for you near the stream, at the third tree to the right (though they’ll be there all day, having been tied to a post, if you’re going to be late).

Sometimes a few of them will sprint away, chasing after each other in the distance – dust ballooning up around their ragged forms while they engage in one of two dances: the ‘I-want-you-to-have-my-babies’ tango and the ‘then-you’re-going-to-have-to-catch-me’ foxtrot. Both of which are exceedingly elegant, if elegant were the word you’d used to describe a drunken brawl in broad daylight.

Endlessly amusing unless they’re decimating your tomato patch, they are left to wander during dry season, which turns them into traveling professors, heading to a discussion of untapped wisdom with a panel of flies (probably the very same who frequent my latrine). Today, after having a discussion about the various things yelled at me whenever I leave my house, I decided that, maybe, all they're saying is: "Salaminga! Buy me bread!" or "Salaminga! Give me your bike!" or "Salaminga! BAH BYEEEEEEE!" (although I don't know what a donkey would do with a bike). Maybe they leave life's secrets to the flies and their latrines ...

I can, at least, take comfort in the fact that their machinations are limited to daylight hours, at least four feet away from my bedroom window, and are barred from wandering in and out of my yard (unlike the children) … though I do wonder, sometimes, what it is their arguing about.

The Peace Corps Guilt Complex

Forget what they told you in Sunday school – the Catholic Church ain’t got squat on the Peace Corps.

Ask any volunteer, currently serving or recently returned, and they’ll tell you that, along with life-changing experiences and the opportunity to be useful to the world, serving in the Peace Corps produces a particular brand of guilt – guilt a lá Peace Corps. It’s a constant companion, causes a continuous ‘project-piggy-back’ affect, and is usually accompanied by the words, “What have I done recently?” and “Did I really just watch all twenty seasons of Lost in two months?”

Peace Corps guilt: it’s the reason most of us never sleep-in past sunrise; why some of us refuse to ask anyone for help; and why we all wish we more to say than, “well I negotiated the crap out of the lady selling tomatoes today ..." to anyone back home.

After applying, I’m sure the majority of us didn’t think we’d be flying in and out of burning buildings or performing heroic, life-saving acts all the time (Who am I kidding? My cape is sitting unused at the back of my closet as I type), but I’m willing to bet more than half of us expected an ‘existential, blow-your-mind’ kind of moment every day. What actually ends up occurring is a series of simple, personal changes – the kind only really noticed from afar. But, in the absence of sudden and constant existentialism, we fall into this bizarre, PC limbo: measuring our successes in grand gestures, rather than recognizing the significance of baby steps. I guess we require an adjustment of expectations.

Volunteering in the Peace Corps comes with a fair amount of expectations; usually they're held by volunteers and their families, but can affect anyone who happens to pass one of those epic Peace Corps posters which incite thoughts like “I’ll be changing lives!" or "Give me twenty-seven months and I'll change the world!!"

Both of those statements are absolutely true, but their occurrence is likely to be subtle; many of us won’t see the behavior change we work to achieve. This doesn’t mean it won’t occur, but the things we teach and strive for are not designed to give immediate gratification – it’s much more valuable. More realistic is the fact that our lives will be changed, that we will come back different.

On an average day, I might spend less than five hours outside; maybe I'll have a bad language and want nothing more than to watch Harry Potter continuously; maybe all I’ve done in six months is piggy-back someone else’s projects and, sometimes, it’s all I can do just to understand the ever-changing relationships around me. Most of what I get into is the same stuff I did back home – I read a lot, I watch a lot of movies, I play board games and do crossword puzzles. I figured I'd end up doing these things, but I always imagined they'd be the punctuation marks of a really epic, life-changing, adventurous sentence, rather than the other way around.

Having been at site for six months, I can grasp the concept that having two real friends is a big success or that leaving the house to fetch water is a legitimate, cultural activity, but the grandiose expectation I created for myself can still make me feel like it’s still not ‘enough.’

So how am I supposed to combat this daily struggle? How is it that I keep from sinking into the quicksand of PC guilt? I guess it’s best to 'keep it simple, stupid." So, embark with me, if you will, out West - into the landscape of simply keeping it simple:
Do I talk to people regularly? (check)
Do I learn new words, even if I'm unsure how to use them? (check)
Do I make an effort to be involved in cultural displays/festivals/activities? (check)
Do I enjoy myself, even on a boring day? (check)
Do people know my name? (check)
Have I recently invited all the children to watch Harry Potter WITH me as I learn to weave baskets with them??? (double check plus, plus, plus and cultural bonus points)

... you see? It all counts, really. As long as I keep doing this - writing about it and sharing it and making it significant, I can't really go wrong right? I mean, I've achieved almost half of my to-do-list (the one I OCDingly wrote within my first weeks here) and I don't even feel the need to check things off or compare anymore. It's all in the name of progress!!

I guess, sometimes, I forget that, even on a ‘boring’ day, it’s likely I’m doing things that are completely out of the ordinary. If I'm being honest with myself, it's not really boring either: every day is a little adventure into what will hopefully become awesome (grandiose and flighty) stories that I tell my grandchildren (they can decide for themselves which parts are exaggerated and/or completely fabricated) ...

xx