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

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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

Christmas Update

... it's late, but it's here
xx

Hello everybody!

I’m not usually one for mass emails or Christmas letters, but considering there are so many wonderful, supportive people out there, I thought it’d take much less time (and a lot less copying and pasting) to write all of you at once. Keep in mind this doesn’t mean I appreciate you less as individuals (wink, smile combo). I may very well have enough time on my hands to write one hundred individual letters within a few days, quite frankly, I’m feeling a bit lazy (which may have something to do with the bike ride to and from Bolga). So forgive me just this once.

I hope this email finds you well and surrounded by fluffy, white landscapes – if there’s one thing I’m missing right now, it’s being able to drink a cup of hot chocolate without sweating amounts equal to my weight. Right now it’s Harmattan. This means no rain, lots of excess dirt particles floating around (requiring me to sweep multiple times a day and making clean toes a distant possibility that may or may not have ever existed), but surprisingly chilly nights. They’re lovely (like, require a fleece blanket lovely) and, because I know they’ll not last much longer, I drink them in and stay in bed as long as possible (which isn’t as easy as it sounds when you live in-between two family compounds the size of Texas). Soon it will be dry season, which is without the blissfully cold nights. I plan on spending the hottest few weeks (when the temperatures reach well over 100 degrees and Africa provides limited tree coverage) sprawled out in front of my tiny fan, melting into the cement floor. Ghanaians love hearing this, by the way, because they like to insist it’s not a biological possibility – I think they worry for my sanity.

I’ve just returned from my In-Service Training and, after learning about how to write proposals for grant money and where to find them, I’m really motivated again. I hear this happens after any mid-service training, but I’m lucky to have a really motivated supervisor and I have no doubt that, in the very least, he will pester me until I write what needs to be written. My first project is going to be a world map on the side of a school computer lab (built by the last volunteers) – complete with a red ribbon, a few HIV/AIDS statistics, and health lessons for the students. I’m hoping my fellow volunteers will help in this. Next it’s a monthly radio show on AIDS related issues pertaining to gender and youth with my supervisor and, hopefully, the big project of the next year is a People Living with HIV/AIDS support group in Sherigu – complete with income building projects to help pay for medication and the acquisition of an office. I’m starting the process of this next week, so I’ll keep you updated on the status of these projects (and the amount of hair I have left).

I’m starting to feel much more confident in my village (and with the thought of village life). I truly enjoy every easy (who am I kidding?), difficult (that’s more like it), and challenging minute here. I’m so glad I ran full speed in the direction of this dream – I even have an idea of what I want to do when I get home. Learning as much as I can from this experience is as easy as remembering my humility (which isn’t hard when I’m constantly embarrassing myself). Sometimes it’s difficult struggling between my new, adoptive culture and the one I brought with me, but I can predict a lot of behavior now (which I think is a step in the right direction when it comes to accepting that behavior). I haven’t done anything really significant, just yet, but I’m working on it. Just living here is pretty cool, if I’m being honest. I could do absolutely nothing of value (by way of proposal writing and projects) and I’d still be completely satisfied with the fact that I managed to immerse myself into a completely different reality (and survived). This marks a change in how I’ve viewed my time here (though this is an ever-changing, yo-yoing feeling) and I’m quite proud to graduate out of anxiety-class and into acceptance of my life here.

What’s an average day in the life of Emma? I wake up, often to the pounding of children at my door wanting art supplies for the day, and sweep my house. I drink my British tea and then I hang out. Hanging out usually involves reading – a lot – and sitting under lots of trees with people doing nothing but listening to them talk (and trying to follow along). Sometimes I head into Bolga (the district capital of my area) and spend a few hours near internet connection, a mostly-English speaking population, and white people. I can speak simply in the local language and I can understand what’s spoken slowly (which is really exciting when I get it right). I have two cats, both of which are pregnant a majority of the time, and two kittens I’ve yet to find homes for from the last batch. Soon after Christmas I’ll be fixing up my house and finally making it something I’d like to live in (versus squat in).

So, that’s my end of the world. A lot slower paced that what you must be experiencing. If you’d like, I’d love to hear from you – tell me how you’re doing, what’s new in your world – in America, everything. It’s comforting to have normal conversation, so anything you’ve got: throw my way. I miss everyone and I appreciate all of the support I get. It gets a little lonely being the only white person within a five mile radius sometimes, so you’re emails, Facebook messages, and (sometimes) packages are the highlight of my day when I get them. I know I am slow to respond sometimes, but know that you are all in my thoughts and I miss everyone. Think of me – sans a white Christmas and sweating my non-existent balls off – and I will be sure to think of you while I’m singing Christmas Carols with the other volunteers in a week.

Thanks again, La eni fii (small time)
Emma

The Price of Four Condoms

If there’s one thing I’ve managed to do in the last three months, I have, in the very least, managed to spread the rumor amongst young men that I sell condoms for cheap.

My under-the-table drug store transactions started when I realized the previous volunteers had – after holding multiple AIDS campaigns and hosting plenty of condom demonstrations – left me with about one-thousand condoms and a wooden penis. Now, I know full well that a girl’s got to have a little fun every now and then, but what the hell was I going to do with a thousand condoms?

I know! I thought, I could sell them to the neighborhood kids for a cheaper price than they can argue their way out of! I didn’t want to get into the habit of giving them out for free because I didn’t want these boys to fall out of the habit of buying them – I would simply make my house a better alternative than wandering over to the drugstore where their pharmacist new them (and their parents) intimately well. Why not just cut out the middle man? And when I’ve raised enough money, why not spend it on something small for the village?

When we spring cleaned the house, I made sure to mention my overabundance of free condoms and my intention to sell them for an affordable price to anyone who needed them. I wanted to encourage their use and the fact that I wouldn’t judge these kids because they were making the right choice.

For the first few months not much happened, except that I stared at a giant box of condoms sitting underneath my writing desk. In fact, after two and a half months, I had kind of given up on the idea – maybe it was too embarrassing for the boys to buy condoms from a girl, a white girl, and a new member of the community … maybe they already got free condoms somewhere else … and then, one night at 2:30am, I woke up to the sound of someone pounding (with a vengeance) on my very loud tin door. What in the world?

It was one of the local men, in his early twenties and obviously drunk, wobbling at my door and asking for condoms – he didn’t have money, but he would pay me back; he just really needed condoms. I gave him three, for 10p (roughly around 8 cents), and told him to pay me when he could. I’m not sure what happened afterwards, though I found the wrapper of one condom in front of my latrine the next morning – I wasn’t about to judge. The important thing was that someone had finally gotten up the (liquid) courage to come to me and ask for something they all, apparently, knew I was selling. This is all it took.

Now, there haven’t exactly been hordes of men clamoring to the door in search of condoms, but, in the last three weeks, there have been three separate instances. Enough for me to turn my ‘spare change’ cup into a ‘condom money’ cup and hope the trend continues. Apparently someone, maybe that first guy wasn’t as drunk as I thought, has been letting everyone else know that the rumors were true – I do, in fact, sell condoms for super cheap and I don’t ask questions (except for the obvious ‘do you know how to use this?’).

It’s a small, silly kind of victory, but I feel like I’ve accomplished something tangible (the one thing we all search for in the Peace Corps) and I hope that those three young men told three of their friends (who will come to my door and tell three more of their friends) and, somehow, before they expire, I will have managed to sell one thousand condoms in a year.

A girl can dream, right?

J

The Most Beautiful thing

In some areas of Ghana, it is custom to dye soles, palms, and fingernails the various shades of Henna. It’s considered a mark of beauty and I’ve caught glimpses of it, taking the form of faint orange pads, as proof.

Today, while riding in a tro to Tamale, my attention is turned to the hands of the woman sitting next to me – she is searching her bag for change. I am struck, suddenly, by the color of her dyed palms and fingernails. It is a deep red – red like the setting sun, red like drying blood – and it inhabits every free patch of skin on the underside of her long, dark hands from wrist to fingertip. It is painted, one shade fading into the next, onto each fingernail. Her skin is the perfect shade of ebony to this deep red. Like a dance, they fade in and out of one another, sloping the folds and wrinkles of her skin. I am not struck by its simplicity; I am struck by its complexity.

In this moment, this woman’s hands are, quite definitively, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Her palms, mapped in color, are a work of art. I cannot stop staring, nor can I work up the courage to ask for a picture. Instead, I take one while she sleeps. I tell myself it is better she doesn’t realize the beauty of her hands for, then, she wouldn’t wear them so perfectly.

It is today that I finally understand why the practice is considered so beautiful.