Growing Up Ghana

I think it's safe to say I've grown a lot in Ghana - grown up, grown out, grown loud(er) - because Ghana offers me something new to learn every day (and, mostly, I learn about myself). Though the entire experience has been incredible, I think I've managed to learn the most in the last six months (every Sunday at two o'clock).

When it comes to our support group (I say 'our' because believe in community ownership), I think I've felt - and more than once - that I've learned much more from them than they have from me. Perhaps that's the nature of our relationship: fifty people have a lot more to teach than one. I consider myself lucky everytime I walk into a meeting and I find that they're all still there - ready to learn.

What once seemed a tiny smudge in the distance, our positive living workshop arrived with theatrical flair and triumph - I can call it nothing less than a success. As I sat there, watching twenty-two people become more and more enthusiastic, brighter and brighter each day, - their auras, their comfort level expanding and becoming visible to the naked eye - I realized how grateful I was to have finally offered them something in return for their faith in me. It's not often one has the opportunity to impart true, life-changing knowledge onto a group of people (let alone a group of adults) and, though I only really take credit in the workshop's general organization, it was amazing to be a part of something so integral to their lives.

I, undoubtedly, had the easiest job in the room: I sat, listening with the other group members, occasionally chiming in, while our facilitators, imported from Accra, managed to do everything I'd been trying to do in the last six months in three days. It was amazing. And it gave me the chance to get to know twenty-two people in a way I couldn't have achieved with a group of fifty, even if we'd met every other day. I was finally able to hear their stories; twenty-two people opening fold by fold, like flowers in bloom that I hope will never close again.

I think they were genuinely happy, surprised even, by everything they learned - inspired by both Edem and Gifty to live loudly, proudly, and forever positive. Because, after all, having HIV is just another state of being - a fragile state of being, yes, but a state of being, nonetheless. We growled at injustice, we laughed in the face of ignorance, we cried at tragedy, and we reveled in the fact that life is always still worth living. And I'm so proud of each and every one of them, ready to go into the world and impart their knowledge - educate so that their lives and the lives of other's may improve, educate so that we may beat HIV, so that we may beat the more dangerous diseases of discrimination, hate, and miseducation.

Our meeting this Sunday will be their first challenge: a challenge to infect others with positive energy, to take responsibility as peer leaders (and to realize their potential in the face of what some would consider an end, rather than a beginning). I have so much faith in them; Sunday cannot come soon enough.

"I want you to give your virus a name," Gifty said, "and I want you to speak to it. I want to to welcome it into your body," pausing for Joe's translation, "then I want you to set some ground rules. Trust me: your virus will listen. And then," she says, smiling a secret smile, "I want you to listen. I want you to ask your virus why it came to you and I want you to listen to what it has to say. I promise you," she levels a finger at her audience, "that it will answer ... if you listen well enough. It will."

Because, she explained, that the only way to live with the virus is to be at harmony with its existence, to accept its interference, and come to a compromise. "It's not a cure," she later enforced, "there is no cure, but there is life with HIV."

She called her virus 'Little Dragon," and when she spoke to it, Little Dragon told her to go out into the world and teach, to fight, and to live. If you think, as someone not living with HIV, I have nothing to learn from this, you'd be wrong. In fact, we all have something to learn from Gifty. Though it may not be as daunting as HIV, we all have Little Dragons, demons that weigh us down, and if you sit there in dejection - if you allow your Little Dragon to possess you, steal the fire in your heart for its own - then you are letting your Little Dragon win.

And so I left with a fire in my heart, hands entwined with my own Little Dragon, waiting to unleash twenty-two newly inspired, positively loud group members onto a world that will - eventually - accept them, wholly, for who they are. And, despite having reservations about publically declaring their status, I believe that each of them walked away as PLWHA. Loud and proud. Positive in every aspect of the word.

What's not to be inspired about that?

xx

http://www.stampoutstigma.ie/



Ruby Red

He walks into the storm with purpose - parasole, ruby red, and detailed with something I'd think to see in Saigon. He leaves with sprays like purfume in his wake. Ruby red, daintily protecting him from the rain; a stain, vibrant, in my periphery.



Observations of ‘that girl:’ Gimpy

Gimpy is wholly original, unlike any other cat I’ve ever encountered. In fact, I’m not entirely convinced she is one.

She is completely at the mercy of the world – ‘helpless’ might be the word – though she often seems too smart for her own good, even for a cat.
Three years old and graying at the ears, when she stares (which is often) it is with impossibly green eyes. The rest of her face, lost to black shadow, dims in comparison to those bright lights.
Three paws (she’s missing one) do their best to keep her upright; often it seems they forget that she is under-staffed. She barrels her way through every movement – somersaulting, vaulting over herself in an effort to get anywhere, colliding with any stationary object in her path (which isn’t always straight).
She frequents the space between feet, usually while they are moving. Being that she’s missing one of her own, it likely ends in disaster more often than naught.
Purrs like a whisper, little more than a silent hum in a narrow chest, the sound is only detected by direct contact with a rib or her very loveable, pettable under-belly.
She cuddles, constantly attached like Velcro – currently attached like Velcro. It is impossible to sit anywhere without Gimpy finding me and taking up residence on my person.
I don’t believe she realizes claws are sharp, evident by scratches and scars – the marks of her devotion as she climbs her way, often forcefully, into my arms.
An inside cat (because three working legs and an escape plan rarely succeed), I am trying to keep her un-pregnant (though somehow she always is).
There is a piece missing from one of her bat-like ears which, when compared to her long, often tilted, face, give the impression of satellites ready to transmit orders, sir. Maybe that is why she always looks confused – she should have made contact months ago.
She sleeps with her eyes half-lidded, it is impossible to tell whether or not she is asleep. Does an operative for the alien enemy really ever sleep?
Mid-rest, she has been known to roll over, leaving her incapacitated on her back, startled and tangled on the floor, very far away from where she last remembers being (namely a few feet higher and in a cushioned chair). Involuntary movements, all; definitely unplanned.
Though seemingly startled by life, she is not without enthusiasm for it – surprised to find that she can walk and eat and roam between two moving feet, she is content to find herself upside-down when her zeal catches up with her. But there is never any doubt that she loves me, she is never startled by that. I often wonder what she must be thinking, something profound and life-changing, no doubt, though instantly forgotten. She is, perhaps, the perfect companion. I love her dearly.

Fringe Division, Ghana

Someone call Joshua Jackson, ‘cause I’ve come to a conclusion:

As a continent rife with any number of ailments by way of myopic parasites and creepy-crawlies . . . Africa is kind of gross.

I came to this conclusion in a veterinary clinic, inspecting a type of parasitic larvae imbedded in the hind leg of my cat, Gimpy. How she came to acquire such roommates, I could only guess (she’s currently an inside-cat), but if it was anything – it was gross. Like cross-your-heart, turn in three circles, and spit on your mother gross.

She got a bath (like a child with lice), a standard de-wormer (because apparently you can never be too safe in Africa), and I was left to ponder, like a paranoid volunteer, the parasitic potential of my little piece of the continent.

Once home, I flipped open our medical handbook and did what any paranoid volunteer would do – I sought out every bug-caused malady and tortured myself with its details. As I wavered between engrossed and disgusted, I realized that I live in an episode of The X-Files. Africa: a place where things hatch out of the skin, burn at the touch, and carry Malaria; a place where my own body becomes an enemy (as if I didn’t have enough to worry about with all of the creepy-crawlies).

I have yet to experience, but hear tales of the infamous abscess – an infection and swelling of the hair follicle, sometimes to the size of a quarter, that has to be cut open, drained, and scraped out (insert collective gasp here). Even now, I fear the razor, as I fear my bug-bites catching an antibiotic-worthy infection and scaring my newly-tanned skin for life.

During hot season, I was perplexed to find large, painful blisters behind my knee – a minor infection of the poor, over-worked sweat glands lamenting the day I learned to sit with my legs crossed. And any beetle within ten feet is shooed away in-case it happens to be the Blister Beetle, which releases a chemical that burns the skin and causes a blister which, if popped, will continue causing blisters until the fluid is washed away.

If random tapeworms weren’t enough, the thought of a Tumbu Fly’s eggs hatching under my skin leaves me skittish (though morbidly curious) about whatever caused my three-footed cat’s current predicament. The amount of times I’ve doused my house in bug-poison is kind of ridiculous considering it’s apparently futility, but the false security of my bed net (I looked down to find a giant centipede crawling along my leg in bed the other night) and market-found pesticides (because, let’s face it, the ants just keep coming back) give me enough comfort to let me sleep at night (with my medical handbook far, far away once I retire).

I suppose in the land of follicle cysts and sweat gland infections it’s only natural to find skin-burning beetles and burrowing larvae like an episode of Fringe. It certainly explains the vivid Mefloquin dreams of giant poisonous spiders, snakes, and hungry, hungry ants swarming the bed in a feeding frenzy.

Africa, as it turns out, is a pretty hostile place – a place where survival means inhabiting the intestines of the nearest living creature and stealing their food; a place where the only way to keep a happy home is to douse it regularly with poisonous insecticides; a place where the bugs not only like to bite you, but may give you Malaria as a result. Maybe I shouldn’t hold it against my potentially threatening fellow creatures: in a harsh environment, it seems that harsh is the only way to survive. Maybe one day, it’ll convince Joshua Jackson to visit … a girl can dream, right?

xx

A Year Later: a Vision Quest and an Introspect



To measure self-growth, to mediate maturation, is as difficult as it sounds (seriously, I wrote that four times before it sounded right). And I am no exception:

June 8th marked the training of a new batch of volunteers (I say 'batch' like we ship them by the dozen in bulk). Aside from being overwhelmingly nostalgic about my days as a trainee, I was startled to find that I would suddenly be considered a deep well of information. I picked up my plastic, heart-shaped, hand-held mirror and asked quietly: "Am I a deep well, mirror?" (mirror-like silence) "What could I possibly know that would fill a me-sized well, let alone a deep one?" (pointed mirror-like silence)

It wasn't until last week, marked by a trekking trainee of my very own, that I realized I had vastly underestimated the kind of change that can occur in thirteen months.

Elizabeth Lyons, my vision quester, asked a lot of questions. More than this, she asked a lot of good questions (so specifically tailored to me that I thought, for a second, she might be my PC soul mate ... and realized, a second later, that my assumption was correct). As I answered her questions, which led to discussions, it dawned on me that I sounded like an adult. Now, I'm not entirely sure I could explain to you what an adult sounds like (or what I sounded like in that specific moment), but I felt different and it wasn't just the way I spoke, but the way I was. It was like staring into a tiny, plastic mirror and finding a deep, dark well staring back.

I bring this up because a lot of people have been asking me how I've changed. Though a year in Ghana merits a little introspection, I couldn't seem find an answer. I kept sitting there staring at the screen, hands poised over the keyboard and waiting for inspiration: How had I changed? Surely I could answer that without consulting a heart-shaped piece of plastic ....

Blank. Blank all over the screen, blank in every corner of my brain, blank in the general direction of a little plastic mirror that could.

But then I got Lizzie and after Lizzie I got a message asking a slightly different question: 'Do you think we'll notice that you're different when you get home?' It suddenly occured to me that I'd been thinking about it all wrong. Of course it had been hard for me to measure change - I couldn't readily observe it (even with the help of a slightly awkward, heart-shaped mirror ... sorry, mirror).

What I can say is this: I know I've changed, I just don't know how. I'll leave that up for to you to decide in another year. I know I've changed only because the way I view the world has changed - something I didn't notice until last week (when I was given both a platform and an audience). So, while my little mirror keeps it's secrets, I'll be patiently waiting to see just how different I seem  because, apparently, I've been sneaking around behind my own back, hording knowledge and doing change-y type things.

xx

A Minor Correction by a Feminist in Ghana

Recently, browsing volunteer blogs, I came across a friend discussing feminism in Ghana. More specifically, she addressed the misplacement of Western feminism in the developing world. Her focus fell on a well-worn phrase those of us in Ghana use: “Women work, while the men follow the shade of a nearby tree.” Having shared some scattered discussion and a common interest in women’s studies, I was eager to hear her well-read opinion.


As she touched on the problem of over-generalization, the application of condescending and biased Western definitions, I began to feel a tinge of uncertainty. Having recently written a blog discussing my experiences as an (American) feminist in Ghana, I felt slightly insecure. Had I fallen into the category of an over-generalizing, biased, and patronizing observer? I was thus inspired to take a step back and make an honest assessment of my self-titled ‘feminist’ observations in Ghana and that is the topic of today’s discussion.

My first concession comes in the form of admittance: I, too, have fallen into the trap of arrogantly over-generalizing. It’s hard to forget that blanket definitions are unfair. To claim that all Ghanaian men lazily follow the shade of a tree isn’t any truer than saying all Americans are rich. If I can react with offense to this assumption, then I should be more careful with my own. No doubt, some of my observations will stand – sometimes being a woman in the developing world, not just Ghana, can be heartbreaking, but I’m willing to bet I have a few things to correct. I may be controversial, but I’m not a complete tosser 

Though it may have a role, to assume patrilineal inclination stems solely from religion is an obvious mistake to make. As an anthropologist, Kristi pointed out that most gender roles (including the distribution of work) are based on traditional roles and expectations. They’re neither born out of sexism nor easily changed; this is especially true in towns and villages, like mine, that rely on a pastoral lifestyle. My observation of shade-following men may be accurate sometimes, but I should give credit where it’s due – women have a vastly different role from the men and one that’s easier for me to observe. It would be an oversight to imply that all Ghanaian men are lazy, even if I have doubts about a certain few. This brings us to correction number one: As a rule, Ghanaians are hard-working; they’re simply a different kind of ‘hard working’ than I’m used to. This means my expectations should change, as should my definition of feminism.

Now, I won’t go so far as to say that traditional definitions don’t clash with feminist ones and create sexism in their wake. I have experienced this phenomenon, myself, and it stems from the attempt to stick a square peg into a circular hole. It’s a clash of the cultural titans, one that finds root in the refusal to incorporate the new with the old (and vice versa). Feminism in its own right can be applied anywhere successfully, as long as we understand that its application must be unique to that culture. As much as I’d like to see Ghana turn into a Little America, I have to understand that it may not be possible (which, in turn, may not be a bad thing as long as it finds the right kind of feminism for Ghana).

This is where I often see a lot of tension; indeed, I mentioned it in terms of reconciling tradition and modernization. What I see is the attempt to drop a cookie-cutter onto Ghana, which never works (and, quite frankly, shouldn’t be the goal). This is also where you get phrases like ‘following the shade,’ which really do nothing more than undermine a majority of Ghanaians and any progress they make. Of course, nothing’s perfect. It isn’t ethnocentric or demeaning to point out inequalities as long as it’s done respectfully.

For instance:

1.) It’s more likely a male child will be picked to go to school if a family can only afford to fund one education, but children of both genders are often taken out of class to help with farming during rainy season. What we see here isn’t just a problem with gender, but how people view education as a whole.

2.) It’s true that in Kayayo, more young girls and women find themselves in dangerous/compromising situations, but it’s also true that all Kayayo run up against risks (including diseases, poverty, theft, and natural disasters). So we see that it isn’t just an issue of gender, but an issue regarding the opportunities available to those living in the poorer regions of Ghana.

3.) There are a lot of school girls who find themselves pregnant at a young age, sometimes it’s even expected. Though I find inquiries into my own non-existent children (and the reason for their non-existence) to be amusing, it’s still not an issue centered in gender and feminism. There’s also the issue of education and parenting. It comes down to a life very different from one I'm used to, with very different expectations.

All of these things end up being multi-faceted. Like people, they can’t be simplified and, though I didn’t necessarily mean to, I’m guilty of over-generalization and simplification of the issues. This doesn’t mean that gender problems don’t exist in Ghana – I absolutely had a conversation with a man who was, quite literally, angry at me for engaging in manual labor; I do see men drinking before seven in the morning (with what is, undoubtedly, the same money their wives need to buy food); I have been accosted more than once (and harassed more than that) by men who think I should be subservient. I’m not disagreeing with my previous statement regarding feminism’s place in Ghana, but I realize that I may have hasty in my critique. I forgot, for a second, that the world is made up of individuals and, though it’s easy to fall into generalizations, someone in my position should be more careful.

Aside from hoping this makes sense to more people than me, I wanted to thank Kristi. She brought some faults to my attention and, in the true sense of the word, managed to remain unbiased and fair in her assessment. As for me, I'll follow her lead.

Like I said before, I'll rattle the cage patiently.
xx

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