Our African Sun

I close my eyes and feel the unbelievable heat; we're going no more than forty miles an hour and the desert sun, riding on a tide of the wind, rolls in from a broken window; I'm sitting in the undesirable seat. Climbing up the steps, forty pairs of eyes met mine, that single seat staring at me from the back of the bus. My mouth widened to a grin and I clumsily stepped over passengers, seat by seat, nodding, offering small acknowledgements: “Hi, hello, good morning, how is everyone, sorry for the inconvenience, excuse me, thank you …”  Finally, settled into my seat, a seemingly detachable and well-worn cushion, I looked up to find a gaping hole in the floral paneling above. Such misfortune could only come from African speed bumps and longer necks; I thank my mother for smaller genes and the engine rattles to life; I relax into the charm of my Bolga bus. It feels good to come home.

Familiar landscape greets wandering eyes – red dirt, tan grass cracked and worn from sun; barren and beautiful, leafless trees stretch out from the ground like lightning, they are limbs emerging from slumber. It's been six months, but feels as though no time has passed. The same townships, the same monuments, the same colorful houses with roofs of thatch and tin; square walls, round walls, mud and brick and dung. The same sun, moving through skies of lingering Harmattan sand, will soon be perfect for sunset trysts with naked eye - a muted orb painted colors of fire, isolated and hanging as if from string, framed in unchanging grey until it sinks beneath the flat horizon. Those same sands, sometimes floating, sometimes whipping, through the windows of our bus quickly dry my skin and knot my hair, flurried greetings that form instant wrinkles where my smile dances again and again.

Even for a weekend, returning home somehow feels refreshing, rejuvenating; a lightness descends. I’m amazed to find I am heavy enough to touch the ground; I fully expect to leave the earth and meet clouds above. Distance and time heal, release tension and resolve shadow like a light in the dark. I am truly happy, completely unburdened despite recent tribulations; I want to laugh and dance and hug everyone in sight. Maybe they won't remember me, maybe they won’t care, but that doesn't matter – I’m home; I remember; I care.

It’s easy to forget how important these moments become. There was always something to smile about at the end of the day; triumphant returns solidify old truths. Heat isn't unbearable because it makes the breeze sweeter; children are simply children, not enemies – curiosities are  reasonable, my bright skin baking under the light of our great African sun. I forgot the moon could get so bright, making flash lights unnecessary; I forgot the sky could be clean enough that thousands of lights are visible from millions of miles and years away. I am never millions of miles or years away and my return is triumphant; I feel free.

I am home.

On Resiliency

The Peace Corps, among other things, is an exercise in resiliency.

Let’s look at the word – resilient: able to recover quickly from setbacks; able to spring back quickly into shape after being bent, stretched or squashed. Normally, when we think of resiliency we think of children. Children bounce. They heal easily and they remain unafraid, trusting the world always. This allows them the ability to grow, to enjoy, to explore the world continually. With age, some of them will lose this ability. In its place will grow fear and caution, a hardness against a life that won’t always be kind or loving or easy.

In the Peace Corps, we like words like flexible and adaptable - life rarely occurs as we imagine it. This fact reveals itself constantly, less shy and concealed in a third-world country. We are told to lower our expectations, to prepare ourselves for the lack of and sudden (sometimes sad, sometimes surprising) occurrence of many things. Our only saving grace, a fervent friend and lover in any number of difficult situations, is our resiliency. Better yet, our optimism - our penchant for seeking out and finding, no matter how faint or distant, that sliver of light existing behind every dark cloud. It puts the smile on our faces. Despite homesickness and isolation, despite learning setbacks and obstacles, despite the unforeseen and unsettling, we quickly learn that the ability to bend, stretch and spring back is a priority, a daily exercise and something that mustn't be taken for granted.

I've always been resilient - perpetual sunshine - but I have to say my ability to adapt (not only in response to situations but as a trait) has been refined in Ghana. And though it can be applied to many things, it’s had a principle affect on my ability to laugh – to find amusement in even the most inappropriate of situations. All of this keeps me grounded, keeps me positive. It means that random, stationary objects and any number of creatures are supplied with an often hysterical (I admit, it's subjective) running dialogue in my head, but it also means that I don’t take myself too seriously.

All of the stuff in my apartment, excluding my photographs and letters, is just stuff. My job, assuming its specific detail or location changes, is still my job – it still makes me happy. The people who make my life harder, who attempt to derail my day, are just people – they aren't prime movers, they neither create my satisfaction, nor should they ever effect the love I have for the world. They have their own pain, their own battles - perhaps their resilience was also lost long ago. My shouldering of their burdens helps no one, bends me to the ground to the point of breaking, closes my eyes and ears to the world, distracts me from my purpose.

I know these blogs grow increasingly obscure, less a reflection of my immediate surroundings and more a continued introspection, but I hope that you understand that we’re in this together. I hope you find in them some part of yourself. I hope we can make this journey together, learn to accept our flaws in order to revel in them. I hope that you enjoy observing my journey; that it moves you, bends you, presses you tightly and springs you back out into that big, beautiful world.

Resiliency – you will find it in light and shadow, in water and wind, in the earth beneath your feet and the muscle beneath your skin. It is literally all around you, look inside and you'll find it within you.

xx

On Being Lonely

There is an art to being alone, to finding comfort in it and seeing its potential. For me, more than anything else, being in the Peace Corps has re-routed my perspective.

If there’s one thing I do when I’m alone, it’s think. I think about any number of things and lately I think about home. I imagine the mountain range in winter, the crisp stillness of days when snow floats silently from the sky. I think about my friends and all of the amazing things we've done. The silence of being alone, the symptom of a fishbowl, reminds me of my awe for the world, reminds me of the love I bear for my friends and family; mostly it reminds me of ... well ... me.

The first thing I tell people about the Peace Corps is that liking oneself and ones company is a requirement. With nothing to do but think about life and self and growth, strange things start to happen. Sometimes it’s forgiveness and letting go – as easy as dropping a pebble into the sea and watching it sink it’s farewell; other times it’s acceptance and self-love – looking into a mirror and seeing something beautiful there. Sometimes it’s unbearable – nagging thoughts circling like birds above their prey, picking at weaknesses and drawing blood; other times it’s pure bliss – that moment of nirvana when the world stops and calm quiet descends, a moment of clarity without meditation, a point of light in the mind as warm as the sun on a spring morning.

It’s purposeful; not always filled with the pursuit of knowledge, but pursuit of self and useful introspection. Journal pages are filled with ramblings, some of them profound. Books get read and pages are typed – reflections of this life and those that came before occur with regularity.

And in the silence, somewhere along the way, you start to listen and what you hear sometimes surprises you. Having thought you knew everything about yourself, you realize you are just an acquaintance of yourself. And a gate opens somewhere and more than you ever thought you had to say comes tumbling out. Things that are old - antiques you thought you’d lost or sold, things that are new - things you hadn't realized you picked up along the way. Some of them are obvious and ugly and you realize you want better company.

All the while you’re getting to know yourself – silence being a sneaky catalyst to a reinvention long overdue. And without noticing you begin to change, begin to like yourself in your entirety, begin to leave the ugly things behind because forgiveness seems more important in the silence.

You do a spring cleaning and what’s left is a clear, empty room. Pictures and memories line the walls, an open window filters love and light everywhere and a comfortable chair waits for your return. This is where you come to think, enjoy and relax. It’s where you feel safe and free and loved. It’s your room in your house - your heart and your mind. It existed there all along, but fearing loneliness like most people do you neglected it, let it clutter.

But you see, there’s a difference between being lonely and being alone. And once you've mastered one you will never feel the other. The company of people is meant to be worshiped, but you marvel at the fact that you like your own company, too. Dinner and movie, a book at your favorite coffee shop, a late-night stroll under the stars. You find that you've become aware of the world – no more vultures in the sky. You see beauty all around you, reflected in you, because as well as loving the world you recognize your place in it. You are more beautiful because you belong to it.

And it loves you in return – sends you the sun and life giving rain, grows you flowers and gives you sustenance, sends the wind to tussle your hair and you understand that it’s a gift. Every breath. And you are lucky just to be standing here, sleepy eyes and grateful heart.

This is what being alone has meant for me. An expansion of awareness, of appreciation – the ability to love and laugh and cry when I need to cry. Some people call this God, I call it life; you can call it whatever you'd like. I crawl into bed with it every night and needn't fear it’ll leave before morning; and wouldn't you know, I’m always smiling – even when I’m alone.

Welcome to 2013 – take some time to be alone this year; you might find something you like.

xx 

The Things I Know ( And Things to Remember) Thanks to Ghana

The first rule of Peace Corps is to re-write the rules ...

1. Be grateful for every day, even the bad ones.

2. It truly is the little things that matter most.

3. Kindness comes in so many forms, it'll blow your mind.

4. Expectations have no place in the world; they ruin the joy of spontaneity and the many unexpected kindnesses of every day.

5. Hugs are the best medicine, as is laughter (which, conveniently enough, happen to be universal).

6. Loving yourself is the only way to truly love the world

7. You are always the student, posing as the teacher. Always.

8.  Exploration is the key to a life well-lived.

9. We are not superior because we have more, nor should we hang our heads in guilt or shame. We should be grateful (understanding that no system is perfect) and then we should forget the system exists completely and remember, simply, that we’re talking to another human being.

10. Having a little hope, a little determination, and a little faith in those around you is important, but having empathy is always better.

11. Follow your dreams for you, and never lose sight of that.

Here's to hoping we all apply some of these rules in the new year 

xx

 

 

Religion in Ghana

As I sit here, listening to the culmination of another week filter its way out of church windows next door, I realize I've never explained the phenomenon that is church (and religion) in Ghana. In general terms Ghanaian dedication to the Almighty is mind boggling. (And I grew up in Colorado Springs, which was featured in the documentary Jesus Camp.) I’m not sure the missionaries understood the kind of goldmine they’d found in Africa - I don’t think anyone can prepare for that kind of dedication - but they couldn't have been more successful had they shown up with pom-poms and Sue Sylvester from Glee.

Now, at this point, you probably think I’m being facetious and, while I admit to approaching this blog with the same humor I approach most blogs, I want to give you a few examples to illustrate my point:

 When I was younger, I was invited to attend church with my family in South Carolina – we’re talking once a week, two hours at most – and I wouldn't set foot in that church without an adequate supply of notebooks for hangman tourneys, tic-tac-toe, and note passing. The highlight of these Sundays were the cookies I got once it ended, I was a kid after all, but I observed plenty of adults who still couldn't get through an entire service without checking football scores or nodding off at least once … and that was before the iPhone. 

Fast forward to modern day Ghana: the church next door is testament to the fact that a lot of Ghanaians attend church seven days a week. If you've ever attended a service on Sunday you know  to carve out at least seven hours (no I’m not exaggerating) and sometimes Fridays are equally important, though it’s hard to predict when. Last Friday I thought I’d watch a few movies on my laptop; when I removed my headphones at 12:30am, I was startled to realize the church next door was still in full swing. Okay, I thought, I could probably watch some Mad Men. They’ll be done soon.

Ha! Hahaha, oh rookie me …

I was still holding a pillow over my ears at 3:30 am, weeping and convinced - in my hallucinations - that I could actually understand what was being spoken in tongues (which at that point was a very lively conversation about the poor sap living next door, trying to get to sleep over the glory of God). So when I say ‘mind boggling’ above, what I mean to say is relentless … obviously.  

When it comes to religion in Ghana, there are two: Christianity and Islam. That’s it. If you don’t claim one or the other then you are grievously misinformed; if you don’t attend church then there must be something wrong with you. I happen to fall under both of the categories above and I’ve honestly had people react to me the same way I would react to terminal cancer. On the up side it’s sparked a lot of great conversations about things like the Inquisition (my counterpart  made a comment about Muslims being terrible, wicked people so I introduced him to Google and gave him a history lesson), but requires a constant awareness that admitting my heathenism will always be met with strong curiosity. 

“God willing” is a common phrase here, but it’s the dedication to it that’s foreign to me. A student will pray to get better grades in school without taking the time to study for exams; a man will pray for money without improving his work ethic; a mother will pray for her child’s health without taking them to the clinic to be diagnosed … God willing … It makes me feel like I’m in a Greek play. For the most part, this is because Ghanaians take the Bible very literally. Every word. They aren't simple minded people, but their education system is based on rote memorization and very little room for debate.  Things aren't meant to be interpreted, things are directly as the Bible says and the Bible is the only book anyone ever reads. I say that last part because any book I happen to be reading (right now it’s A Game of Thrones) will undoubtedly be referred to as my Bible (because every other book I see will undoubtedly be concerned with Jesus). If this doesn't give you an idea about religion in Ghana, then I don’t know what does.

All of this being said, churches do a lot of really great work in Africa, but I honestly don’t think anyone could have predicted just how popular Jesus  – a blond haired, blue eyed, Jewish carpenter – would become in even the most remote villages. It’s like watching a Bieber concert. It’s also one of the reasons white people are referred to as ‘Sunday born’ in their local languages, are met with constant enthusiasm, and are given an almost immediate declaration of church before anything else. (Honestly – I met a guy the other day who told me he was Pentecostal before he told me his name.)

Considering my hometown, this shouldn't surprise me as much as it does and, considering my occupation, I see it as an opportunity. As a Peace Corps Volunteer it’s not only my job to educate you about Ghana, but to teach Ghanaians about America. Being an over-achiever, I also consider it my duty to teach them about the world at large (starting with a few choice Google searches) and so we talk about church and dying traditionalism, but we also talk about gay rights and Judaism and why some people in America don’t eat meat (this last concept, by the way, is absolutely mind blowing to them).  

I've run across Ghanaians who ask me if I know who Jesus is - like it’s Pig Latin. They adopt him so thoroughly here that they often forget Christianity is a foreign implant. It's amusing every time. I figure my trade off for listening to sermons on the bus, on the street, on Facebook, and from my neighbor next door is being able to sing Broadway show tunes at the top of my lungs at any given time and call it cultural exchange. 

So, sure, King Solomon (yes, this was his name), I’ll come to church with you – I appreciate the unique cultural experience it presents me – but when you’re laughing at my exhaustion eight hours later, remember: next week we’re having a Harry Potter marathon and I’m going to tell you a little about what happened to witches in the Dark Ages.

xx

Why Bikes Are Good Bargaining Chips (and Other Useless Information)

Since living in Ghana I've learned an awful lot about the ‘barika’ (or, the bargain); most importantly, I've learned that currency does not always come in the form of coins or bills.

In the village, I often held aloft small things – pencils, paper, chewing gum and other teeth-rotting concoctions, movie viewings, and temporary skull tattoos (lovingly referred to as ‘la stamp-la’) – as payment for chores and services rendered (because as Ghanaian as I think I am, I couldn't fetch an entire drum of water if I wanted to). Among the best of things I had to offer, however, was my bike. And my bike was a hot commodity.

On average, even with a flat, bikes have two more wheels than most humans. What this meant – in midday heat – was the difference between ‘footing’ one’s way from shady tree to shady tree (which are sparse, at best) and rolling swiftly by all those suckers with their pathetic walking feet. It also carried with it the Flintstones equivalent of a drop-top: beautiful man-powered wind. What might take forty minutes to walk one-way was now fifteen at most and this, my friends, left a lot of time for socializing – the biggest benefit of them all.

In addition to the obvious advantage of two hollow, inflated circular tubes, a bike has a basket. Some bikes even have a basket AND a platform above the rear wheel – like mine. These come in handy when hauling heavy things like packages or a week’s worth of groceries; water is easily hauled from borehole to door, children can be hauled from home to school (riding on the back rack, legs splayed and looking surprisingly comfortable, though I tried it and it wasn't), and usually means that walking with such things on one’s head (or shoulders, or kicking and screaming at the end of an outstretched arm) is unnecessary. Last time I checked, humans have neither baskets nor built-in butt racks so, clearly, the owner of a bike is at an advantage. All of the time.

Bikes happen to have bells which, while much more adorable when rung by well-dressed old men, happen to make everyone who use them polite and endearing ( ... just try to squeeze past someone without ringing a bell and your charm is instantly lost, you dangerous vagabond, you). Bikes can be used to lean against in the midday sun, sat on in the absence of a chair, and is rather effective at parting crowds in times of need and desperation (though a white person on a bike will part crowds whether it’s necessary or not).

Conveniently, after the initial purchase, bikes are free. In the village this is the difference between waiting every three days (and paying a fare) to leave town or traveling wherever and whenever one pleases. When one has free, two-wheeled transportation at the ready, everything becomes that much simpler – which makes it so sought after to begin with. Especially in a poor farming village.

Of course, people don’t get things like flat tires – which makes having two feet rather convenient when a tube happened to pop – and I'm not personally equipped with a chain in danger of rusting or jumping the tracks - which are both things that happened whenever I loaned out my bike - but the fact that medicine and food and meetings were a simple ride away made my rusted, beat up little guy a resource to be collected frequently.

Thinking back, I probably could have gone all ‘Jaffar’  on my household, jealously coveting its power and convenience, but a bike is meant to be used and if it wasn't always going to be used by me, it might as well have been a village bike [insert ‘yo mama’ joke here]. Until people adapt to grow wheels in their heels like some kind of twisted, awesome opposable thumb, just remember: never underestimate the things you take for granted - turns out bikes are excellent bargaining chips.

xx

Some Things Never Change

I know I’ve been talking up my new digs like it’s nobody’s business, but I thought I’d revisit a few things that haven’t changed in the name of nostalgia (you know, for those tiny moments that make me realize I’m still in Africa):

   

1    1. My roommates:

Nothing says you’re in Africa quite like the mummified carcass of a lizard *falling out of the closet and smacking you in the face*

2. Lights Out!

I know I live by the ocean and I know a lot of power in Ghana is water powered, but thinking that I get steady, reliable electricity because I live near a steady, reliable source of water would be foolish. The only thing that connects our frequent power hiccups and the ocean are the pirates who stole our oil on its way from Nigeria.

3. Oh, is that the ocean?

It’s torturous, really. I work on the harbor, I pass the ocean on my way to work and I have this beautiful plumbing system with all of these taps attached to it and yet … I still store water in giant drums, I still bathe from a bucket most days and my office – on the second floor  – still pays a man to fetch water and haul it. I’m starting to realize that this is just how things are.

4. Teenage Mutant Ninja … yeah, I’m not going down there, dude.

You know that moment when you walk out of your apartment, holding a flask of piping hot coffee, and walk right into a wall of odor that stops you in your tracks? You don’t have an open sewer right outside your gate? My bad … I thought that was a problem for everyone.

5. Goat or baby?

I cannot tell you how excited I was to hear a goat behind my house the other day! I live in a city, which makes my favorite game ‘goat or baby?’ really hard to play. Plus, baby goats are hilarious and I found one.

6. Oh my God, I LOVE your shoes!

Now that I have an office job, it’s tempting to wear high heels everywhere I go. Except that high heels are pretty inconvenient when the sidewalks are busted. And I don’t mean a few cracks here and there, I mean an open sewer drain covered by a plank of wood; I mean sidewalks that lean to one side; I mean hazards that could cost me an ankle, if not my life.

Okay … so maybe that last bit was an exaggeration (I would never twist my ankle in high heels – I’m a pro), but I mean it when I say it’s a jungle out there – a heel-unfriendly jungle that will probably make me look ridiculous in the near future (because let's be honest - I’m not going stop wearing high heels).

7. I know I look like I just showered, but you’d be mistaken; that was hours ago …

There’s nothing like looking your best walking out the door and showing up to work looking like someone tried (and failed miserably) to baptize on your way there: mascara running down my cheeks, tendrils of hair sticking limply to my forehead, a shirt that looks like some kind of ink blot test (maybe it’s a bird, maybe it’s Lionel Richie, but it's definitely not normal) …

You know what? I’m sure it’s fine. I’m sure I look really impressive; you’re right.

8. Hallelujah!

If you ever visit me, you may start to wonder what that sound is from 6-9pm every day. That, my friends, is salvation. Friday through Sunday are all-day extravaganzas – a cacophony for Jesus. I may have gotten a nice apartment complete with guards and no neighbors, but I also have three churches surrounding me … and they have generators.

There’s no lights-out for Jesus.

xx