Saturday, August 29, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Almost One Year In...
So, I've decided to take advantage of my current stint in the med unit (once again and, hopefully, one and for all!) to do a little one year marker post...I've haven't quite reached one year yet, but it's getting pretty close believe it or not. I don't always know that I believe it. It's really gone by fast...at least in retrospect...but even in real time too most of the time.
I'd like to start with a universal HAPPY BIRTHDAY for all the birthdays in the past year that I may have missed. I tried to keep up, but it's amazing how a lack of seasons as I know it can really mess with my sense of time. I promise to try to be better this year. Now that I'm adjusted, I shouldn't have any excuses...aside from lack of phone network--so, don't expect any well wishes to come promptly...but I'll really try to make them come.
Also, thank you for all of the letters, e-mails, phone calls, and care packages. They've saved me from the temporarily overwhelming wallows of my soul at times. lol. And, it's a fact, I have every card, picture, and knick knack sent still decorating the walls and shelves of my house. I even still have the Christmas decorations up! Every letter has been saved, read, and re-read. So, it's no small joke-- thank you.
I've reached and surpassed by first big mile marker in my stay here in Ghana. I had been thinking about my sister's visit since day one. Since before day one, really. And, I don't believe it's a lie to say that I thought about it on days one through 308 (now that's a rough estimate) too. And, as most of you know, her visit has come and gone! And it was definitely the mile-stone I expected it to be-- at least in terms of significance. Though, I don't think I ever knew exactly what to expect--nor did I really expect exactly what occured. I spend a lot of my time here explaining-- explaining my life back in the States-- my family, my friends, college, grocery stores, cities, suburbs, snow, religions, races, foods, states, dating, etc., etc. I often explain myself, my beliefs, and where I come from to even my closest friends who I've already explained myself, my beliefs, and my home to on a number of occassions. My landlord always tells he wouldn't believe the things I say about my life and home if someone else had told him, and so I think he asks me the same questions over and over again just to double check my facts--make sure I'm really not making any of it up. lol. And, while I love explaining, those who know me know I'm more than a slight introvert. So, always explaining myself and my decisions, while constantly keeping me self-aware, can also be very exhausting and overwhelming. Fair enough. I think I've figured out my coping routine by now. But, I guess, what I hadn't really come to realize until my sister's arrival was how much MORE explaining would have to be done. I think I speak for most PCVs when I say--well, maybe I just think of for myself lol...that's safer---ANYWAY, I speak for myself when I say, most of my homesickness and founded in a desire for my comfort zone, where I fit in, go unnoticed, flourish as a hermit, and never really have to explain anything about myself because no one really cares or, if they care, they already know. So, when a bit of home comes across the Atlantic, I guess I was expecting a piece of my comfort zone-- maybe even a week of comfort zonal bliss lol. But, understandably so, there was a ton of explaining to do about most everything-- what I eat, what I buy, how I bathe, where I go to the bathroom, how I sleep with roosters living in my house, etc., etc. I think, by the end of the visit, we got to that comfort zone--probably even half-way through. But the first few days were incredibly overwhelming for me. I didn't want to explain. I just wanted Jen to see and understand--everything. Obviously that's unrealistic, but that's me. My favorite moment of the whole visit, however-- when I really think we reached the brink of my return to normalization (word?) was when Jen and I were about to go to bed at our last destination (Busua Beach), and I said, "Want to play Egyptian War?" and she said, "Yeah! It's been a long time since we've played that one!" I pause for a moment, trying to remember that last time, before I realize and then say, "Of course it has. We haven't been together in a year." I'd forgotten. So, I think my sister's visit--my first milestone and almost one year marker-- gave me a glimpse of what returning home may be like-- alittle overwhelming, perhaps a little lonely-feeling at first...However, now I know when I get home, it's my sister who will be the one (it could be you too, if you come and visit! : ) ) who know's who and what I'm talking about when I'm telling stories about my time here in Ghana. And that seems like a good deal to me.
I had another "one year marker"-esque moment of awareness right before my sister's visit too...The past few months have been very hectic and filled with travelling for me-- between training a new group of volunteers and falling sick on more occassions than I'd prefer. I had two drama projects about malaria and smorgasboard of "life skills" with my students hanging over my head that just never seemed to come off on any of the many re-scheduled dates. Now, I've become pretty accustomed to this and try not to let it define my as a person lol, but I was started to get a bit antsy. The school term had ended and I just wanted to get them over with, so that we could start on new projects when school resumed. No life force really cared what I wanted-- per usual and probably fair. But, eventually, myself and two friends and/or co-workers that I was working on the projects with decided to just force it and call it a day. The idea was for the students to learn about marlaria prevention, hiv/aids prevention, hygeine habits, study skills, and saving/budgeting, create their own dramas on the topics, and perform them for the community to show off what they learned and share their knowledge with their parents/families/community members. It rained all day. And anybody who knows Ghana knows nothing happens in the rain, which makes natural sense. But Solomon, Philip, and I were defying Ghana and nature on this day. Out of necessity. Or desperation. Or exhaustion. Of course, Ghana and nature laughed in our faces. The students were so excited they waited around all day and had no qualms about performing in the rain. And really no qualms about performing to a non-existent audience--because no community members showed up...well, one guy did. And my sanity is forever indebted to him, though I'll probably never know Konkomba well enough to explain that to him. It was a competition. I forgot to mention that. So, I'm sitting there, getting rained on, scoring my students who are getting rained on while they perform. And, I just keep telling myself that we at least succeeded in educating the students. Their dramas were wonderful. Even some of the younger, less vocal ones really stepped up. Sooo, so what if they weren't able to bestow their knowledge on anyway else. Half the goal was achieved! Half a success is still a success! It's like milk in a glass-- it's half full! These are the things I'm telling myself. Those who know me well, know I must have been incredibly frustration, irritated, and mad at myself during this moment in time and space. I was. Borderline furious at some ambiguous entity that began to manifest itself in everyone and everything. I wanted to cry. Good thing it was raining...
So, it all went off. The students performed. We announced a winner in a private little party of other students, myself, my two collaborators, and one community member. We dranks minerals and ate biscuits. And, I went home to cleanse my soul of pain and feelings of failure, trying to remember all those sayings about the youth as our future etc. etc. My friend Solo followed me home, and we hung out for a bit. As he was about to go he turned to me and said, "What you are doing with those students is really great. Before you and Allison (my predecessor and love) came to work with them, they couldn't speak like that in public. They didn't have confidence like that, and they couldn't speak English so fluently. So, thank you. God shall bless you for that."
Before you start thing that this is turning into a personal ego-stroke session, though I do think Solo's comments did save my ego from extinction-- or temporary extinction, to be less dramatic. The real moment of awareness came in his comment about English fluency. I actually usually request that the students speak in Konkomba when they perform. They usually beg to speak in English, and whether I agree or not, they speak in English when they get up there-- and I run around in the last moments looking for a translator lol. I really struggle with deciphering cultural evolution from cultural death sometimes. Particularly here, where I try to be completely and utterly cultural non-domineering. Try. I haven't quite figured out if that's an attainable goal yet, but I'm staying optimistic. Anyway, the cold hard facts are that English fluency is a valued asset in Ghana. It's a marker of education and potential for affluence. More people speak English in Ghana's more developed regions. In it's lesser developed regions, fewer people speak English. The stereotypes ensue. They're not really stereotypes. They're just a reality. If my students want to go to high school, training college, university, etc. If they want to get jobs and change their economic standing, their social standing-- They have to speak English, and they have to speak it well. I don't know exactly how I feel about that; my feelings waver with my mood, the day, the moon...I'm not very good at being realistic. Or practical. I don't really care for it. But this is not about me or my life. It's about my students and their lives (now you can really hear the dramatic instrumentals in the background, yeah?).
Anyway, all I'm saying is, it was a moment of awareness or atonement with the cultural reality here. Perhaps, one might say, if they were meandering about such a PhD dissertation topic, as I might be, a post-colonial cultural reality. "We can never go back to before." That a line from a song in a one-woman musical called An American in New York that debuted starring my best friend Maggie. Kidding....sort of...it's from some musical that I don't know, but Maggie would know, because she did sing it in An American in New York....This whole half of the paragraph has probably only been mildly humorous for a sole reader-- Maggie. My apologies.
Now, this is a marathon entry if we've every seen one, yeah? Well, here's to the year-- almost! I think one of the hardest realizations has been that life goes on for all of you even when I'm not there. lol. Now, obviously, I knew that it would. But, that doesn't mean that I understood what it would feel like. So many of my life's VIPs have fallen in love, fallen sick, engaged, married, birthed children, graduated, died. Everday I think about you, and I try to re-assess whether I've made the right decision in being here. Living in a culture that values family so strongly, I often wonder what in the world I was thinking when I decided to leave mine. My only answer-- I am coming back. Soon--ish. 15 months-- ish. I think, perhaps, the other harderst realization (so many hard realizations--whatever that means) was that my life would go on too. That I would feel so dramatically changed as a person some days, and none of those VIPs would be there to know it. Luckily, I've found some new VIPs to add to my currently distant aged (like wine) VIPs. And, luckily, 98% of my life is far less dramatic than this paragraph. Thank something divine for that. : )
So, happy almost one year! Cheers!
I'd like to start with a universal HAPPY BIRTHDAY for all the birthdays in the past year that I may have missed. I tried to keep up, but it's amazing how a lack of seasons as I know it can really mess with my sense of time. I promise to try to be better this year. Now that I'm adjusted, I shouldn't have any excuses...aside from lack of phone network--so, don't expect any well wishes to come promptly...but I'll really try to make them come.
Also, thank you for all of the letters, e-mails, phone calls, and care packages. They've saved me from the temporarily overwhelming wallows of my soul at times. lol. And, it's a fact, I have every card, picture, and knick knack sent still decorating the walls and shelves of my house. I even still have the Christmas decorations up! Every letter has been saved, read, and re-read. So, it's no small joke-- thank you.
I've reached and surpassed by first big mile marker in my stay here in Ghana. I had been thinking about my sister's visit since day one. Since before day one, really. And, I don't believe it's a lie to say that I thought about it on days one through 308 (now that's a rough estimate) too. And, as most of you know, her visit has come and gone! And it was definitely the mile-stone I expected it to be-- at least in terms of significance. Though, I don't think I ever knew exactly what to expect--nor did I really expect exactly what occured. I spend a lot of my time here explaining-- explaining my life back in the States-- my family, my friends, college, grocery stores, cities, suburbs, snow, religions, races, foods, states, dating, etc., etc. I often explain myself, my beliefs, and where I come from to even my closest friends who I've already explained myself, my beliefs, and my home to on a number of occassions. My landlord always tells he wouldn't believe the things I say about my life and home if someone else had told him, and so I think he asks me the same questions over and over again just to double check my facts--make sure I'm really not making any of it up. lol. And, while I love explaining, those who know me know I'm more than a slight introvert. So, always explaining myself and my decisions, while constantly keeping me self-aware, can also be very exhausting and overwhelming. Fair enough. I think I've figured out my coping routine by now. But, I guess, what I hadn't really come to realize until my sister's arrival was how much MORE explaining would have to be done. I think I speak for most PCVs when I say--well, maybe I just think of for myself lol...that's safer---ANYWAY, I speak for myself when I say, most of my homesickness and founded in a desire for my comfort zone, where I fit in, go unnoticed, flourish as a hermit, and never really have to explain anything about myself because no one really cares or, if they care, they already know. So, when a bit of home comes across the Atlantic, I guess I was expecting a piece of my comfort zone-- maybe even a week of comfort zonal bliss lol. But, understandably so, there was a ton of explaining to do about most everything-- what I eat, what I buy, how I bathe, where I go to the bathroom, how I sleep with roosters living in my house, etc., etc. I think, by the end of the visit, we got to that comfort zone--probably even half-way through. But the first few days were incredibly overwhelming for me. I didn't want to explain. I just wanted Jen to see and understand--everything. Obviously that's unrealistic, but that's me. My favorite moment of the whole visit, however-- when I really think we reached the brink of my return to normalization (word?) was when Jen and I were about to go to bed at our last destination (Busua Beach), and I said, "Want to play Egyptian War?" and she said, "Yeah! It's been a long time since we've played that one!" I pause for a moment, trying to remember that last time, before I realize and then say, "Of course it has. We haven't been together in a year." I'd forgotten. So, I think my sister's visit--my first milestone and almost one year marker-- gave me a glimpse of what returning home may be like-- alittle overwhelming, perhaps a little lonely-feeling at first...However, now I know when I get home, it's my sister who will be the one (it could be you too, if you come and visit! : ) ) who know's who and what I'm talking about when I'm telling stories about my time here in Ghana. And that seems like a good deal to me.
I had another "one year marker"-esque moment of awareness right before my sister's visit too...The past few months have been very hectic and filled with travelling for me-- between training a new group of volunteers and falling sick on more occassions than I'd prefer. I had two drama projects about malaria and smorgasboard of "life skills" with my students hanging over my head that just never seemed to come off on any of the many re-scheduled dates. Now, I've become pretty accustomed to this and try not to let it define my as a person lol, but I was started to get a bit antsy. The school term had ended and I just wanted to get them over with, so that we could start on new projects when school resumed. No life force really cared what I wanted-- per usual and probably fair. But, eventually, myself and two friends and/or co-workers that I was working on the projects with decided to just force it and call it a day. The idea was for the students to learn about marlaria prevention, hiv/aids prevention, hygeine habits, study skills, and saving/budgeting, create their own dramas on the topics, and perform them for the community to show off what they learned and share their knowledge with their parents/families/community members. It rained all day. And anybody who knows Ghana knows nothing happens in the rain, which makes natural sense. But Solomon, Philip, and I were defying Ghana and nature on this day. Out of necessity. Or desperation. Or exhaustion. Of course, Ghana and nature laughed in our faces. The students were so excited they waited around all day and had no qualms about performing in the rain. And really no qualms about performing to a non-existent audience--because no community members showed up...well, one guy did. And my sanity is forever indebted to him, though I'll probably never know Konkomba well enough to explain that to him. It was a competition. I forgot to mention that. So, I'm sitting there, getting rained on, scoring my students who are getting rained on while they perform. And, I just keep telling myself that we at least succeeded in educating the students. Their dramas were wonderful. Even some of the younger, less vocal ones really stepped up. Sooo, so what if they weren't able to bestow their knowledge on anyway else. Half the goal was achieved! Half a success is still a success! It's like milk in a glass-- it's half full! These are the things I'm telling myself. Those who know me well, know I must have been incredibly frustration, irritated, and mad at myself during this moment in time and space. I was. Borderline furious at some ambiguous entity that began to manifest itself in everyone and everything. I wanted to cry. Good thing it was raining...
So, it all went off. The students performed. We announced a winner in a private little party of other students, myself, my two collaborators, and one community member. We dranks minerals and ate biscuits. And, I went home to cleanse my soul of pain and feelings of failure, trying to remember all those sayings about the youth as our future etc. etc. My friend Solo followed me home, and we hung out for a bit. As he was about to go he turned to me and said, "What you are doing with those students is really great. Before you and Allison (my predecessor and love) came to work with them, they couldn't speak like that in public. They didn't have confidence like that, and they couldn't speak English so fluently. So, thank you. God shall bless you for that."
Before you start thing that this is turning into a personal ego-stroke session, though I do think Solo's comments did save my ego from extinction-- or temporary extinction, to be less dramatic. The real moment of awareness came in his comment about English fluency. I actually usually request that the students speak in Konkomba when they perform. They usually beg to speak in English, and whether I agree or not, they speak in English when they get up there-- and I run around in the last moments looking for a translator lol. I really struggle with deciphering cultural evolution from cultural death sometimes. Particularly here, where I try to be completely and utterly cultural non-domineering. Try. I haven't quite figured out if that's an attainable goal yet, but I'm staying optimistic. Anyway, the cold hard facts are that English fluency is a valued asset in Ghana. It's a marker of education and potential for affluence. More people speak English in Ghana's more developed regions. In it's lesser developed regions, fewer people speak English. The stereotypes ensue. They're not really stereotypes. They're just a reality. If my students want to go to high school, training college, university, etc. If they want to get jobs and change their economic standing, their social standing-- They have to speak English, and they have to speak it well. I don't know exactly how I feel about that; my feelings waver with my mood, the day, the moon...I'm not very good at being realistic. Or practical. I don't really care for it. But this is not about me or my life. It's about my students and their lives (now you can really hear the dramatic instrumentals in the background, yeah?).
Anyway, all I'm saying is, it was a moment of awareness or atonement with the cultural reality here. Perhaps, one might say, if they were meandering about such a PhD dissertation topic, as I might be, a post-colonial cultural reality. "We can never go back to before." That a line from a song in a one-woman musical called An American in New York that debuted starring my best friend Maggie. Kidding....sort of...it's from some musical that I don't know, but Maggie would know, because she did sing it in An American in New York....This whole half of the paragraph has probably only been mildly humorous for a sole reader-- Maggie. My apologies.
Now, this is a marathon entry if we've every seen one, yeah? Well, here's to the year-- almost! I think one of the hardest realizations has been that life goes on for all of you even when I'm not there. lol. Now, obviously, I knew that it would. But, that doesn't mean that I understood what it would feel like. So many of my life's VIPs have fallen in love, fallen sick, engaged, married, birthed children, graduated, died. Everday I think about you, and I try to re-assess whether I've made the right decision in being here. Living in a culture that values family so strongly, I often wonder what in the world I was thinking when I decided to leave mine. My only answer-- I am coming back. Soon--ish. 15 months-- ish. I think, perhaps, the other harderst realization (so many hard realizations--whatever that means) was that my life would go on too. That I would feel so dramatically changed as a person some days, and none of those VIPs would be there to know it. Luckily, I've found some new VIPs to add to my currently distant aged (like wine) VIPs. And, luckily, 98% of my life is far less dramatic than this paragraph. Thank something divine for that. : )
So, happy almost one year! Cheers!
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Blast from the Past
Disclaimer: This story is a bit worrisome, but just hang on until the end. At no point did I truly need to fear for my life. It was merely nightmarish (and no reflection of the Peace Corps experience in general). Not fatal. Okay, go--
Last Tuesday night I went to bed in pants and a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up, wrapped tightly like an egg roll in large pieces of cloth, and I still shivered my way through the mostly sleepless night. I was beginning to think Arctic winter had hit West Africa when my 103* temperature reasoned me out of such an outlandish conclusion. By morning, however, the fever had dropped to 99*, and I thought I was on my road to recovery. I began going about by usual daily routine. I'm sure you can see where this is going. Anytime one is writing about going about their normal routine something completely abnormal is bound to happen...Indeed it did. By two that afternoon, the vomiting began, accompanied by severe abdominal pains. The fever returned, and as I went to call the Peace Corps doctor at my spot of reception, I collapsed. Thankfully, a friend of mine was on his way to my house, saw me, and called the doctor for me. This friend is also a trained medical orderly of sorts and immediately called the ambulance, carried me on his back to the clinic, injected me with a fever-reducer, and unsuccessful tried to start me on an IV of fluids. By this time, I was shaking from the fever and my abdomen was on fire. When the lifted me into the ambulance I put on quite the vocal performance, screaming and wailing. The two hour ride to the hospital wasn't much better. The hospital itself wasn't much better than that. I was diagnosed with malaria, among other intenstinal infections. Unfortunately, they weren't really prepared to treat me, and well, I'll leave out all the gruesome details, but I was fairly horrified on many occasions by the IVs, shots, and draws of blood that I knew should not be as painful or bloody as they were. They truly truly did their best, but they're severely under-staffed and under-funded.
Because I'm prone to slip in to states of anxiety at times such as the one I'm speaking of, I did just that. Loud, high-pitched wheezes fell forth from my mouth, marking each failed intake of breath. I didn't even recognize myself at first. I was hyperventilating and, unfortunately, had left my inhaler at home in the rush. They put me on oxygen, and I was able to relax a bit. At least, relatively speaking. Night fell again (this is the second night by now), and my oxygen tank ran out. A friend who was with me at the time went to request another one, only to return to me, mildly wheezing again with a grim look on her face. "The hospital doesn't have another tank. They only had that one." I didn't say anything. Maybe because I didn't have the breath to support sound, but I was also incredibly livid. I don't know exactly at who or what, but anger was surging through my body (it had been a long two days, by this point), exacerbating my wheezing again. My friend said, "Cynthia, you'll be fine if you just let yourself calm down." Of course, she was right, but how exactly to do that was more of my dilemma.
Ready for the cheesey last scene? I promise this is exactly what happened...
I laid down flat on my back and laid my un-IVed hand on my lower abdomen. I closed my eyes and slowly began to inhale, feeling my abdomen begin to blow up like a balloon with these words running through my head, "Breathe through the diaphragm. Stand up straight. Open the rib cage wide like a gate."
It was a pretty pitiful inhale at first, but gradually it improved. I made it through the night, and the next day, I was taken to another hospital in Accra where I was able to get everything I needed for my road towards recovery.
Anyway, just thought my fellow Perf-101ers would find this one humorous. lol
Love you guys.
Last Tuesday night I went to bed in pants and a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up, wrapped tightly like an egg roll in large pieces of cloth, and I still shivered my way through the mostly sleepless night. I was beginning to think Arctic winter had hit West Africa when my 103* temperature reasoned me out of such an outlandish conclusion. By morning, however, the fever had dropped to 99*, and I thought I was on my road to recovery. I began going about by usual daily routine. I'm sure you can see where this is going. Anytime one is writing about going about their normal routine something completely abnormal is bound to happen...Indeed it did. By two that afternoon, the vomiting began, accompanied by severe abdominal pains. The fever returned, and as I went to call the Peace Corps doctor at my spot of reception, I collapsed. Thankfully, a friend of mine was on his way to my house, saw me, and called the doctor for me. This friend is also a trained medical orderly of sorts and immediately called the ambulance, carried me on his back to the clinic, injected me with a fever-reducer, and unsuccessful tried to start me on an IV of fluids. By this time, I was shaking from the fever and my abdomen was on fire. When the lifted me into the ambulance I put on quite the vocal performance, screaming and wailing. The two hour ride to the hospital wasn't much better. The hospital itself wasn't much better than that. I was diagnosed with malaria, among other intenstinal infections. Unfortunately, they weren't really prepared to treat me, and well, I'll leave out all the gruesome details, but I was fairly horrified on many occasions by the IVs, shots, and draws of blood that I knew should not be as painful or bloody as they were. They truly truly did their best, but they're severely under-staffed and under-funded.
Because I'm prone to slip in to states of anxiety at times such as the one I'm speaking of, I did just that. Loud, high-pitched wheezes fell forth from my mouth, marking each failed intake of breath. I didn't even recognize myself at first. I was hyperventilating and, unfortunately, had left my inhaler at home in the rush. They put me on oxygen, and I was able to relax a bit. At least, relatively speaking. Night fell again (this is the second night by now), and my oxygen tank ran out. A friend who was with me at the time went to request another one, only to return to me, mildly wheezing again with a grim look on her face. "The hospital doesn't have another tank. They only had that one." I didn't say anything. Maybe because I didn't have the breath to support sound, but I was also incredibly livid. I don't know exactly at who or what, but anger was surging through my body (it had been a long two days, by this point), exacerbating my wheezing again. My friend said, "Cynthia, you'll be fine if you just let yourself calm down." Of course, she was right, but how exactly to do that was more of my dilemma.
Ready for the cheesey last scene? I promise this is exactly what happened...
I laid down flat on my back and laid my un-IVed hand on my lower abdomen. I closed my eyes and slowly began to inhale, feeling my abdomen begin to blow up like a balloon with these words running through my head, "Breathe through the diaphragm. Stand up straight. Open the rib cage wide like a gate."
It was a pretty pitiful inhale at first, but gradually it improved. I made it through the night, and the next day, I was taken to another hospital in Accra where I was able to get everything I needed for my road towards recovery.
Anyway, just thought my fellow Perf-101ers would find this one humorous. lol
Love you guys.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Village of Living
So, once again, it’s been incredibly too long since my last post. However, in my defense, I actually wrote a blog a few weeks ago, saved it to my pen drive, and then it gotten eaten by a virus, and I just haven’t had a chance to write another one. Anyway, things are going well here. I think I’ve reached a new level of integration—I’ve grown tired of all of my "earthy/ look like I just walked out of a Landsend catalog" attire that makes me feel like I’m camping in Ghana, rather than living. Not to knock those who buy their normal attire from Landsend or the like. Many people truly pull that look off and enjoy it. Unfortunately, I am not really one of those people, and I never really have been. I don’t feel comfortable in clothing that absorbs my perspiration while simultaneously shielding from the sun’s rays with built-in SPF 45. And skirts that can be zipped into pants and capris and, finally, cute little totes with built-in carabineers, so that, when it comes time for packing, you can attach that small ambiguous tote to your backpack loop without anyone ever suspecting you’re carrying 1/3 of your wardrobe around---yeah, who ever invented those—ingenious, but also not my style. So, I’ve initiated a gradual parting-of-ways from many of my old clothes and started purchasing some new items that suit my person and my soul, rather than making me feel like a boy scout. I know that probably just sounds like a somewhat interesting excuse to go shopping for new clothes, and, of course, in many ways (or all ways), it is. But, the other day when I walked down a path in my village wearing real-live denim and a simple tank with a few strands of beads around my waist a friend of mine called out, "Pigri, now you look like a Ghanaian!" I was wearing an outfit, unbeknownst to him, that I would wear on any normal day in the States (as opposed to my litany of boy scout uniforms), but since he had never seen me dressed like that before, he assumed I picked up the look in Ghana. I feel that validates my soul-filled, integration-inducing justification for my new wardrobe. I’m continuing to live more and more normally and comfortably, and I feel like my friends and co-workers are really starting to get to know who I am, particularly my love for mismatched clothes and layers in this case.
In my last blog, that unfortunately never got to see the light of cyberspace, I talked about a book called The Village of Waiting by George Packer. I recommended it to anyone who was looking for an interesting read, and I "required" it for anyone that is coming to visit me here. It’s about a Peace Corps volunteer who served in Togo during the 80s. If you plan to read the book, you may want to skip the next couple of paragraphs so that I don’t spoil it for you. So, if that’s you……STOP!
So, in the book, Packer describes a lot of the same physical and emotional discomforts that I’ve been experiencing since moving to Ghana. It’s amazing how similar some of his descriptions of his daily life are to my current life. His site in Togo is right on the Ghanaian border and, actually, fairly close to wear I live. He has a really great way of describing some of the more blatant cultural disconnects, as well as things like the cuisine and public transportation (to name a few items). All and all, he’s a pretty great, descriptive writer, and I think he captures a lot of the initial, superficial struggles that PCV is this region face.
However, more importantly, I think he targets a lot of the emotional/psychological struggles that we face, as well. Now, Packer’s assignment is fairly different from mine. He was an English language teacher in French-speaking Africa, and, from what I can tell, his site was slightly more urban than mine. So we part ways a bit there, but he still addresses something that I address at least once a day and up to 40 times a day, which is my justification for being here (here meaning Ghana, meaning Peace Corps, meaning life). Some days it’s an up-hill battle, trying to figuring out if I’m doing the right thing here—if my presence is doing more help or more harm. Some days I just know I’m in the right place. But my perspective on globalization, poverty, inter-cultural relations, international diplomacy, the global economy, and all those other big ticket items has drastically shifted since coming here and continues to shift with each passing day. There are so many issues and/or problems with so many ambiguous or non-existent solutions with which grappling can be incredibly overwhelming. And, often times, you’re doing a lot of the grappling alone—the only one in your village coming at the issues with your perspective that is arguably broadened by your access to international news and cultures, as well as education, but is also arguably irrelevant and out-of-touch with everyone around you. It’s often hard to say whether or not my irrelevance makes me useless here or not, and sometimes my occasional complete and utter loneliness (despite being surrounded by a community of 1400 people) makes me feel useless and/or non-existent even more than my cultural irrelevance. Packer says in his book that each day he woke up in Togo, he never felt he was where he was supposed to be. He lasted a little over a year and a half before he ETed, leaving for a brief vacation and never coming back. I remember reading the book, feeling the lessening pages in my right hand, wondering how he would ever wrap it up that quickly. Then, within a turn of a page, it was all over. He simply called PanAm and went home the next day. I was really irritated—really, truly. And, I couldn’t figure out why, at first. But I realized, what was most aggravating was not that Packer gave up on Peace Corps goals or his development work, pronouncing them moot. But that he just picked up and left his friends without a word. He never said goodbye. He never talked to them again. Who does that?! I felt like he ruined everything. Like, he came in to "help the people," and then left when he felt he’d "done his job." It just doesn’t work that way, I don’t feel. Although, I guess I can’t critique too much, because I don’t know exactly how to explain how it does work. I just feel you really need to know the people in your community you’re trying to work in, and if you really know them, you wouldn’t be able to pick up and go just like that. The "cultural-gap" is just not that un-traversable.
I think, more than anything, what keeps me here are my friends. Even now I’m horrified at the thought of leaving my friends in a year and half—not being able to see them complete school, get married, or watch their children grow up. Not being able to just call them up and see how they’re doing, which I can’t really do now, but is my usual method of maintaining long-distance friendships. Living here is becoming more and more like living anywhere else, especially now that I’m doing it in denim ; ).
RE-START! For those who left us briefly…
As for work, it’s going well. I working on all the projects I’ve talked about before and a few new ones. I’ll keep you posted with any interesting developments. Sewing’s going well. I’ve made some cute clothes and bags, of late. I think my messenger bag made out of flour sacs is currently my hottest item. My ground nut farm is growing strong (which cannot be said of my vegetable garden that’s turned into two-planted okra garden), and I’m currently brainstorming a list of things to do with the exorbitant amount of ground nuts that I’ll have in a few months. All suggestions are welcome! Oh! And, I’m currently training a new group of PCVs, which has been a blast. It’s been really fun meeting new people and coming back to the training site, hanging out with my home-stay family.
It’s also really nice to not be the "new person" anymore—to finally feel like maybe I know something about something—just maybe. : ) It’s a pretty cool sense of accomplishment.
Anyway, I should get going, but I’d like to say one last thing in honor of the recently passed Father’s Day. One of the most important things I’ve gained from this experience, and I know this sounds trite, but I have no shame, is a whole new kind of appreciation for my family and my home—fathers, especially included. So, happy fathers day to the fathers, especially mine. I love you, Dad.
In my last blog, that unfortunately never got to see the light of cyberspace, I talked about a book called The Village of Waiting by George Packer. I recommended it to anyone who was looking for an interesting read, and I "required" it for anyone that is coming to visit me here. It’s about a Peace Corps volunteer who served in Togo during the 80s. If you plan to read the book, you may want to skip the next couple of paragraphs so that I don’t spoil it for you. So, if that’s you……STOP!
So, in the book, Packer describes a lot of the same physical and emotional discomforts that I’ve been experiencing since moving to Ghana. It’s amazing how similar some of his descriptions of his daily life are to my current life. His site in Togo is right on the Ghanaian border and, actually, fairly close to wear I live. He has a really great way of describing some of the more blatant cultural disconnects, as well as things like the cuisine and public transportation (to name a few items). All and all, he’s a pretty great, descriptive writer, and I think he captures a lot of the initial, superficial struggles that PCV is this region face.
However, more importantly, I think he targets a lot of the emotional/psychological struggles that we face, as well. Now, Packer’s assignment is fairly different from mine. He was an English language teacher in French-speaking Africa, and, from what I can tell, his site was slightly more urban than mine. So we part ways a bit there, but he still addresses something that I address at least once a day and up to 40 times a day, which is my justification for being here (here meaning Ghana, meaning Peace Corps, meaning life). Some days it’s an up-hill battle, trying to figuring out if I’m doing the right thing here—if my presence is doing more help or more harm. Some days I just know I’m in the right place. But my perspective on globalization, poverty, inter-cultural relations, international diplomacy, the global economy, and all those other big ticket items has drastically shifted since coming here and continues to shift with each passing day. There are so many issues and/or problems with so many ambiguous or non-existent solutions with which grappling can be incredibly overwhelming. And, often times, you’re doing a lot of the grappling alone—the only one in your village coming at the issues with your perspective that is arguably broadened by your access to international news and cultures, as well as education, but is also arguably irrelevant and out-of-touch with everyone around you. It’s often hard to say whether or not my irrelevance makes me useless here or not, and sometimes my occasional complete and utter loneliness (despite being surrounded by a community of 1400 people) makes me feel useless and/or non-existent even more than my cultural irrelevance. Packer says in his book that each day he woke up in Togo, he never felt he was where he was supposed to be. He lasted a little over a year and a half before he ETed, leaving for a brief vacation and never coming back. I remember reading the book, feeling the lessening pages in my right hand, wondering how he would ever wrap it up that quickly. Then, within a turn of a page, it was all over. He simply called PanAm and went home the next day. I was really irritated—really, truly. And, I couldn’t figure out why, at first. But I realized, what was most aggravating was not that Packer gave up on Peace Corps goals or his development work, pronouncing them moot. But that he just picked up and left his friends without a word. He never said goodbye. He never talked to them again. Who does that?! I felt like he ruined everything. Like, he came in to "help the people," and then left when he felt he’d "done his job." It just doesn’t work that way, I don’t feel. Although, I guess I can’t critique too much, because I don’t know exactly how to explain how it does work. I just feel you really need to know the people in your community you’re trying to work in, and if you really know them, you wouldn’t be able to pick up and go just like that. The "cultural-gap" is just not that un-traversable.
I think, more than anything, what keeps me here are my friends. Even now I’m horrified at the thought of leaving my friends in a year and half—not being able to see them complete school, get married, or watch their children grow up. Not being able to just call them up and see how they’re doing, which I can’t really do now, but is my usual method of maintaining long-distance friendships. Living here is becoming more and more like living anywhere else, especially now that I’m doing it in denim ; ).
RE-START! For those who left us briefly…
As for work, it’s going well. I working on all the projects I’ve talked about before and a few new ones. I’ll keep you posted with any interesting developments. Sewing’s going well. I’ve made some cute clothes and bags, of late. I think my messenger bag made out of flour sacs is currently my hottest item. My ground nut farm is growing strong (which cannot be said of my vegetable garden that’s turned into two-planted okra garden), and I’m currently brainstorming a list of things to do with the exorbitant amount of ground nuts that I’ll have in a few months. All suggestions are welcome! Oh! And, I’m currently training a new group of PCVs, which has been a blast. It’s been really fun meeting new people and coming back to the training site, hanging out with my home-stay family.
It’s also really nice to not be the "new person" anymore—to finally feel like maybe I know something about something—just maybe. : ) It’s a pretty cool sense of accomplishment.
Anyway, I should get going, but I’d like to say one last thing in honor of the recently passed Father’s Day. One of the most important things I’ve gained from this experience, and I know this sounds trite, but I have no shame, is a whole new kind of appreciation for my family and my home—fathers, especially included. So, happy fathers day to the fathers, especially mine. I love you, Dad.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Letter to the Class
Dear Class, 2/7/2009
Life as an eighteen year old in Ghana varies from place to place and family to family just as it does in the states. An eighteen year old in a rural village is bound to have a very different experience from that of an eighteen year old living in a town or city. In much the same way, as Ghana is undergoing consistent development and change, an eighteen year old whose family embraces more “modern” practices will have a very different experience than one whose family maintains more traditional practices. In Ofosu, the families tend to be slightly more traditional. We are located between two larger towns, so we see the more modern trends, but they’re not always as relevant in our rural, predominantly yam-farming village.
So what does all this mean for an eighteen year old in Ofosu? Well, for one, as farming families, the children are often expected to accompany their parents to farm. This can, consequently, often delay their schooling, according to the common timeline we see in the States. An eighteen year old in Ofosu is generally just finishing junior high school, if they’re going to school at all. They will go to school Monday through Friday, as we do in the States, though they often finish much earlier—usually no later than noon. Teachers usually end school early so they can go to farm, market, or because the weather is just too hot and they don’t feel the students are retaining anything. Their reasoning is not always so valid. There is definitely a teacher accountability problem here in Ghana. However, there’s also an issue with timely payment for teachers as well. Teachers are, understandably so, less willing to teach when their paychecks have not arrived.
Students are expected to fetch water and fire wood for their teachers. On certain days, they are to go to their teachers’ farms to work for them. On Saturdays, all children go to farm with their families. Ofosu becomes a ghost town. As one of my friends put it, “We go to farm on Saturdays. We do not fool with that. About that, we are very serious.” So, an average eighteen year old goes to farm on Saturdays and raises yam mounds, prepares seeds, and digs up harvested yams, cassava, groundnuts, etc. They carry it back to their homes (maybe 2-8 miles away) on their bicycles or their heads. Once they return home, they peel the yams and take them to the mill for grinding [This is a task for females in particular].
Sunday is a less serious day for farmers. If they’re Christian, they may not go to farm at all. However, after church, the average eighteen year old is probably washing their clothes by hand at the river or with water they fetched from the borehole. They have to make sure their uniforms are clean for the next school day.
Life for an eighteen year old in Ghana is fairly routine. When they aren’t at school or farm, they’re just hanging out, playing cards, soccer, mancala (called owari in Ghana), etc. Their aren’t any places to “go,” especially because there are no jobs for teenagers, so they rarely have any money. Many teenagers have never been farther than the next market town.
There are two homes with generators and televisions in Ofosu. On certain nights, they play dubbed Nigerian films. Occasionally, if a teenager has money, they’ll go to see one of these films. There are also a few youth clubs that pull money together to rent speakers and host small dance parties. These clubs require fees, however, so the teenager must have some sources of income to join.
As for dating, it doesn’t really happen—at least not publicly. Men and women aren’t really expected to have that kind of contact until they’re married. This is a rule that is increasingly broken, as evidenced by the increase in teenage pregnancies. All of this, however, is kept very hush-hush. I find when I enquire about the marital status of some of the younger mothers I know, I am rarely given a straight answer.
I think that pretty much covers it. Questions are welcome.
Sincerely,
Ama Cynthia
Life as an eighteen year old in Ghana varies from place to place and family to family just as it does in the states. An eighteen year old in a rural village is bound to have a very different experience from that of an eighteen year old living in a town or city. In much the same way, as Ghana is undergoing consistent development and change, an eighteen year old whose family embraces more “modern” practices will have a very different experience than one whose family maintains more traditional practices. In Ofosu, the families tend to be slightly more traditional. We are located between two larger towns, so we see the more modern trends, but they’re not always as relevant in our rural, predominantly yam-farming village.
So what does all this mean for an eighteen year old in Ofosu? Well, for one, as farming families, the children are often expected to accompany their parents to farm. This can, consequently, often delay their schooling, according to the common timeline we see in the States. An eighteen year old in Ofosu is generally just finishing junior high school, if they’re going to school at all. They will go to school Monday through Friday, as we do in the States, though they often finish much earlier—usually no later than noon. Teachers usually end school early so they can go to farm, market, or because the weather is just too hot and they don’t feel the students are retaining anything. Their reasoning is not always so valid. There is definitely a teacher accountability problem here in Ghana. However, there’s also an issue with timely payment for teachers as well. Teachers are, understandably so, less willing to teach when their paychecks have not arrived.
Students are expected to fetch water and fire wood for their teachers. On certain days, they are to go to their teachers’ farms to work for them. On Saturdays, all children go to farm with their families. Ofosu becomes a ghost town. As one of my friends put it, “We go to farm on Saturdays. We do not fool with that. About that, we are very serious.” So, an average eighteen year old goes to farm on Saturdays and raises yam mounds, prepares seeds, and digs up harvested yams, cassava, groundnuts, etc. They carry it back to their homes (maybe 2-8 miles away) on their bicycles or their heads. Once they return home, they peel the yams and take them to the mill for grinding [This is a task for females in particular].
Sunday is a less serious day for farmers. If they’re Christian, they may not go to farm at all. However, after church, the average eighteen year old is probably washing their clothes by hand at the river or with water they fetched from the borehole. They have to make sure their uniforms are clean for the next school day.
Life for an eighteen year old in Ghana is fairly routine. When they aren’t at school or farm, they’re just hanging out, playing cards, soccer, mancala (called owari in Ghana), etc. Their aren’t any places to “go,” especially because there are no jobs for teenagers, so they rarely have any money. Many teenagers have never been farther than the next market town.
There are two homes with generators and televisions in Ofosu. On certain nights, they play dubbed Nigerian films. Occasionally, if a teenager has money, they’ll go to see one of these films. There are also a few youth clubs that pull money together to rent speakers and host small dance parties. These clubs require fees, however, so the teenager must have some sources of income to join.
As for dating, it doesn’t really happen—at least not publicly. Men and women aren’t really expected to have that kind of contact until they’re married. This is a rule that is increasingly broken, as evidenced by the increase in teenage pregnancies. All of this, however, is kept very hush-hush. I find when I enquire about the marital status of some of the younger mothers I know, I am rarely given a straight answer.
I think that pretty much covers it. Questions are welcome.
Sincerely,
Ama Cynthia
Musing...
So, I haven't really updated in quite a while. I'd say there's about two reasons for that-- one, it's incredibly difficult to update from the computer I have only periodic access too; and, two, and probably our biggest culprit, I don't know exactly what to write about. Things have really started normalize for me. I've created my routine and really started getting into my work. I sew about four days a week. I've started men's clothing! In term of Peace Corps work, I work with the clinic weighing babies and talking to mothers about nutrition. I'm also working with the HIV/AIDS club (which the previous volunteer started) at the school. We planted 100 moringa seeds last week (50 at the clinic and 50 at the school farm), and I think next we're wanting to work on a new HIV/AIDS drama that the kids want to perform in our neighboring villages. I'm also working on an educational family planning program that will, hopefully, come off by the end of April. And a few other things in the works, as well.
I'd say, of all my projects, family planning gives me the hardest time-- like psychologically. Which should be interesting, because the district health team is unleashing a whole new family planning campaign. I just feel like the size of peoples families and what that means is so embedded in Ghanaian culture that to change that is like changing a culture--perhaps even, replacing a culture with another more "western" culture. Like for example, my village is made up of four families--that's it. Four. Obviously, family planning could change the entire face of our village--well, over time, and the entire culture surrounding these four extended (but not as extended as you would assume) families. Now, obviously that's not a bad thing necessarily. Culture isn't stagnant. And, when you travel further south you'll already see smaller, more nuclear-focused families. But, you also see a lot of Ghanaian culture somehow blended with more "western" influences. And, well, I'm just trying to avoid some uni-global culture, because, you know, I can do that single-handedly. ; ) Anyway, I just don't want to step on any cultural toes for the sake of the culture-- and the people, too, but obviously they can just make their own decisions. So, yeah, I guess that's my conclusion. People are capable of making their own decisions. I'm just presenting the options-- the pros and cons. Alright, enough of that rambling...
In my personal life, I've had two major cooking revelations-- one, making flat bread out of ground soy beans mixed with oats, honey, and a little salt and baking powder. And tom brown cookies! Tom brown is this combination of ground soy beans, ground nuts, corn, millet, and sometimes some other things. Anyway, you can make some delicious porridge with it, but I've also discovered a way to make cookies with it, as well! They taste a bit like peanut butter cookies, but they have a lot more protein. Anyway, I'm trying to take the village by storm with them-- eliminate the protein-deficient babies. Just kidding. Well, I mean, I would like to eliminate protein-deficiency, but as for taking the village by storm. I'm trying to be a bit more subtle. : ) But yeah, those are my two cooking successes. They've really helped me beat the fufuo bloat. So, onward and upward, my next ventures include a home vegetable garden, fruit drying, and potentially ground nut farming. I'll be sure to keep you posted.
So, yeah, keeping busy and feeling good! Hope everyone's doing well. Will I ever stop dreaming of the day I get to see you all again? Probably not. But, I've definitely made a home here too. So, for whatever that's worth-- Sending love- Cyn
I'd say, of all my projects, family planning gives me the hardest time-- like psychologically. Which should be interesting, because the district health team is unleashing a whole new family planning campaign. I just feel like the size of peoples families and what that means is so embedded in Ghanaian culture that to change that is like changing a culture--perhaps even, replacing a culture with another more "western" culture. Like for example, my village is made up of four families--that's it. Four. Obviously, family planning could change the entire face of our village--well, over time, and the entire culture surrounding these four extended (but not as extended as you would assume) families. Now, obviously that's not a bad thing necessarily. Culture isn't stagnant. And, when you travel further south you'll already see smaller, more nuclear-focused families. But, you also see a lot of Ghanaian culture somehow blended with more "western" influences. And, well, I'm just trying to avoid some uni-global culture, because, you know, I can do that single-handedly. ; ) Anyway, I just don't want to step on any cultural toes for the sake of the culture-- and the people, too, but obviously they can just make their own decisions. So, yeah, I guess that's my conclusion. People are capable of making their own decisions. I'm just presenting the options-- the pros and cons. Alright, enough of that rambling...
In my personal life, I've had two major cooking revelations-- one, making flat bread out of ground soy beans mixed with oats, honey, and a little salt and baking powder. And tom brown cookies! Tom brown is this combination of ground soy beans, ground nuts, corn, millet, and sometimes some other things. Anyway, you can make some delicious porridge with it, but I've also discovered a way to make cookies with it, as well! They taste a bit like peanut butter cookies, but they have a lot more protein. Anyway, I'm trying to take the village by storm with them-- eliminate the protein-deficient babies. Just kidding. Well, I mean, I would like to eliminate protein-deficiency, but as for taking the village by storm. I'm trying to be a bit more subtle. : ) But yeah, those are my two cooking successes. They've really helped me beat the fufuo bloat. So, onward and upward, my next ventures include a home vegetable garden, fruit drying, and potentially ground nut farming. I'll be sure to keep you posted.
So, yeah, keeping busy and feeling good! Hope everyone's doing well. Will I ever stop dreaming of the day I get to see you all again? Probably not. But, I've definitely made a home here too. So, for whatever that's worth-- Sending love- Cyn
Monday, March 9, 2009
Living in Ghana - Somehow
3/8/2009
Dear Class,
“Somehow” is a word often hear coming out of the mouths of Peace Corps volunteers in Ghana, as well as Ghanaians (when they’re speaking English, of course). “We will do it—somehow,” “Somehow, we will do,” “We did it—somehow.” That and phrases like “If tomorrow,” “If I finish,” an “If I get a car.” People very rarely promise anything beyond the present moment. Perhaps that sounds irresponsible, lazy, or defeatist. But in Ghana, or at least in Ofosu, it’s just practical. If you didn’t concede to these qualifiers, you’d lose your mind. This letter provides a case in point.
I intended to travel to one of the nearby market towns—the district capital today to write this letter and send it off to you. It’s Sunday, so there aren’t many cars on the road. Many Christians take the day off, and with that lack of demand the cards don’t fill. If they don’t fill, they don’t move. So, getting a ride to town on Sunday can be tough, but usually one or two cars pass throughout the day.
I got up early, packed my things, went to church, greeted a few friends, and was out by the road around 11:30 am. It was a bit early. Most cars don’t start moving until after church—sometime mid-afternoon. But, I didn’t have much else to do, so I thought I would just hang out. There are always people around to occupy your time.
So, I sat down and talked with some people. Around 12:30, I laid own to take a nap. Around 1:30, a friend came to sit with me. She roasted some ground nuts, and we bought some bananas to go with them. Six bananas and plenty of ground nuts later, we looked through a TIME and Cosmo magazine sent from home. I tried to explain to her all of the scantily-clad women she was completely appalled by. I told her not everyone in the U.S. dressed like the stars or the models advertising lingerie, boy lotions, perfumes, etc.
Around 3:30, she headed home. Around 3:35 a five-passenger car passes with nine people in it an all of their bags. It’s a no-go. By 4:30, I’m losing hope and tell myself just to hold out until five. By this time, everyone who greeted me on their way to farm this morning is now greeting me on their way back home. 5:00 comes and goes—I head to the tree under which I receive cell phone reception to message a person I was to meet in town that I wouldn’t be making it tonight. I hit one button and the cell phone battery died. I was going to charge it when I got to town where there’s electricity. I had tried to charge it yesterday with my solar charger, but it rained. I was frustrated. The last time I was in town, trying to e-mail you a letter the power went out while I was typing, and I lost the whole document. When I re-type it the internet connection went down, then the power went out again for four days. But, I realize I ha no reason to be frustrated. I’m not the only one living here. All of this is something everyone here is used too, and without me even sending that message, the person I was supposed to meet in town will assume I didn’t get a car and network reception is poor in my village. An, everyone I had “ify” plans with on Tuesday will understand why I had to spend the extra night in town, because I didn’t get a car on Sunday. We’re all living, working, hanging out in Ghana—somehow. We concede to that which we cannot control and eat bananas, ground nuts, keep each other company, have fun, and go on with our lives while doing it.
So, if tomorrow, and if I get a car, and if the power is on, and if the internet is working, I will type this letter and send it to you—somehow.
Sincerely,
Ama Cynthia
Dear Class,
“Somehow” is a word often hear coming out of the mouths of Peace Corps volunteers in Ghana, as well as Ghanaians (when they’re speaking English, of course). “We will do it—somehow,” “Somehow, we will do,” “We did it—somehow.” That and phrases like “If tomorrow,” “If I finish,” an “If I get a car.” People very rarely promise anything beyond the present moment. Perhaps that sounds irresponsible, lazy, or defeatist. But in Ghana, or at least in Ofosu, it’s just practical. If you didn’t concede to these qualifiers, you’d lose your mind. This letter provides a case in point.
I intended to travel to one of the nearby market towns—the district capital today to write this letter and send it off to you. It’s Sunday, so there aren’t many cars on the road. Many Christians take the day off, and with that lack of demand the cards don’t fill. If they don’t fill, they don’t move. So, getting a ride to town on Sunday can be tough, but usually one or two cars pass throughout the day.
I got up early, packed my things, went to church, greeted a few friends, and was out by the road around 11:30 am. It was a bit early. Most cars don’t start moving until after church—sometime mid-afternoon. But, I didn’t have much else to do, so I thought I would just hang out. There are always people around to occupy your time.
So, I sat down and talked with some people. Around 12:30, I laid own to take a nap. Around 1:30, a friend came to sit with me. She roasted some ground nuts, and we bought some bananas to go with them. Six bananas and plenty of ground nuts later, we looked through a TIME and Cosmo magazine sent from home. I tried to explain to her all of the scantily-clad women she was completely appalled by. I told her not everyone in the U.S. dressed like the stars or the models advertising lingerie, boy lotions, perfumes, etc.
Around 3:30, she headed home. Around 3:35 a five-passenger car passes with nine people in it an all of their bags. It’s a no-go. By 4:30, I’m losing hope and tell myself just to hold out until five. By this time, everyone who greeted me on their way to farm this morning is now greeting me on their way back home. 5:00 comes and goes—I head to the tree under which I receive cell phone reception to message a person I was to meet in town that I wouldn’t be making it tonight. I hit one button and the cell phone battery died. I was going to charge it when I got to town where there’s electricity. I had tried to charge it yesterday with my solar charger, but it rained. I was frustrated. The last time I was in town, trying to e-mail you a letter the power went out while I was typing, and I lost the whole document. When I re-type it the internet connection went down, then the power went out again for four days. But, I realize I ha no reason to be frustrated. I’m not the only one living here. All of this is something everyone here is used too, and without me even sending that message, the person I was supposed to meet in town will assume I didn’t get a car and network reception is poor in my village. An, everyone I had “ify” plans with on Tuesday will understand why I had to spend the extra night in town, because I didn’t get a car on Sunday. We’re all living, working, hanging out in Ghana—somehow. We concede to that which we cannot control and eat bananas, ground nuts, keep each other company, have fun, and go on with our lives while doing it.
So, if tomorrow, and if I get a car, and if the power is on, and if the internet is working, I will type this letter and send it to you—somehow.
Sincerely,
Ama Cynthia
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