In order to continue posting, I've abandoned any attempt of eloquence in my writing. Sorry for that.
On my second to last day of class in Accra I began feeling very sick very suddenly. I had the chills and simultaneously felt like my head was a fireball. Papa Attah poured cold water over my head, and when that ingenious first aid didn’t help me feel better Kokokro was instructed to take me to the local clinic. Once there, I had my blood drawn and tested. Thankfully I didn’t have malaria but I did have some sort of bacteria from food, which the doctor said was causing my high fever. I was prescribed a weeks worth of antibiotics, and began to feel better after a day or two. So far that’s been my only illness. Of course I was the first person to get sick. Always the smallest, the whitest, and the one with the weakest immune system.
I grew closer to my Accra homestay family in the last few days of being there. I buttered more bread, Uncle John helped me with my Twi homework, and Auntie Pat acted like an ecstatic child on her birthday when I gave her the Googoo Clusters I brought as a gift from Nashville.
The drive to Kumasi took nearly four hours, but the change of scenery was very welcome. There was more brush, lots of palm trees, and some really interesting rock formations. When we arrived in Kumasi we got a whirlwind tour of Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology and Kumasi Anglican Secondary School, where we take classes at during the week. Everyone was a little disoriented, having left a city we felt like we were just coming to understand for a new city with storm clouds, cooler weather, and paved roads (with medians and stop lights!)
I’ve really enjoyed my new homestay family. My father, Eric is a math teacher at a local high school and he and his wife, Mama Joyce are both getting their master’s degrees at KNUST. This family is very well educated. Their house has a large library, which is pretty rare in Ghana. Many Ghanaians don’t read—and the issue has become much worse since the induction of the television. In most Ghanaian households the TV is always on, and the volume is blasting. That part of the culture is manifest in this family, even with books on the shelves. My homestay brother Nana, which means Chief, is the smiliest cutest 11-year-old boy I’ve ever met. This morning I woke up to him singing Billy Jean on the top of his lungs, as he danced around the house with my ipod. His sister, Sheila is 24. She looks just like her mother and is also very studious. Eric’s neice Joyce is 13-years-old and she’s living with the family until her father returns from the US to collect her. He won the green card lottery and is currently working as a cab driver in the Brox. Another American student from Xavier University also lives here. His name is Jerry and he facilitates some very interesting conversations between he, Eric, and myself. Eric has taught me a lot about Ghanaian politics, economics—and a few not-so-great things about the Ghanaian view of women in society. I had to explain to him that he was generalizing when he said that women in political office do not/cannot perform as well as men. He doesn’t seem opposed to women holding the positions, but he doesn’t believe in the possibility of equality of productivity.
I wake up around 6:00 every morning, eat breakfast (which has been rice pudding or oatmeal), take a Tro-tro to KASS for morning Twi lessons, then a lunch break and tro-tro to KNUST where we dance and drum for three and a half hours. African dancing is the most awesome thing of all time. I’ve never moved or sweated so much in my life—but I’ve also never felt so good. I know I probably don’t look very good, but I love it all the same. This Friday we’re going to have a performance for our homestay families, which should be interesting.
Last Thursday we visited an Akan Fetish Priestess. It was a really incredible sight, and I was actually very emotionally affected by the tradition of it all. The Priestess was surrounded by her husband, her million-year-old mother, and several elderly looking followers who acted as a sort of choir. First we introduced ourselves—from right to left, as the tradition goes. “Right is always right.” We got to ask a few questions before the Priestess excused herself into the house where she changed into the outfit of an ancestral spirit which had possessed her. Her followers cracked an egg in the middle of some baby-power demarcations to ward off any interfering spirits. The egg was a substitute for a live chicken sacrifice—they were being kind to the sensitive Obrunis. The Priestess danced around, shaking her head and chanting—and we were asked to join her. Then she went back inside and changed into the clothes of another ancestral spirit. This one was from the North and he smoked cigarettes and drank Guinness—so the Priestess acted accordingly. After the performance, we were each allowed a personal consultation in a private room. The priestess told me Neil would be very successful this year, and his album would be popular so long as he stays humble. : )
Saturday my group visited three nearby craft villages. The first one was a Kente village called Bonwire and it was the most overwhelming beatle-mania experience I’ve ever had. We all unloaded from our tro-tro and were immediately surrounded by a million persistanttttttttttt merchants who were selling everything from personalized keychains to purses to kente to water. We lasted there long enough for me to purchase a small piece of kente weaving done by the master weaver—and then we piled back into the tro-tro to escape the madness. Second, we visited a Kente/Batik fusion village. We received a demonstration on the process of making the batik dyes. It involves pounding wood, then boiling and re-boiling the shards until you get the desired color. I bought the most amazing Kente/Batik tapestry for C25. Thirdly, we visited a small wood-carving village where I was tricked into buying jewelry from these guys who literally hold your hand as they walk you to their stores.
Saturday night several of us went out to a local bar with live music. Jack told some guy he was a musician and it became that man’s mission to get Jack on stage. In the end, Jack was on drums, Robert on guitar, and Jon on BEATBOXING HARMONICA to “One Love” with the band’s Ghanaian singers. Incredibleeeee.
Trash. There are no garbage cans anywhere in Ghana. Only the very well-off can afford to own their own garbage cans and have their trash removed by private companies—and the average Ghanaian makes less than C2 ($1.70ish) a day. The government has no established waste management program. As a result, the streets are filled with millions of plastic water sachets, aluminum coke cans, food waste, etc. etc. Ghana has open gutters that line all of the streets. This is the biggest dumping ground, and is accompanied by human excrements, which makes for some unpleasant smells.
Corruption is on the surface of Ghanian daily life. In this past week, the infamous former President Jerry Rawlings house was burnt to the ground. Shortly after, some people began to speculate that Rawlings had burned the old house himself, since his party is currently in office and he could insist on having a new house built for himself. The speculators pointed to the fact that none of Rawlings valuable items, or large metal appliances were recovered in the fire. The suspicion is that Rawlings removed these things first. When a few radio announcers posed this possibility on air, their station was immediately surrounded by the government and they were arrested on the spot.
Also, Ghana is currently trying to pass a freedom of information bill, but this week there has been a mysterious fire in the information department, and many documents were lost.
Many Ghanaians are very passionate about the betterment of the masses—but they seem to be constantly left in the dark by their government. That said, I’ve also come to realize several things about our own position in the world, as Americans. Ghana recently struck oil offshore—but they won’t reap any of the benefits because they don’t have the technology to extract it. Instead, the some large corporation will come in and take the oil, just like they have with Ghana’s cocoa and timber and coffee and minerals. West Africa produces 90% of the world’s natural minerals—but they are striken by the curse of the underdeveloped world. Western countries hypocritically encourages Africa to develop and modernize, as we steal the very resources that the country needs to advance itself.
I’m also disheartened by the obsession with westernization in Ghana. To be modern here, is to be western. I get a very strange feeling when I watch an incredible traditional drum and dance performance, and then immediately following watch the men change into neon-green Nikes, Dolce and Gabanna jeans, and a matching green Lacoste polo. Ghanaians seem to always have one foot in tradition and the other in westernization…and the fusion of the two is very awkward and makes me uncomfortable. I want to shake all of them and let them know how rich and beautiful their culture is—and how lame and stolen all our traditions are.
A pertinent quote from a book I’m reading, The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born:
“It was awful, was it not, that the rich should have this effect on the poor, making them always want to apologize for their poverty, and at all times to sacrifice future necessities just so that they could make a brief show of the wealth they could never hope to have” (131).
I’m somewhat in denial about the poverty I witness on a daily basis. Because everyone is more-or-less in the same boat, it’s hard to pick out the poorest from the poor. I am trying daily to put it all into perspective.
Yesterday I visited a local Catholic orphanage for disabled children where my American homestay brother Jerry volunteers. It was a very emotionally draining experience. In the morning the children, many of whom can't walk (due to polio, neglect, elaphantitis, etc. etc.), some of whom can't talk, and some of whom are blind sit on the ground outside for three hours. The sisters at the orphanage seem caring but they don't see a need for basic motor movement or stimulation of any kind. So the kids just sit or lay in people's laps until lunch when they are fed, then take a communal poop, and then get carried to cribs to nap. The afternoon is a repeat of the morning activities, but the children remain indoors. I've encouraged Jerry to bring a ball or some art supplies or something to stimulate the kids during their outdoor time. And I think I'm going to do my major ISP project on the perseption and treatment of the disabled in Ghana, because poverty aside, many of these children have been orphaned because they are considered cursed or without human souls...there's a lot more to say about this but I'll have to write it later.
Saturday morning we move to the villages so I won't have internet at all, but I'm really looking forward to the experience. We're going to be waking up at the crack of dawn with our host families, participating in their daily house chores, coming together for a communal breakfast, and then splitting back up to do more chores and work on our mini-ISP project. I haven't decided what I'm going to do mine on yet but I think I'm going to do something artisitc like batik or basket weaving or something like that.
