A few weeks of commotion

Over the past weeks I have felt like time has somehow gotten the best of me. Admittedly I have failed terribly at blogging about my recent experiences but I will summarize:

Continued volunteering with the kiddos which included:

• Planning a final-day-extravaganza with my kids at the Bawaleshi school that will included bagged juice for everyone, a snack and a drawing book to keep drawing in after I leave.
• Discussing with Dominic (the teacher who assists me at the school) how to keep in touch after I leave so he can tell me how the kids are doing and send them my love from the states.
• Finding out that after the week I missed at the school, the kids gave Mr. Dominic the silent treatment for two days. All because they believed that he had told me not to come back and that they would never see me again. I laughed loudly for an extended period of time at this news. He responded with "This is serious! They were very angry." And I laughed some more, but this time he joined me.
• Returning to Beacon House to play with the babes/Realizing how heart broken I am going to feel the last time I go there to play. It was the first time that Grace and I have been the only volunteers there. It was fantastic to play with the kids without 4 other volunteers running around trying to entertain them.

The reason that I wasn't able to go the school or see the kids for over a week was my trip to Togo. A post on our trip could take an hour to write - and that's an hour I don't have so, here is a breakdown of my 4 days in the country of Togo:

• Terrifying border crossing after dark that involved the largest and scariest African I have met to-date. This terrifying man of intimidating size was the border official and he did NOT want to give 6 Americans week-long visas at the border... at night. After some yelling on his part and flirtatious smiling and teasing on my part (praying to God that it would translate and save us) we got our visas and I actually saw the he-man laugh. Close call.
• Adventure finding our hotel (L'hotel Gallion) in Lome... arriving - using my limited French to secure us two rooms (one for the three boys and one for the three of us girls.)
• Finding a fantastic Greek/Lebanese-like restaurant with PHENOMENAL falafal wraps that marked our entry into delicious Togolese food.
• Stumbling upon a confrontation with a very drunk and very disoriented Romanian man at the hotel and laughing at his absurd declarations of his loathing of all things French and his intentions to learn English.
• Waking up to stories of the Romanian playing naked hide-n-go-seek with two Togolese prostitutes in the hotel.
• Traveling to Kpalime to see the butterflies... 6 people in one taxi. One geo-metro style taxi. the 3 boys and me in the back - two girls in front. This only happened because some Togolese men at Kpalime station in Lome tricked us into TRYING to get into the taxi after my reminders that "Il y a trois grands hommes!" and we would never fit... I remember something about a man pushing me onto Levi's lap saying "you are very beautiful girl - think small small." Almost three hours later and multiple stops to deal with butts, feet and legs that were asleep - we arrived at Auberge Papillons.
• Met our guide who promised to show us all the natural beauty of Norther Togo - Apo. Apo delivered on his promise. The forest with its natural pigments and various secrets surprised and delighted all of us. As a bonus we got to meet a local artist who creates some of the most unique and beautiful batik work I've seen here.
• Traveled back to Lome (6 in one taxi yet again) and got lost looking for lunch.
• Eventually ate and got a taxi to Lake Togo (our final stop on our Togolese tour) with the help of a stranger. Random acts of kindness never cease to amaze me. It's miraculous we get anywhere.
• Went to Lake Togo - negotiated a price for our bungalow since it was MUCH more expensive than my guide book stated - took a canoe across the lake to Togoville - paid exorbitant rates for a non-tour. Traveled back across the lake at night (kind of creepy... kind of awesome) and went to hide from the mosquitoes that destroyed us on the canoe ride.
• Had a nearly flawless trip back to Ghana after a taxi ride back to Lome with 7 (count em' - 7) people in one taxi.
• Took moto-taxis to the border. So much fun. So dangerous.
• Togo - accomplished.

After Togo I had two exams and I have two more on Dec. 5 and Dec. 10. Tomorrow I leave for round 2 at Green Turtle. Then, before you know it... I'm getting on a plane back to the States.

Adios Legon.

The Kiddos

One of the best parts of my experience in Ghana has been my time at Beacon House and my time with the kids at my school (where I teach story-telling and creative art in an hour we have deemed "IMAGINATION STATION")

So, after many requests - I thought I would post some pictures of my kiddos with a few short stories about them.

Enjoy. I know I always do.


This little one came to the orphanage exhausted and unresponsive, in all likelihood from Malaria. Now, only 3 weeks later, she is a happy-go-lucky ridiculous child. Beacon house is incredible. When I walk in the gate at Beacon House she runs to greet me giggling and kissing my knees. I can't kiss this little one's forehead enough times in one visit. She also demands I sing the song I made up for her EVERY time I'm there. It is basically me saying her name in tons of silly ways... over and over again.

This little lady disliked white people a great deal when I first started but now... now I spend at least 20 minutes every visit to Beacon House picking her up and putting her down because she is attached to my knees as seen above. She is also a big fan of peek-a-boo and boop da' nose.

Love of my life. This little girl is one of the funniest kids I've ever met. She is always spraying me with water and running away, renaming me cool things like "Elastic" since Alexis is too hard to say. There are no x's in Twi and that creates problems for kids (and adults sometimes.) She loves to hold back her smile as long as possible, making me beg for it. She lights up the room. I'm not sure where she got the burns on her face and the rest of her body, and honestly it doesn't matter because she's happy and she's beautiful and that's all I need to know.

This lil' miss thang is a pistol. She is one of the most striking young girls I've ever seen. She's a string-bean with a big smile and bright eyes. It is a challenge to keep her from climbing me like the neighborhood jungle-gym but I just remind myself that it's a GOOD THING she is comfortable enough with me to consider my body playground equipment.

Maxwell. Maxwell is one of my best students. I'm not sure what he is dealing with in terms of a learning disorder, but he is definitely a child who would be a special education course in the States. The teachers at my school told me when I first started that he was "sick in the head"... I have no idea what that means. As the weeks have gone by and I have given more and more special attention and encouragement to Maxwell he has become a more and more enthusiastic participant in story time. I don't think anyone thought he could participate in this activity - but I insisted he give it a shot. Low and behold he tells some of the best stories every week. He also gives the best hugs. You go Maxwell.

Desmond. Desmond is one of those kids who makes you laugh every single time he opens his mouth. He is a sweetheart. My favorite Desmond moment: I drew a random squiggly line on the board and asked the kids what they saw - tons of kids yelled out rope. Not even a minute later Desmond starts jumping up and down with his hand in the air "MADAME ALEXIS I KNOW I KNOW!" "Ok, what do you see Desmond?" "A ROPE!" I imagine that is what I was like in school as a kid - totally consumed by my own imagination and thoughts and thus oblivious to the contributions of my classmates. ha

When I first started Imagination Station Comfort wouldn't even look me in the eyes. She wouldn't tell a story. She wouldn't draw anything during Creative Art. Last week Comfort was the first to jump into the story-teller chair and the first one to shout out her ideas for our shapes on the board. I couldn't be more excited to see such a marked change.

Richmond. Sweet Lord. Richmond is my favorite. I know I'm not supposed to have favorites... but I absolutely do. This kid could make you sick to your stomach he's so sweet. Hugs my knees like it's his job. His raspy voice little man-voice coupled with his VIVID imagination and long, detailed stories every week make me melt . He was the first to tell a story, on the day when no kid would even try. He saved my first day at the school. And now, he finds a way to make every shape in creative art into a picture of me and him together. I adore him.

This is me with the class... they always want me to watch them draw. And then they still rush up to show me their finished products.

Life is good. Kids are incredible.

Safari

One of the only trips that I have been unwilling to miss taking in Ghana was a trip to Mole National Park. According to the Bradt guide book – also known as the Oboruni bible – this is the best place in Ghana to see Elephants in the wild, while on safari.

The guidebook also noted that the trip to Mole was one that required patience and a great deal of endurance. This is because the buses that take you on your 14 hour journey to the park are prone to break down or show up late… if they show up at all. In fact, the transportation is so unreliable that the book recommends giving yourself 2 days for the trip to enjoy one day of safari at the park and then two days to return.

So, naturally, when I heard that one of the International Programs on campus was organizing a trip, using their private, air conditioned bus, I immediately set upon organizing a group of friends to go to the park. I then made reservations at the Mole motel. Grace also made a reservation at a hotel in Tamale, since we would be making a stop there to sleep before continuing to the park.

On Thursday October 29 we walked to the AYA center (the group organizing the trip) at 5:30 am. After claiming our seats and waiting a short while we took off on what would be a 14 hour journey. The drive was a dream compared to the nightmare I had been anticipating the entire semester. I read a majority of Obama’s Dreams from My Father, listened to Patty Griffin and stared out the window and a rapidly changing African landscape.

Around 7 o’clock in the evening we arrived in a city called Tamale. It was dark and raining when we pulled up to the hotel and as the 19 students climbed off the bus we were met by the Picorna Hotel’s staff with golf umbrellas. When we got inside we set to checking in. As I ran around the hotel trying to decide whether our group of 6 wanted three singles or two doubles I struck up a conversation with the young Ghanaian guy assisting me. His name was Mo and he exuberantly recommended himself as my tour guide for the following morning. Eager to see a city in the north I asked him what he would want to show me? He replied with a long list:

“Oh, I know everywhere. I can show you the leather factory where they have crocodile and python skin, and the cultural center where you can buy the leather products, take you to see how they make shea butter, I can also introduce you to the chief, I know his village well, and there you can get your African names!”

Alright Mo, I’m sold. I asked him how many people he would be willing to take and he said as many as I wanted, but we would need at least 3 hours to do everything. After I spread the word around our group it was obvious everyone wanted to go. Therefore, plans were made to meet in the lobby at 9 am for a tour of Tamale before hitting the dusty road to our final destination.
Mo delivered. Our first stop on our journey was the village of the local chief. I wish I could relay you his name but I am not entirely sure we were ever told what it was. When we arrived we were greeted by a sea of children (as usual) and led to the chief’s hut with Mo as our representative. Before we arrived Mo instructed us on kneeling, questions to ask and basic information about the chief such as: he has 28 wives and 32 children… he told us that particular fact at least 5 times.

When we entered the dimly lit hut there was an ancient man sitting back in an elaborate lounge-like chair up on a raised platform. Below him, sitting on the ground, was a younger and dignified looking man. We would come to find out that this young man was the chief’s spokesperson. I think the definition of spokesperson differs in Ghana… usually with a spokesperson, the authority figure whispers something to their lesser, telling them what to say to their audience… I’m not sure the chief said a word the entire time we were there… in fact I think there is a good chance that about half way through our visit he fell asleep…

As we all sat in the dim hut, with the children gathered at the door, and Mo standing in front of the stage speaking to the spokesman in Dagbay (forgive the spelling, but that is what the language they speak in the north sounds like…), I heard something behind me. When I turned around I had to do everything in my power to withhold the laughter threatening to escape from my mouth. Behind me as a full-size horse – literally 3 feet behind me. I think I was so fascinated by the chief and his spokesman that I must have walked right past the horse without noticing.
Upon further investigation I found that the horse was essentially tied and gagged. It’s feet were tied in an odd rectangular bind, but it seemed fairly content sitting and eating it’s mass of hay provided. And honestly it went unnoticed for most of our visit, until it let out a very long, very loud stream of pee in the middle of the naming ceremony, and even the chief had a good laugh at that.

The naming ceremony was the best part of the trip to Tamale in my opinion. During this time each and every member of our group was called to the stage, in what I realized was a very intentional order, and given different names with meaning. The chief did seem to weigh in on these decisions. They started form the left and began working their way to the right before suddenly jumping to me on the other side of the room. The spokesperson said something to Mo in Dagbay and Mo laughed, double checked something, and then smiling a menacing grin told me that I was next. I was a bit startled and hurried my way to the platform. I knelt down next to the chief and as he and the spokesperson smiled at me they said something rapidly to Mo through their smiles that made Mo burst out in laughter. He repeated the name “Napa” a few times in question form and the spokesperson laughed and nodded his head.

“Alexis your name is Napa. It means Chief’s wife.”

At this our whole group burst out into laughter and a series of “ohs!” and “ahs!” I turned a lovely shade of red to match my tshirt that day, gave the chief a nod, said thank you and returned to my seat.

After the naming ceremony we went to the back of the village where the women make shea butter. The process was fascinating. At one point the shea butter looks incredibly like chocolate frosting, and smells like it too! I wanted to buy some to bring home but I knew I had absolutely no room in my JanSport for it, so I had to pass. Here in Ghana shea butter is used for everything from open wounds to itchy dry spots, its healing powers are well known and respected.The group then headed to the leather factory. An important piece of information, “factory” appears to be a very loose term in Ghana.

The “factory” consisted of various stations outside that looked an awful lot like trash heaps, all covered in ash. As we moved from station to station with our wirey old guide (one of the leather makers), we saw the process of soaking the animal hides in pools of water and ash, stripping the “fetish” (the hair) with a machete, soaking it again to make it more elastic, drying it, and dying it. I won’t elaborate too much on the appearance or the smell of the place for the sake of the weak-stomached. You can imagine what a place that works exclusively with the fresh hides of dead animals smells like and what the piles of hair and skin look like.

From there we moved on to the cultural center where we had the opportunity to buy hand made leather goods. It was there that I was able to buy a hand-made leather purse for 10 Ghana Cedi… less than 8 dollars. We loaded up from the cultural center and hit the road to Mole.

Around 7 o’clock that night we arrived at the Mole Motel, once again exhausted and ready for bed. I finished Dreams from My Father and hit the hay early. The next morning Grace woke up for a run through the park at 5:30 and Sarah and I followed suit around 6:15, in order to be ready for the 7 am walking safari we had signed up for. When we signed up the night before the guide told us to be aware that it was very unlikely we would see elephants on our visit, because although it was the dry season, which is the prime time to visit and find elephants, it had rained substantial amounts the days before we came, and because of this the elephants could be anywhere in the 4,000 square meters of the park.

As we rolled out of bed, Grace came running in the room with a smile plastered on her face
“ELEPHANT! Oh my GOD ELEPHANT! They said they saw an elephant by the pool! Come on!”

So, in our pajamas Sarah and I grabbed our cameras and ran out the door. There was a mass migration of pajama-clad tourists stomping across the grass outside our door. Everyone had heard the news it seemed, and EVERYONE was going to try to get a peak. When we rounded the corner of the pool house we saw a group of people gathered with their cameras out, whispering to each other. And sure enough, there on the hill less than 100 meters away was an Elephant. This one looked young and a bit lost, eating from a tree on the hill side, completely unaware of his star status. We were in shock – who knew we’d see one of these somewhat elusive creatures before we even went on safari!?!

After the elephant meandered down the hill we all ran back to our room to change into Safari clothes. Once our socks and shoes were on, sunscreen lathered on, and bandanas adorned, we jogged to the meeting site. There, we were split into groups of 6 or so and assigned a guide. Our guide was a man nearing 60 decked out in hunter green from head to toe, big ol’ galoshes on his feet and a shot gun slung over his shoulder. Alright, let’s go.

We pointed him in the direction of the elephant we saw that morning and headed off into the sun in search of elephants and the other 7 species the park boasts their tourists may get to see. The guide gave us the required speech about safaris being "all about luck", and reminding us we could walk away seeing no animals just as easily as we could walk away having seen all 8.
Approximately 10 minutes into our trek we came across a small herd of antelope.

“You will have very good luck on this safari. They are a good omen.”

Awesome. Next, we came across 4 warthogs grazing about 3 feet from us. Then we saw Colobus monkeys… then baboons… all while we followed the elephant tracks. Next came the bushbucks, and these giant birds that looked like something out of the Never Ending Story… they were enormous.

Finally, we came into a clearing and our guide looked around wildly, mumbling to himself. "OH! AH!" He exclaimed in typical Ghanaian fashion, “They should be here! Where are the elephants.” We all giggled to ourselves as he got out a cell phone (odd site on a safari) to call one of the other guides, to see if they had found the elephants. As we traipsed on we came across bushbuck and the third variety of antelope.

Then the phone rang. He answered. And passed the message on to us. “We found them. There are three. They are very far away. We must walk quickly.”

And so we did. We walked at a near jog and backtracked the past two hours to find the elephants. As we were walking through a densely wooded area our guide stuck out his hand and put his finger to his mouth. “See?”

NO! I don’t see… what…?

Then – I saw them. Elephants. Wild elephants less than 50 meters away. They were hard to see through all the trees and I set to snapping any photo I could, but to no avail. It was like playing I Spy when I looked at the photos on my display screen. This can’t be the best I can get! I want to be able to show people how incredible they are, and I can hardly see them!

Our guide led us back through the woods, and assured us the elephants would move and we would be able to get a better look. He was right. As we stood waiting 100 meters away, we saw them emerge from behind the foliage. There they were. These magnificent creatures as big as houses it seems, walking towards us in a forest… in Africa. There was a male with the giant ivory tusks that poachers have sought out for so long. With the male were two females. All three of them stared at us… seeming to know everything about this place and its people. I just sat… in awe for a while, too overwhelmed by their proximity to take any photographs. Slowly but surely we got out our cameras and began to photograph them.

After what felt like an hour of watching their every move, we headed back to the motel. When we got back to the motel we had our breakfast and sat smiling and giddy about the sights and sounds of the morning. We saw elephants.

After breakfast we loaded up the bus to go to the nearby town of Larabanga to see one of the oldest mosques in Ghana. A guide told us the history of the mosque and then we went to see the mystic stone. Local legend says that the stone was at one point in the way of a road that colonizers were building for the slave trade. The colonizers had it moved out of the way, but when they came back the next morning, it was back in its original location. The following night they had a few men move the stone and sleep on it, making sure it wouldn’t be moved. When the colonizers returned the men had disappeared and the stone was back in its rightful place. Since then, the stone has been a spiritual center, a place where people of all faith’s come to offer up prayers and receive its blessings.

After Larabanga we were wiped out so we opted for a midafternoon nap. After two hours of trying to sleep mostly naked in the humidity, sweating to death and moaning out of despair we heard a knock on our window. When we got up to see what was going on we found one of our friends at the window whispering that there were approximately 42 baboons outside our door... of course we frantically put clothes on and grabbed our cameras. Our friend wasn't exaggerating.

More baboons than I cared to count were milling about outside of our room at the Mole Motel. I have watched enough animal planet to know that baboons ain't friendly, but apparently my fellow tourists at the Motel don't watch the same programs I do... because they were getting close... wayyyyyy too close.

And I was the one to pay for their miscalculations. They successfully pissed off one of the big males... and before me and my roommates really understood what was happening he was in a fist-to-ground-jog towards us. My friend Sarah ran in the door screaming and instinctually slammed it shut in our faces. Grace was the next closest to the door so in a flight-or-flight situation she did what she had to do - she fought me in order to fly to safety.

I was body checked against the entry way and found myself on the top step leading to our door and the pissed off baboon on the step below me.

At this point I was convinced I was about to have the flesh stripped from my shins by a baboon. And just as I began to picture my shin bones exposed Grace opened the door and I jumped inside.

The next morning we left for home at 7 am and arrived at 9 pm.

Baboon attack survived. Safari success.

Reggae and Rainstorms

Dancing to Reggae in the rain is one of the coolest things a person can do.

Last week when Grace and I were on our way to buy a bag-dinner (food that is scooped into little plastic black trash bags for you to take away) from the night market we ran into our friend Sam and his girlfriend Marla. Sam is one of the most outgoing and ridiculous Oborunis I've met here. He is also one of the most enthusiastic organizers of outings. So, when half asked and half demanded I go to the free Reggae concert that night... I had myself a dilemma. I was tired, I was hungry and I had no idea what to expect of a Reggae concert in Accra. All I knew about the Reggae here is what I knew about Reggae night at Labadi beach - which is all sorts of sketchy.

But, who was I to argue with Sam?

Reluctantly Grace and I agreed we would join them for the concert. At ten to 8 that night Sam showed up at our door in a batman t-shirt asking if we were ready to go. We weren't of course, so we threw on jeans and light zip-ups and rushed out the door. Once we arrived I realized that it was the opposite of the sketched-out venue I expected. It was an organized, classy little event in a very nice complex. In fact, the seat behind us was reserved for Rita Marley... I don't know if she actually showed up since I don't know what she looks like, but there was a very classy black woman sitting in that seat later that evening...

I also learned that the artist we were going to see was a white German guy. I thought it was hilarious and was pumped for the show. We sat ourselves down in the center section right smack in the middle where we would have a fantastic view of the stage. Two Ghanaian artists opened for Jahcoustix (great name right...) and by the time he got on stage we were incredibly excited. His petite little self swaggered out onto stage in an indie outfit worthy of any trendy coffee shop with a big smile and impressive dreads and won me over immediately.

Then he opened his mouth and his band started up. He was fantastic.

Within 20 minutes he was encouraging the audience to leave their seats and come to the front to dance. Our group answered his call. Almost 45 minutes after our migration it began to rain. So, there we were getting soaked by the rain, swaying and jumping, depending on the tempo, to Reggae music. It was one of those "Man I love my life. I'm one lucky kid." moments.

The rain we experienced that night became a general theme for the week. And on Wednesday when I went to teach at the school the rain seemed to follow me. In the middle of my "lesson" with the kids the clouds opened up and a regular monsoon began. Word to the wise: don't try to teach in a one room school house with an aluminum roof in a rainstorm.

All the classes around me gave up and the kids were herded into a room with a TV to watch some sort of movie that the headmaster had set up. All the classes except my class...

You see, we were just getting ready to start our Creative Art part of class... the part where I draw shapes on the board and everyone raises their hands to tell me what they see with their imaginations. My class didn't want to go watch TV. MY class wanted to draw with Madame Alexis. Big win for this Branaman.

We drew for the next 30 minutes until the headmaster called me and the other teacher's a cab. My kids were still calling out for "one more shape! One more shape!" when I was walking out the door. I laughed and waved goodbye assuring them as they wrapped their little bodies around my legs that I would see them next week and we would draw some more.

The rain let up just in time for me to walk to Beacon House to see the kids there. I had another good day at the orphanage, and had the opportunity to help Romana, the director, with some organization this time around since there were way too many volunteers there that day playing with the kids. In the midst of my organizing I found some unopened frisbees and brought them outside to play. And by doing so, I signed myself up for almost an hour of frisbee lessons with the 10 year old boys who were all riled up from being on house arrest during the rain. After the frisbee lessons I played with baby Jeremiah and Veronica for a while before heading home for the evening.

The rain did all kinds of wonderful things for me last week and I found myself humming "God blessed the rains down in Africa..." wishing I had it on my ipod.

Imagination Station

One thing I realize I haven't written anything about is the school I "teach" at on Wednesdays and my experiences there.

A little over a month my roommate, Claire, took on an internship with a micro-finance organization called Chapter 58. Her job for the duration of her stay includes volunteer management for their "after-school" program. When she asked me if I would like to be involved I responded with an enthusiastic yes. My yes was even more enthusiastic after I found out it would only require 1 hour of my time each week. I asked her what I would be doing and her response was simply "What would you like to do?"

The after school program is more-or-less the placement of random volunteers in a random school teaching a random class at a kind-of after-school program.

I had no idea what to teach. I quickly narrowed the field down to yoga, arts and crafts, or creative writing. Once I realized that yoga was entirely ridiculous and I didn't have the supplies for arts and crafts (construction paper and crayons are expensive and hard to find here) I concluded that creative writing was the way to go.

The week after I signed on to help, Claire told me she would take me to see the school where I would be teaching. She warned me that it was not a government-affiliated school and that we would be walking past a lot of trash to get there. I figured it would look a lot like the rest of the Okponglo area, where it was located. When we finished our trek up the much-longer-than-it-seemed hill to the school I thought to myself "wow, this is a pretty nice school, it's huge!"

However, the school I saw, and was fairly impressed by, was not the school where I would be teaching. My school is BEHIND the big Bawaleshi school I was looking at that day. To get to it you have to go behind the Bawaleshi school and through a trash-dump.

I laughed a little but also felt a great deal of disappointment and sadness as I stepped carefully over bottles, animal feces, water bags and discarded clothing. This is what the kids walk through to get to school every day... and this is what they see from the clearing where they play futbol each day.

When we entered the school house I was introduced to the headmaster, Mr. Isaac. I told him my name, my course of study (what I'm "reading" as they say in Ghana) and what I planned to teach. He told me that creative writing sounded great and pointed me in the direction of my class.

Wait... my class? As in, I'm teaching today? Oh crap.

I headed to the black board that was actually ply wood I was allowed to write on with chalk, and introduced myself to the class. They were incredibly quiet at first and I had a hard time trying to figure out if they were afraid of me or already bored by my presence.

In my first class I wanted to figure out what we would be able to do as a class. Where were they in terms of their reading and writing skills? Had they done anything creative in class already that day? I got my answers fairly quickly. Creativity is not in the lesson plan at my school and my students are not at a point where they can do much with writing other than copying down what I write.

Well then, that requires a change of game plan and essentially a change of class.

Creative writing quickly became "The Imagination Station."

The new goal: give these kids a chance to laugh, express themselves, and tell stories... you know... be kids. Easy right?

Wrong.

The first class was more than rough around the edges while I tried to talk to them about characters and realized they had no idea what a character was. Mr. Isaac was trying his best to assist me but was essentially repeating everything I said... word for word - in English. This was not helping me. I was racking my brain trying to find a better way to explain the concept of a character to kids. I thought AHA! examples! Examples always work best when explaining something new. And yet again I met a road block. I realized I had no clue who the characters in their everyday lives were. I couldn't reference Disney movies, Nickelodeon or Harry Potter here. So, I did what any eldest of 4 would do in my situation: I decided to draw a picture, make a fool of myself and hopefully escape my first hour of teaching with some laughter in hand.

I drew a lion on the board and explained that the lion was going to be our example of a character. He was going to be the character in my story about my experience at the tro-tro station that day. In the story, Richmond the lion (named by one of the students after himself) was chasing me to the tro-tro station where I couldn't get a tro-tro because I'm a silly, confused Oburoni and I was trying to go the wrong way. I impersonated the tro-tro mates laughing at me and making simple jokes in Twi. This worked and finally I got them to loosen up and have a good laugh at my expense.

I left after an hour of fumbling and felt on fire to go back and try again next week. I had given them an assignment to try and make up a story about our friend Richmond the lion, and told them I would take volunteers to tell their stories the following week .

A week later I walked in and had a different teacher at the school assisting me. His name is Dominic and he has become someone I enjoy working with each week. He seems to genuinely like the kids although he intensely dislikes teaching.

In Ghana there are only so many jobs available and school is expensive, so often times young people like Dominic end up in positions that they don't actually like at all, that they never planned to do. This happens even more because of the National Service required of Ghanaians. The National Service essentially assigns you to go wherever they deem fit in Ghana and do whatever they tell you for one year, to serve the country.

When it came time for the kids to come up and tell their stories I was grossly disappointed when my invitation was met with crickets... reason #57 I can't be a teacher... the cricket response REALLY stinks.

I finally coerced one of the boys to come up and tell a story, but just after I won that battle I was confronted with another enemy: noise. I teach in a one room school-house that has 4 classes going on simultaneously. When a scared 8 year old is up in front of a class trying to tell a story he doesn't want to tell... noise is a problem. And background noise from the other classes wasn't our only problem. Most of our class of 20 wasn't paying attention. I asked the little boy to pause for a second and I told the class they needed to quiet down and listen. I used my stern Mom-voice (or what Frog Camp folks call my Carrie Zimmerman voice) and thought it was fairly effective. Apparently Dominic didn't think it was effective enough...

"If you don't shut your mouths I am going to cane you in front of the class." And then he got out the switch that was propped against the wall.

I had no idea what to do with myself. I was entirely disturbed by the idea of a kid getting hit because I had shown frustration and also completely aware that Dominic was doing what was in all likelihood normal in this school. This came with the realization that I am a volunteer who will be here for less than 4 months, one hour a week... I don't have the right to tell him how to do their job or attempt to dissuade teachers in this school from using a tool that is both common and in their minds "effective."

I told Dominic it wasn't necessary and asked the kids to please listen up and come back next week with stories to share. I also promised that I would bring a prize for whoever was brave enough to volunteer (I am not above bribing my students to participate.)

It broke my heart walking away from the school just thinking about how pointless it was to encourage kids to use their imaginations and have fun when they were being threatened with a beating if they DIDN'T do it. Basically saying "have fun, because if you don't you are going to get the switch or a good caning."

I felt overwhelmed and powerless.

The next week I had a talk with Dominic and things got better. The switch was put away and the threats of caning stopped. I may not be able to change the way the school works but I can control what happens in that hour that the kids are with me.

The bribes worked and I have more volunteers to tell stories than I can accommodate. I can't imagine any kid in the United States being so excited about a pencil.

Most of the stories my kids tell involve their character being killed by a family member because of some misunderstanding or unapproved love affair, burying the character alive, or something falling/hitting the character on the head so that they then - you guessed it - die.

I had to control my laughter the first couple of times this happened because I couldn't believe that was how multiple kids were ending their stories. Now, I realize that it is meant to be funny and my laughter is wanted and appreciated.

After story time (which I've moved outside under the one tree in the "courtyard") we talk about a vocabulary word that relates to story telling and then do some creative art. Creative art was another tough concept to sell, but I think we're finally up and running 4 weeks in.

I draw a shape on the board and ask the kids what they can make out of the shape. They give me a fairly simplistic (and often entirely nonsensical) answer and then they draw what they imagined the shape to be.

Then... the best part: one by one they come running up to ask:

"Madame, do you like it?"

I do like it. I like the whole gosh-darn thing.

Green Turtle

I don't know why some posts are harder to make myself sit down and write than others. This post about Green Turtle has been especially hard to get jazzed up to do.

I think, upon reflection, that I was afraid to sit down and write about how wonderful it is because I knew I would want to go back this weekend - and I can't.

So, Green Turtle.

One of the only places that I had heard repeated rave reviews about in Ghana was a place called Green Turtle Lodge. All I knew about the lodge was that it claimed to be "eco-tourism at its finest", it had a beautiful beach and once you got there you wouldn't want to leave. I believed these reviews to some extent but had fears about getting my hopes up. The other thing to be considered: it was almost 8 hours away by tro-tro if you made good time, according to people from my program who had already gone.

Last week, Friday, 5 a.m. we were up and putting the final items in our backpacks for our three day trip to Green Turtle. We had no idea what to expect from transportation but we knew that the earlier we got going the better off we would be. Our first tro-tro simply didn't happen. We couldn't find one to save our lives, so we ended up loading up a taxi and heading to our first stop: Kineshi station.

The drive was eventful due to the traffic and our aggressive driver, but the arrival at the station is the best part of the story.

We ran over a kid.

Calm down - we only ran over his foot. But none-the-less it was my first experience running over a person. Now, this kid - he did not take his brush with death lying down. Oh no - he and his friends saw this as an opportunity. After the boy and his pals came running to the cab yelling and screaming at the cab driver things only got worse.

As our terrifying driver continued to yell back that he owed him nothing "because the kid practically jumped in front of his car" (which was actually the truth) a crowd began to form. Before we knew it our cab was quite literally being mobbed. People were throwing themselves across the hood of the car to keep it from leaving, others were yelling at the driver through the windows of the car, and plenty of folks were just gawking at the semi-terrified-semi-amused oburonis in the car.

This is when my two companions and I began to wonder if we were safer in the cab or out of it... within 5 minutes of the mobbing we were fairly certain we needed to just get out of there. With hands reaching in the windows and demanding "the whites give money for the hospital" I stuck the 9 cedi we owed the driver under his bum and made a break for it. The surge of relief we felt as soon as we were out of shouting distance is something unmatched for me so far. We all just looked at each other and started to laugh. Luckily for us, where we ran to happened to be exactly where we needed to be for a bus to Takoradi.

There is no way for me to explain to you how much we rely on the kindness of strangers when we travel here. You literally go to a "station" aka some roadside area where a tro-tro driver decides to drop you, and you start asking every stranger you see where a tro to where you want to go might be...

I'll skip the rest of the travel stories - it was a fairly easy trip post mobbing.

When we reached Green Turtle... it was like walking into paradise. It was quiet. It was calm. It was absolutely gorgeous. We checked in at the bar - which consisted of saying "hey I'm Alexis" and them saying "hey, welcome. You are in that bungalow over there. Your friends are on the beach."

And then they started my tab. At the lodge you don't pay for anything until you leave. Ingenious on their part, dangerous for us. Luckily, I kept track of my bill and emerged spending almost exactly what I intended to spend.

We spent our first afternoon in giddy excitement, soaking up every ray of sun, every taste... Let me pause here: the food.

Oh my lord... the food. It was like all things that are good had come together and made it onto the menu at the lodge. My first delectable treat was bruschetta, my dinner was potato wedges and stir-fryed vegetables... it was all simply incredible. Then, that night as we listened to the waves crashing on the beach we drank tea and talked about how in love with this place we were, and tried to plan a follow-up trip.

After tea and banana fritters we headed down to the beach, laid out on the bamboo mats provided... and stared up into one of the most incredible night skies I have ever laid my eyes on. I have never seen the cosmos lit up like that before. Each star seemed to have been placed in its respective place just for us. The milky way ran from one end of the sky to the next. Shooting stars dove into the sea, one after the other.

I have never been so genuinely in awe of God's creation.

The next morning I woke up at 5:30 to try to catch the sunrise. It was cloudy but I opted to stay awake anyway. I rolled up my pajama pants and went for a walk on the beach with my camera. I don't know if I've ever been on a beach at dawn before. It was silent except for the waves rushing up to greet the sand. I stood in the water and thought about the fact that I am in Africa. That I am alone on a beach at 5:45 a.m.. That I am remarkably and unreasonably blessed.

I had my breakfast of french toast and caramelized bananas with french-pressed coffee. The first real cup of coffee I have had since I stepped foot in Africa. And my journey into heaven seemed to be complete. My taste buds effectively tantalized.

We spent the afternoon hiking down the beach to a rocky area approximately 3 miles away. We climbed on the rocks, sat and looked at the sea, and took copious amounts of pictures to document the experience.

We returned to the lodge to lay on the beach, nap, read in hammocks and even play some volleyball. That night we enjoyed another feast of treats that pushed you to the edge of ecstasy and finished up with a bon-fire, a game of pool, and an intense discussion of South Africa post-apartheid with our new friend Wayne, who was indeed from S. Africa.

Sunday morning we woke up, had our breakfast (more importantly I had my coffee) and walked a mile or so down the beach in the opposite direction of the rocks, to the closest village. There we caught a tro-tro at just the right time and headed home.

The transition from Green Turtle to Kineshi station was jarring to put it mildly. I wanted to stay on the tro and demand they return me to the lodge. The smell of burning trash, sewage and city life in general hit me from all the wrong angles. Hawkers hassling me, and the overall chaos of the greater Accra area was making my skin crawl.

Back at campus, after a good shower and some time reading Everything is Illuminated - I felt better.

I realized that night that I am halfway through my time here... In 2 months I will be back in the States.

When did that happen?

Life is good. Africa is beautiful and challenging all at the same time.

Dzodze

• 30 people.
  
• 3 vans.
  
• 3 rooms.
  
• 4 chickens.
  
• Countless bottles of 100 proof liquor.
  

This was my weekend in Dzodze.


The whole adventure started when our CIEE group found out that our trip to visit the Queen Mother in the Eastern region had been canceled. This change of plans meant that our weekend was suddenly available. Unsure of what we would do with such short notice Grace and I went to our drumming class Thursday morning. It was there that we found out that our drumming trip to a festival in the Volta region still had openings.

After very little deliberation Grace and I ran up to add our names to the list. We asked about the details and we were told: 25 cedis, two nights, we’re staying with families, we’re going to see drumming. Oh and we are leaving at 2 o clock tomorrow.

Well alright then.

Friday came around and Grace and I headed to the pavilion where we drum at the music department. We had never seen the area so empty and the pavilion so bare. Usually there are a good 40 oburonis sitting with their drums between their legs trying to learn one of three songs from our instructor affectionately known as Johnson. Not Mr. Johnson, not prof. Johnson – just Johnson.

We waited around for an hour or so and eventually the rest of the trip members arrived and we were herded off campus and over to the “buses.” By buses they meant vans. Three vans that could hold approximately 13 people maximum. Luckily they were air conditioned because we were sitting awfully close to each other for three hours. Some fared better than others regarding leg room, I can safely say I had one of the better seats.

Two hours later I was beginning to believe this was one of the easiest trips I’d been on… and then… I saw the dirt road that never ends. Twisting, curving and marred by potholes we traversed the varied terrain and a little over an hour later arrived in the dark at our destination: Dzodze.

At this point everyone in the group was hungry, tired and wondering where we would be sleeping and when we would be eating. We blindly followed Johnson with backpacks thrown over our shoulders and a few drums in tow. Eventually we arrived at a housing compound where we were instructed to sit on the benches in the open-air lounge.

What we found out was this: Dzodze is Johnson’s home village, this is Johnson’s family house, and we will be sleeping here (in 3 rooms) and they will feed us.

Enter Apateshie.

Although I am sure I am slaughtering the spelling, it is incredibly important I explain Apateshie in order to explain this weekend. Apateshie is a local 100 proof liquor that is used to celebrate/welcome newcomers, bless the home, bless religious ceremonies, welcome people back home, send people away from home, and in all likelihood a whole host of other things…

So, the first thing Johnson did was welcome us with what? That’s right. Shots of Apateshie. I can’t say it was the worst thing I’ve ever tasted but it was certainly strong and not the first thing I wanted on a night when I had a somewhat empty stomach. However, watching one of my professors throw back multiple shots of 100 proof liquor as he blessed the house and welcomed us was well worth the unwanted alcohol.

Sleeping in three rooms was quite literally sleeping in the rooms. On the concrete ground we each laid out a blanket we brought (while others who neglected to heed the warning to bring bedding slept on the plain concrete) and tried to get comfortable. The heat/humidity was unreal the first night. As my Dad would say the “air felt close.” When I woke up I was already sweating and unbelievably ready for food. Unfortunately our breakfast was one slice of bread each.

I won’t linger on the food issues in my description but I will leave it at this: we did not eat enough on this trip… and oborunis get pretty stressed out when they’re hungry in case you were wondering.

Saturday was the day of the Palm Festival – the reason we came on the trip – and we were all excited to go and see the drumming we had been told so much about.

When we got to the festival there was not a whole lot of anything going on. Even though we were late we didn’t seem to be AS late as those running the festival. After 30 minutes or so the VIPs started to arrive in their cars. I am confused as to who was there, but it looked like some government officials and all the chiefs of the area had come to town.

After a few hours of listening to addresses in Ewe (a language no one in our group speaks except Johnson) the drumming and performances finally got going. During this time Johnson convinced a few of us to get up, walk across the open field serving as a stage and join the dancers… for all to see. Of course I was a part of said group. And don’t you worry the attendants of the festival were indeed entertained. For the rest of the day we would walk around town and people would start laughing, shouting oboruni and mimicking our pathetic attempts at traditional African dances. I did my best to do what looked like the chicken wing dance while I popped my butt out repeatedly… apparently I failed.

Just as the music was picking up – we left the festival. We went from the festival to Johnson’s brother’s house. Johnson’s brother is known as the Mobile Manager. This is because he was the manager of the town’s fill station, and is considered an important figure. Although he has been retired for years the people of the town still call him Mobile Manager (I can’t help but think of the Arrested Development: “Wow I’m Mr. Manager!” “Well we just say ‘Manager’ son…”.)

Now let me pause here because one thing I neglected to mention is the parade of children.
Throughout this whole adventure I had a child attached to both of my hands. Magnetically drawn to my sides these two children, who have no names to me, followed me about town for an entire day. And I was not alone. At least 20 out of the 30 oborunis in our group had two kids a piece…. Stranger children as I have come to call them.
Stanger children: Kids you don’t know, who don’t know you – who follow you simply because you’re a foreigner and they apparently have nothing else to do.

I digress…

After meeting Johnson’s brother we went home and had dinner (or lack thereof) and then promptly left the house again to go and meet the chief. I had never met a chief before… and when we emerged from the allies leading to his house I was surprised to find a man seated in his underwear. This scantily clad man addressed the oborunis about the festival and had an in depth conversation with Johnson in Ewe as Johnson presented him with the traditional gift of Schnapps (it has long been tradition in Ghana that when you meet a chief you are to bring him a bottle of “foreign” Schnapps). He then passed the torch to the man who had been sitting silently off to the
side…

The silent man turned out to be the chief. Captain underpants was just the sidekick.
After the chief delivered a brief history of the town and explained how it got its name we were informed that we had been granted permission to take pictures with the chief. And thus one of the most awkward pictures of my life was taken. How do you pose with a chief? Do you kneel? Do you smile? I did both… and I looked ridiculous – so I recommend a different tactic if you ever find yourself in my situation.

The next morning we awoke to banku for breakfast… banku is a sour corn dough that is served in doughy balls with stew… it’s an acquired taste… and sadly not one I have acquired quite yet. When we finished eating we moved out to the court yard where there was going to be “drumming for us.”

This turned out to be nothing like the drumming performance I expected but instead a traditional religious ceremony. To summarize this experience… there was incredible music, multiple priestesses, a woman possessed by one of the land gods, many shots of apateshie and the sacrificing of 4 chickens to appease the god…

It was definitely the first time I had ever seen anything like it.

When we returned home Sunday evening we showered for the first time in three days, made a massive dinner of vegetables and crawled into our beds full and happy – aware that we had successfully complete quite the adventure.

Oh Africa. You are full of surprises.

Murder in an Art Gallery

There are only a few things that truly get under my skin.

1. People who are rude repeatedly, with no inkling of their rudeness.
2. Disrespectful youth so consumed with themselves that they border on extreme egotism.
3. Scheming and conniving cats.
4. Women who start sentences with “oh well… I’m sorry you feel that way…”
   

Luckily there were no cats or demeaning women at the art gallery Saturday because I think I would have been a perpetrator of homicide.

The first two things on that list were found in abundance on my combo field trip to the Artists Alliance Gallery and Ghana National Museum. For my Art History of Ghana class we are required to attend the one field trip of the year which happened to be this Saturday, September 26.

If Satan planned a field trip he would chosen September 26, invited my Art History class, and set his sites on the Artists Alliance Gallery and then tacked on the National Museum to add insult to injury.

I understand that among all people there are differences in the way art is appreciated, but the events I will describe to you were inexcusable.

We arrived at the Artists Alliance Gallery at approximately 8:45 am, just in time for it to open. Our fantastic professor, Mr. James Anquandah had arranged for us to meet with Ablade Glover, a well respected and well known Ghanaian artist, who also happened to be one of Professor Anquandah’s former associates. This friendship allowed us to have a private meeting, tour and lecture from Mr. Glover.

When we entered the gallery I was shocked, and pleasantly so. The gallery was three stories, well lit, positioned with a view of the ocean and full of contemporary Ghanaian art. I was itching to walk around and take in the works bit by bit.

I should have known things would not go as planned when an absurd number of students started flashing pictures of themselves with varying hand gestures and facial expressions in front of pieces of Art. Interesting I thought… does anyone plan to stop these hoodlems? It clearly stated at the entrance NO CAMERAS.

The lecture was informative and entertaining, discussing the transition from traditional to contemporary art, the bastardization of kente weaving patterns in commercial clothing… (Awesome. I was wearing a fake kente skirt that day. Nice move Alexis.) and other topics in Contemporary Art in Africa.

When the lecture concluded the students jumped out of their seats as though there was a winning lottery ticket for the student who reached the other side of the room first. The noise began to escalate with students chattering away, flashing pictures again, pushing people out of their way. I looked around and saw students fondling paintings and leaning on whatever canvas appeared to be the most inviting.

At this point my skin was crawling and I wanted to punch a variety of well dressed Ghanaians in their manicured heads.

I was relieved to find I was not alone. Most of the American students and a few Ghanaian students in my class were staring gape-mouthed as well. Finally I walked up to Prof. Anquandah, grabbed his shoulder and simply said :

“Sir, I can’t handle this. There are too many artists in my family. Watching students touch the paintings, disrespect the artists… I’m about to lose it.”

He smiled knowingly and shook his head. Patted me on the shoulder and shrugged his small frame with the release of a sigh.

Ignorant Ghanaian college students: 1.
Professor James Anquandah/Art-respecting student alliance: Nil.

After the horrifying experience at the gallery I had high hopes for our next stop, the National Museum of Ghana.

This was, to say the least, a mistake.

To save the readers at home from another rant that would be satisfying but unnecessary I will summarize.

Imagine:

1. No air conditioning in a small building out in the African sun.
2. Students desperate enough to write down whatever they see on display placards that they will happily push you over the banister on the 2nd floor to get a peak before their comrades.
3. Artifacts from a few archaeological digs around Africa encased in dusty, fogged over cases.
4. Exhibits featuring descriptions with questionable adjective usage and photos blown up far past their optimal size so that they are pixilated – creating the perfect storm for a vision of something strangely reminiscent of fifth grade science project poster boards.

I love Africa, but I did not love this field trip.

You live you laugh you learn.

Tonight when you lay down to bed, please… pray for the Artists in Africa. Sweet baby Jesus do they need it.

Boti Falls and New Family

ME: "Ete sen?"
Stranger woman in tro tro: "Eye, na wo nso e?"
ME: "Ah eye!"
Stranger woman in tro tro: "Where are you headed today?"
ME: "Koforidua and you?"
Stranger woman in tro tro:"AHHH Menso saa!"
ME: "Oh wonderful, what tro tro should my friends and I take to get there?"
Stranger woman in tro tro:"Oh don't worry I'll show you!"

And that is how a phenomenal weekend began.

I turned around in a tro tro as I so often do, to look for a Ghanaian who looked friendly so I could ask what tro tro I should get on next. Traveling here is nothing like traveling in Fort Worth, or anywhere in the United States for that matter. Let me tell you.

The plan of attack when traveling: find out what tro tro you need to get on first and ask around hoping someone can help you so that you know where to catch your next tro tro and what the mate (the drivers assistant) will be yelling from the tro tro you want...

Ohhhh Africa.

The girls with Mama Vic (in the middle), Grandma, and the kids.

The stranger woman behind me on the first tro tro to Madina turned out to be of the particularly friendly variety. Score. So after we established we were actually headed to the same place (which was SHOCKING because our shared destination is VERY far away and it was not the best time to be traveling there...) she agreed to help me and my group of oborunis find the tro tro to Koforidua.

Towards the end of our second tro tro (the long one... about 1 and a half hours) ... approximately 20 minutes from our stop, Vicmor (pronounced Vickmoe) was no longer stranger woman. She was Mommy Vic. And Mommy Vic told us matter of factly:

"You don't need a hotel. Tonight you will stay with me at my house. We will get off soon."
"Oh my gosh Vic... you don't have to do that. There are going to be eight of us in total... four more girls are meeting us and we have to go to the falls tomorrow..."
"Oh it's no problem." (she said this as she waved both her hands and squinted up her eyes smiling )

We would become very familiar with this phrase over the next 24 hours.
We got off the tro tro at Vic's stop and threw our lives to the mercy of the African Gods. Lucky for us, when we walked up to Vic's house... it was lovely. We waited outside the high white rock walls, outside the blue locked gate, and then some young kids came to let us in. That night we danced with Vicmor's nieces and nephews, saw her homemade hair products she sells in Kofiridua, went to her shop (where she sells imported chinese fake-flowers, and various chinese herbal supplements...), saw her wedding planner albums, and were pointed in the direction of a restaurant where we found burger and chips as well as spaghetti on the menu.

We slept four people a room in two rooms, some on the floor on mattresses, some on bunk beds, and one (my roommate Claire) on two chairs pushed together.

It was hilarious, it was free - and the makings of a GREAT story.

The next morning we all woke up and much to our surprise Vic informed us that her daughter Sarah (who is our age) would be taking us to Boti falls. We thanked her profusely and told her that Sarah didn't have to do that... but she insisted.

So, we went down the road to meet Sarah near the tro tro stop. When we met her... we were concerned.

You see, Boti Falls, according to our Bradt guidebook, offers a hike that can take up to two hours and is fairly rough terrain... and Sarah and her friend were wearing clothes appropriate for a night club combined with sandals. And by sandals I mean one pair of wedged heals and one pair of flip flops.

We hired a tro tro to take us to the falls, a direct trip instead of having to take a cab to the actual entrance. When we arrived after an hour or so of driving we were relieved to see the welcome sign. Our original plan was to stay the night at the “chalet” that supposedly overlooked the waterfall, but when we got there the “welcome man” informed me that they had one room available with two full beds. I figured even for us that was pushing it. After much deliberation we opted to leave the falls by 4 and head back to Accra. Everyone was tired and due to some injuries incurred before our journey the group voted it was best to return home.

The hike cost 3 cedi to take the whole group. Our tour guide: a man who looked 60 years old … wearing flip flops. Hmmmm so maybe Sarah and her friend would be alright?

What we quickly found out was that the hike was not 2 to 3 hours, in fact it was closer to an hour round trip. The hike was not TO the falls at all, we came to find… instead it was in the opposite direction… Ohhhh Africa. We quite literally hiked 40 minutes away from the falls and then back.

The hike started off fine, a bit uphill, past some trash (which I have become more used to since it seems to be EVERYWHERE… even out in a remote area of wilderness), and through the trees. But from there things got more interesting. I kid you not, we scaled rock faces on this hike. Some places we came to made our whole group just laugh out loud. “How in the Lord’s name are we going to climb that with our backpacks on?” Since we planned to stay at the falls that night we had brought our backpacks with all of our stuff for the whole weekend.

We made it out alive although significantly more disgusting. I sweat through all the clothes I was wearing, dripping from under my bandana, feelings like at any moment there was a chance I would pass out from the heat.

Once we returned to the entrance they pointed in the opposite direction of our hike and informed us that it would take us approximately 4 minutes to reach the falls… wait… seriously?

Sure enough after walking down what we estimate to be 200 steps (much easier to descend than ascend) we got a glimpse of the falls. I will be honest, I thought maybe we would see one small waterfall, and I hoped against hope that the scenery would be worth the hike and shenanigans to get there.

What I saw was more beautiful than I could have imagined on my most optimistic of days. We climbed down the 2o0 steps into an area that can only be described as an oasis, with two gigantic waterfalls crashing down a rock face into a pool at the bottom. We stood in the pool, sat on the little rock beach and tried our best to fully appreciate the beauty of the place we had finally arrived at.

We traveled home that night and were more than excited to crawl into our familiar beds. With sheets over us and our fans cooling our quiet rooms we reflected on the weekend of new family, rock faces and waterfalls.

Mission accomplished.

The wonders never cease

Some days it is particularly hard for me to sit down and write a blog entry. I think the reason for this is clear: I like to talk.

Writing is all fine and well but when it comes down to it, I want to sit down with each and every person and tell them a story. An oral history of my trip post-journey. However, I know that is not the best possible way for me to keep people updated on my experience here. Writing is an incredible way for me to keep a written account of my experience week by week.

So, we're off again.

Thursdays are Beacon House days.

Grace, Kyle and I planned to meet up at the shared taxi stand again this Thursday, around noon to head to the orphanage. Kyle was delayed at his school that he will volunteer at in the mornings, and Grace and I opted to just go and wait for him anyway. However, instead of taking a tro-tro for 20 pesewa (roughly 10 cents) to the Okpongolo junction where the stand is, we just walked. When we got there we ran into our friends Kate and Treza. While we stood there laughing at how sweaty all of us were, we got a glimpse of something that made all of us squirm a bit. I was staring at it for a while before we got to talking about it.

The topic of our conversation: the mangy (and I mean mangy...) chicken off to our right that was literally eating crap out of a gutter. And by crap... I mean it literally. The chickn was eating human and/or animal excrement.

Me: "Mmmmmm dinner. Lord almighty if I wasn't already a non-meat-eater...that sight would scar me for life. I don’t know how you people will ever eat chicken again."

We talked about how disturbing the state of chickens in Ghana is for a while and then Kyle arrived to catch our taxi. (Shared taxis are interesting in themselves, because you pile in, pay your 50 pesewa and then wait for other people to also need a taxi to your destination... and THEN you leave. Luckily, since three of us fill all the seats but one on the way to the orphanage we never have to wait long.)

When we got to the orphanage it was business as usual, kids with big smiles, waving, crawling all over us. And after story time - LUNCH. Lunch time is always a different experience when I go to Beacon House. Sometimes I am worthless, just standing around trying NOT to distract the kids eating, and other times I am in charge of feeding a baby their meal of wheat stuff (which is an unknown wheat product that the US ships in mass to the orphanage.) Thank goodness the US spares no expense for children in orphanages.

This Thursday though, I was in charge of getting Derek to eat his rice, greens and hard boiled egg. I did well for a hot minute but soon enough he was over my assistance. He kept crawling away, trying to take the food Grace was attempting to feed Veronica. After Grace and I had failed multiple times to get our respective charges to eat... we decided to try and switch. Trying our luck with each other's little ones.

Veronica has been an interest of mine since the first day at the orphanage. I originally believed she was around 6 or 7 months old, due to her size and her inability to walk, talk or play much at all. She seems to be completely cognizant and aware but she never makes a sound or smiles.

I found out later that Veronica is 15 months old. She came to the orphanage severely malnourished and they have spent months nursing her back to a survival-weight, trying to get her ON the growth charts.

Trying to feed her is what I imagine working in a nursing home to be like. But instead of a reasonably stubborn and somewhat senile 90 year old, I am trying to coax a kid under the age of two to eat stuff I wouldn't eat.

Finally, we started to make some progress and a solid 15 minutes later we were almost half way through the bowl.

After feeding time, and the transformation of my pants into a wash rag and food depository, it was nap time. I picked up Veronica and brought her to the infant room. When I walked in I found Grace laying on the nap mat with a bunch of kids, some asleep some crawling all over her and some happily pulling her hair - talking in infant gibberish. She smiled at me and welcomed me to the mat. I lay down with Veronica, still determined to see a smile. I tried all the tricks I knew: peek a boo, playing with her feet, tickling her, making silly noises and silly faces… nothing. Just that stoic little face with those deep dark brown eyes staring at me. Seemingly saying without words “Bugger off wouldya?"

And then ... the raspberries on the belly.

There it was.
That’s the ticket.

I had her smiling, and EVEN LAUGHING before you could rub two rocks together. Tossing her in the air got her going even more. She was cuddling me, laughing, and finally just being a happy little kid. It made my heart sing.

When I realized I had been in the infant room for more than an hour and NO infants had fallen asleep since I entered the room… I decided I should probably go work with the older kids and tutor for a while.

I handed Veronica over to Vida (one of the house Moms who deals with the babies specifically) and got ready to say my goodbye to the other kids. Vida was allowing Veronica to hold on to her fingers and try to stand. Veronica rarely does this, you have to understand. She doesn’t even have the will-power or maybe the ability to stand for more than a few seconds. But now, she was smiling, standing and seeming to deliberate something as she stared at me sitting cross legged a few feet away.

And then…

She let go of Vida’s fingers –

And she walked to me.

Vida started yelling and I joined in. I was throwing her up in the air, telling her how incredible she is while she laughed and laughed…

She walked a few more times before I left the room…

It was one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen… watching this little girl walk. Knowing these were her first steps and that even a month ago, no one was sure she’d ever be able to take them.

Teary eyed is the only way for me to tell you the way it felt.

Teary eyed with a lump in my throat.

Life is good.

Elmina, Kakum and the Quote Wall

"I must go greet the chief." & "I need to go and clean my gun."

The above phrases mean I have to go to the bathroom. In Twi saying something like "I have to pee," is taboo. And therefore is replaced by the above phrases. You can only imagine my intense JOY upon learning them. There is no way for me to describe to you the degree of hysterics I broke out in to when my Twi professor further explained the "clean my gun" phrase.

Prof.: "You see, we men have a gun that we can kill with, that it is how we see it."

Me: Hysterical laughter.

I lost it completely. The rest of class is a blur.

Quotes like this are the reason that my room in ISH has created the quote wall. Last night my roommate Claire and I sat down and began making various shapes of paper to write "Kofi quotes" on (he's our Twi professor.) We then decided that Kofi should not be the only one to have his thoughts on our wall. From now on, when something said is truly incredible - it will make its way onto our wall and the speaker of said insight shall be honored.

This past weekend the entire CIEE group went on our first overnight trip. Our destination: Cape Coast. I already went to Cape Coast castle the second day I spent in Ghana back in August. But I hadn't seen Elmina yet, so when we were give the choice which castle we would like to go to I took advantage and signed up for Elmina.

The time at the castle was wonderful, the views were considerably more beautiful and the architecture seemed to be in better condition. Also, most importantly, our tour guide was much more experienced and charismatic than the guide we abandoned at Cape Coast.

It's a strange feeling to admire and enjoy a building that was responsible for the pain and suffering of countless people, a place that housed murderers who called themselves religious leaders and nobles.

Above is the Portuguese Church at Elmina Castle

One of the most disturbing aspects of Elmina is the church that the Portuguese built in the center of the compound, directly over the female-slave dungeons.

How could people dehumanize each other in that way? How could such flawed and dmented justifications be accepted for so long? For 400 years slave trade went on unabashedly, proudly. People as exports. It made me feel sick to think about.

When we got back from the castles that night we went down to the beach outside of our hotel and the photographs we were able to capture were unreal. Below is a photo that my friend Sarah took of me with my camera, no photoshop at all. That is how it looked standing there on the beach. I was blown away by the rays of light escaping clouds, the shadows, the mist and the tide. All coming together to paint a portrait of coastal beauty in Africa.

Me on the beach at Cape Coast just before sunset.

The next day the whole group took off for Kakum National Forest. At Kakum you don't just hike the trails... oh no no no... you hike a steep trail to the top ... and then you go out on the canopy walk. The canopy walk is a series of rope bridges more than 150 feet up in the air. We walked looking for monkeys and admiring the the landscape. But more importantly, my friend Sarah and I explored the canopy walk as Pierre and Phillipe... the French zoo-ologists...

Me and Sarah on the canopy walk.

Let me explain: I'm sure this will surprise everyone, but I was in a very silly mood this particular afternoon. Lucky for me, Sarah is a silly person as well. We decided to stay at the back of the group so that we wouldn't get yelled at for making the rope bridges bounce and for getting distracted while taking "Tarzan and Jane" photographs with the canopy in the background. In the throws of our silliness we began to speak to each other in broken French. Thus, Pierre and Phillipe were born.

After we stepped off the last of the rope bridges, back on solid ground, we de-volved back into Sarah and Alexis and headed down to our bus.

Sadly, all these happy affairs did not prevent the group from suffering a terrible bout of food poisoning. At least 8 people were horribly sick on the three hour drive back to Accra. Luckily for me, I remain unscathed by food-related-greet-the-chief illnesses. Poor Sarah though...

I will say - I wasn't upset at all to get to act like a big sister on this trip. Sarah started to seem an awful lot like Lara or Luke on that ride back to Accra, laying in my lap and needing to be Mommed a bit. (And yes Momming is absolutely a verb.)

Life is an adventure here, believe me.

Beacon House

Living here hit a new kind of high today. And by high I mean low.

Explanation: Today is one of the coolest days since I arrived a month ago, and it is beautiful.

The humidity in the past week or so has been horrendous. The 70ish-feeling day today was much appreciated. On top of the beautiful temperature and exceptional breeze - I went to Beacon House again today.

The joy that those kids bring me cannot be matched elsewhere. The knee-hugs and ear-to-ear smiles coupled with booger-wipes on my pants and drool pools on my shirt collar result in a state of pure bliss. The kids are so full of life and so excited to be loved on.

Sometimes I feel kind of useless when I'm there, simply because I don't know what to do with myself. Should I be doing something more useful than holding this baby and kissing his nose repeatedly?

The answer is usually no.

Two of my early-favorites at the orphanage are Jeremiah and Kwasi. Both of them are just little babies, but they have personality for days. I've started calling Jeremiah our little bullfrog and Kwasi is still Mikaeli to me, because that was his name when he came into the orphanage a few weeks ago. One of the little girls who was the most excited to see me last week was Anna Maria. She was equally excited today. When it came time to read the story for the day one of the other CIEE volunteers took a seat and started to read. I sat down in the back of the classroom trying to keep from being a distraction. I failed. Anna Maria was sitting in front of me and quickly turned around to hold my hand and eventually pull it over her should so I was draped on her like a fill-in-Mommy-blanket.

My heart was full to the point of bursting... painfully so.

These kids want nothing more than to be held, loved... NOTICED. And here I am, some stupid white foreigner, only in the country for 4 months and I think I can give them that? I had a few moments today where I started to feel guilty for going there. I started to think about how hard it will be on these kids (and on me for that matter) when I disappear from their lives in December. The only consolation is that I know I will write them letters when I go home. I will do my absolute best to stay in touch.

One of the boys, Solo, is blind, mute and suffers from a mental handicap with unknown parameters. The orphanage simply doesn't have the means to work out any kind of diagnosis, so the degree of his mental handicap is a mystery. Solo identifies the volunteers by their voices and the rings or bracelets they wear. Today I was wearing a beaded cuff that I bought here and I was quickly informed by a fellow volunteer that I needed to wear it every time I came, because now that bracelet marks ME for Solo.

To these kids I'm a big hug and a bracelet.

And that seems to be enough.

Bojo, Babies and VIP seats...

George the cab driver: Where are you from?
Claire: America.
George: Oh, I will go to America some day.
Claire: That’s awesome… how will you do that?
George: I am saving up, or I will marry a white woman like you.
Claire: That sounds like a plan, George.
George: Are you married?
Claire: No, but my heart is taken. . . I’m not available.
George: You can take me as your concubine if you don’t need a husband. (stoic… entirely serious)
Claire: (stifling disbelief and laughter) George… I’m not pillaging a country side and taking captives… it wouldn’t be right for me to take you as my concubine. You deserve better than that.



My roommate Claire Elise Aloe sits in the front of every taxi we ever ride in … you’d be surprised how common conversations of this nature are… usually it stops at husband though, that was her first concubine offer.

Friday, we went to the Accra mall for a little escape into “Western-World,” the land of coffees and ice creams, Birkenstock shops and coach bag boutiques. It’s hilarious to walk in those doors from the chaos of Spana station into the air conditioned mall-rat-atmosphere. The highlight of the mall trip: our taxi ride back to the University described above.

This weekend was a busy one. We started off on Thursday when Grace, Kyle and I went to volunteer at Beacon House orphanage for the first time. We walked into the 3 story baby-yellow building and began navigating the halls in search of an adult we recognized. We came upon the classroom where the older kids were still doing their lesson and were politely shooed away and sent to the porch where the preschoolers were playing, waiting for lunch.

The moment… and I mean the MOMENT we three oborunis stepped onto the porch we were swarmed by the munchkins. Beautiful, screaming and laughing kids who treated us like their favorite toys come to life. They were hugging our legs, asking our names and laughing as we answered (no doubt we have VERY funny accents to them, especially Kyle who’s from Wisconsin… I think the unfamiliar pronunciation of certain words combined with his gender made him the day’s favorite. Not many guys come to volunteer and play with the kids.)

We played with the preschoolers for 30 minutes or so, until lunch was served and then we helped the house Mom’s feed the kids. Grace and I were handed two infants and basically told “Good luck.” My little boy Mikaeli had to have been less than 6 months old and just a little bundle of smiles and toe-sucking. He quickly fell asleep in my arms and effectively melted my heart. Grace’s dumpling Jeremiah kept us entertained for another hour.

After the babies went to sleep we went into the classroom to work one-on-one (or in my case two-on-one) with the older kids. Our job was to work with them on their assignments given that day. My girls, Helen and Benedita (both assumedly 10 or 11) needed to work on addition. No problem right? Wrong. Try explaining to two sassy pre-teens WHAT addition is and WHY they should bother learning it… oh and THEN get them to practice. One rough hour of my life. By the end of it I had committed myself to the challenge. I am DETERMINED to see them learn to add.

Friday was the mall trip described at the beginning of the post.

And then Saturday… Saturday was Bojo Beach Day. We took three crazy tro-tros a full two hours out of the city to a beach we had heard was as close to paradise and we’d find less than a day away. After sweating half to death, being grabbed through tro-tro windows, and trying to protect Claire from the fish of the market (she’s deathly allergic) – we were ready to see this beach.

Walking down the winding road from a stop that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere was a little unnerving. Did we travel all this way for no beach? What if it’s full of trash and vendors like the last one we went to…



And then… we saw it. Over the bluff… a white sand strip of beach floating in the ocean. We had to take a boat to get to it. Once we took off our sandals and planted them in that sand it was all over. Paradise. We were so incredibly happy to be there, and with our Cokes and Alvaros (a pineapple or pear malt beverage that is DELICIOUS) in hand … we felt on top of the world.
Laying in bed, exhausted from the sun, swimming and traveling we figured there was no way that the futbol game the next day could be any better.

Wrong again.

Walking up to the stadium where Ghana would play Sudan in a World Cup Qualifier Match at 5 o’clock was already INSANE at 2 o’clock when we arrived. Parades, people painted head to toe, Ghana flags for sale everywhere. I knew that we had VIP tickets but had no idea what that meant.



When we walked in the private gate, past the crowds… I got a good feeling. But when we found our seats, fifth row up right at mid-field – behind Ghana’s bench… we were ecstatic. The stadium filled by 4:30 and when the game got going at 5 sharp the crowds were ecstatic. There was so much excitement that it was intoxicating. Ghana won 2 to zero. And around 8:30 we found our way home.



What a weekend.

The Scenic Side of Things

This is a photo of the tree that ate another tree from the inside out... Now the former tree is dead and this tree, which is like a shell is left. It was incredible.

One of the oldest trees in Aburi. It was MASSIVE.

This past weekend was an adventure into the scenic Africa I've been craving.

We loaded up a bus as a group and headed up the winding roads outside of Legon up into a region of Ghana I was shocked to find only an hour outside of the hustle, bustle and smog of the University's surroundings.

The first stop on our adventure was the Aburi gardens. The gardens were nothing like what I expected. We pulled in to the entrance and found ourselves staring at Palm Trees that appear to be 4 or 5 houses tall. From there all we saw was lush green, with meandering pathways to the left and right. For someone who has become accustomed to manicured greenery every day on my way to class... I've been missing the soft grass and beautiful trees of TCU.

Once we were inside the "government owned garden" we went to a wonderful restaurant on the grounds and sampled some more traditional Ghanaian dishes. They served so many of the foods I love here including: jolof rice, yam and palava sauce, kelewele, red-red and cooked cabbage.

In the gardens I tasted cinnamon tree-bark (It tastes like cinnamon gum...) and smelled peppermint plants growing on trees... I saw trees that looked like they must be 500 years old and still growing, and I climbed inside a tree that had been eaten by another tree...

From the gardens we went to a wood carving village. I use the term village loosely, although that is what they call it, because it is more like a wood-carving co-op that has set up shop on the side of one of the mountain roads. Young men and women are being taught the traditional craft of wood carving in the co-op and selling their handiwork in their shops lined up side by side off the road. I was experiencing sensory overload by the time I reached the second shop... the carvings were beautiful... and everything is priced so low... it makes NOT buying nearly impossible.

After the wood carving village we went to a cocoa farm, one of the very first cocoa farms in the country in fact. There we learned the process of cocoa growth and harvesting. Our super-fly-farmer-guide (who may or may not have been wearing a Tupac belt buckle...) cracked open a ripe cocoa fruit (which are yellow) and took out the seeds to let us suck off the "meat"... it tasted like a citrus fruit you would buy in the market and that took us all by surprise. Then he showed us the dried cocoa beans that are within the meat we had sucked off. Lastly, he broke open a bean and let us try pure cocoa.

I learned to love chocolate even more this Sunday. It's a complicated process that produces one of the only foods that can bring me consistent happiness.

When I come back to the states I plan to bring my favorite Ghana-coffee-chocolate in bulk...

More to come.