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.