With the good comes the bad, with the bad comes the good.
In follow-up to my last blog - which gave you readers back home a dose of the negative encounters experienced in Ghana so far, leading to a concerned phone call from mom asking if I had any friends left and a pep talk from dad and my eldest sis reminding me why I decided to venture here in the first place - let me share with you what I consider beloved about this West African nation.
First off, the heat! I adore the sun and the soaring temperature. I don't mind one bit that within two minutes of stepping out from my home and walking down that dirt road, sweat forms across my brow, my clothes stick to me and the recent shower I just took is all but a distant memory. I wouldn't trade the sun for the winter you Torontonians are about to endure - not even for a pack of NIBBs red licorice, which I miss so dearly. Knowing that when I wake up, go to bed, step outside my workplace for lunch, travel down to the beach in the evening for a STAR beer that it is going to be hot, suits me just fine. Despite a few sudden downpours and thunderstorms, the weather here is consistent and I don't need a weather network to kick off my day or help me decide what to wear.
To beat or soak in that hot weather, I indulge in the fact that within 20 minutes walking distance from my home there is Labadi beach, where I can suntan, or even swim, if I choose to ignore that about 30 yards away is a dumping ground, where waves soiled with a thick layer green foam crash up onto the shore ridden with the La township's trash. Not to worry, if I choose not to swim there (which after the first experience I have), I can hop on a trotro or into a taxi and travel just 40 minutes outside of Accra to Bojo beach, where pristine golden sand stretches for about two miles and the salty ocean, relatively clean but for a few black plastic bags, which wrap around my ankles as I battle the ceaseless crashing waves.
I am ecstatic that I have learned to dance again. That the spirit of all Ghanaians around me has helped me let go of some of those nagging insecurities and to temporarily forget that I am white, with about as much rhythm as a flip-flopping fish out of water in comparison to those agile dancers I ward off as they attempt to grind up against me. In extension of that, I am pleasantly shocked at my new found love for hip hop, reggae, rnb and that local music with the same beat over and over again. Never would I have imagined myself hitting and failing to leave the dance floor until 4am at bars that never cease to close. (Sorry Mr. Ted Rath ... I have yet to shut one down yet!).
I feel grateful that with a little effort I can learn a new language, take African drum and dance lessons in their truest context from teachers who were born with the beat and raised with the rhythm, sharing the traditions from their local villages.
When my mouth is parched, I get a kick out of those plastic water sachets that resemble silicone breast implants. Tearing off a little corner with my teeth and sucking the liquid out, only to have them tip over and spill water all over the place if set down and not finished in a few gulps.
I am amused to have my nasal passage challenged, inhaling potent raw sewage flowing down open roadside ditches, then the sweet smell of plantain frying at a local stand and the diesel fuel from traffic whizzing by all within a few paces as I rush to catch a trotro to my next destination.
I am amazed at the stamina of trotro drivers and their mates, who wave their hands in a particular way signalling the destinations, which they also call out over and over and over again. "Labadi, Labadi, Labadi", "Circ-kanesh, Circ-kanesh, Circ-kanesh", and "Accra, Accra, Accra", ringing in my ears as I squeeze past locals crammed against each other. I thank the perspiring mate, who swiftly hops back in the tro, pulling the van door shut in one swoop, ready to catch the change from his new passengers. These mates even remember miles down the road, and minutes after receiving several fares, what change they owe each rider.
My curiousity is peaked when I recall a bus ride out of Accra to Tills Beach Resort, during which a Ghanaian guy sitting beside me was reprimanded by every local on the bus after the ticket man discovered that he hadn't paid his fare. Minutes before my fellow JHR volunteer, Hannah, had been warned by another passenger, that this guy was a thief. Now it was apparently proven true and no one was going to let him get away with it without a great deal of humiliating harassment. The guy paid his fare and hopped off the bus at the next stop, while the locals continued to converse loudly with each other about his disgraceful act.
I am in awe that despite sleeping on mats laid out upon the dirt, wearing mismatched soiled clothing and running around barefoot, that children still manage to share a bright, white smile, yelling and squealing as an Obruni passes by.
My heart fills with warmth as I think about those kind locals in my Labadi community, who awoke from sound sleep to check on me one recent night, making sure I had a place to stay, as I sat on a stoop, head in my hands crying, missing home and scared to enter my compound due to the barking and biting guard dog behind the gate.
A smile spreads across my face when I think of my neighbours five-year-old Benjamin, 15-year-old Frank and 13-year-old Gabriel, who chase me down and walk me to my gate on my way home from work. A consoling gesture after a frustrating day on the job.
I chuckle when I think about the girl at the MTN cell phone calling card stand, who called out to me as I walked by chugging back a bottle of chocolate milk, "you really enjoying that", recognizing my love for what's been the ultimate comfort food.
These experiences, and the many more I am leaving out, are what help me get through those days in Accra, Ghana when everything is foreign, when I just don't fit in, when I feel useless at my work, when the stares, chuckles and constant attention gets too much and when giving up and coming home seems a better option.
Because in the end it's all about perspective, right?
In follow-up to my last blog - which gave you readers back home a dose of the negative encounters experienced in Ghana so far, leading to a concerned phone call from mom asking if I had any friends left and a pep talk from dad and my eldest sis reminding me why I decided to venture here in the first place - let me share with you what I consider beloved about this West African nation.
First off, the heat! I adore the sun and the soaring temperature. I don't mind one bit that within two minutes of stepping out from my home and walking down that dirt road, sweat forms across my brow, my clothes stick to me and the recent shower I just took is all but a distant memory. I wouldn't trade the sun for the winter you Torontonians are about to endure - not even for a pack of NIBBs red licorice, which I miss so dearly. Knowing that when I wake up, go to bed, step outside my workplace for lunch, travel down to the beach in the evening for a STAR beer that it is going to be hot, suits me just fine. Despite a few sudden downpours and thunderstorms, the weather here is consistent and I don't need a weather network to kick off my day or help me decide what to wear.
To beat or soak in that hot weather, I indulge in the fact that within 20 minutes walking distance from my home there is Labadi beach, where I can suntan, or even swim, if I choose to ignore that about 30 yards away is a dumping ground, where waves soiled with a thick layer green foam crash up onto the shore ridden with the La township's trash. Not to worry, if I choose not to swim there (which after the first experience I have), I can hop on a trotro or into a taxi and travel just 40 minutes outside of Accra to Bojo beach, where pristine golden sand stretches for about two miles and the salty ocean, relatively clean but for a few black plastic bags, which wrap around my ankles as I battle the ceaseless crashing waves.
I am ecstatic that I have learned to dance again. That the spirit of all Ghanaians around me has helped me let go of some of those nagging insecurities and to temporarily forget that I am white, with about as much rhythm as a flip-flopping fish out of water in comparison to those agile dancers I ward off as they attempt to grind up against me. In extension of that, I am pleasantly shocked at my new found love for hip hop, reggae, rnb and that local music with the same beat over and over again. Never would I have imagined myself hitting and failing to leave the dance floor until 4am at bars that never cease to close. (Sorry Mr. Ted Rath ... I have yet to shut one down yet!).
I feel grateful that with a little effort I can learn a new language, take African drum and dance lessons in their truest context from teachers who were born with the beat and raised with the rhythm, sharing the traditions from their local villages.
When my mouth is parched, I get a kick out of those plastic water sachets that resemble silicone breast implants. Tearing off a little corner with my teeth and sucking the liquid out, only to have them tip over and spill water all over the place if set down and not finished in a few gulps.
I am amused to have my nasal passage challenged, inhaling potent raw sewage flowing down open roadside ditches, then the sweet smell of plantain frying at a local stand and the diesel fuel from traffic whizzing by all within a few paces as I rush to catch a trotro to my next destination.
I am amazed at the stamina of trotro drivers and their mates, who wave their hands in a particular way signalling the destinations, which they also call out over and over and over again. "Labadi, Labadi, Labadi", "Circ-kanesh, Circ-kanesh, Circ-kanesh", and "Accra, Accra, Accra", ringing in my ears as I squeeze past locals crammed against each other. I thank the perspiring mate, who swiftly hops back in the tro, pulling the van door shut in one swoop, ready to catch the change from his new passengers. These mates even remember miles down the road, and minutes after receiving several fares, what change they owe each rider.
My curiousity is peaked when I recall a bus ride out of Accra to Tills Beach Resort, during which a Ghanaian guy sitting beside me was reprimanded by every local on the bus after the ticket man discovered that he hadn't paid his fare. Minutes before my fellow JHR volunteer, Hannah, had been warned by another passenger, that this guy was a thief. Now it was apparently proven true and no one was going to let him get away with it without a great deal of humiliating harassment. The guy paid his fare and hopped off the bus at the next stop, while the locals continued to converse loudly with each other about his disgraceful act.
I am in awe that despite sleeping on mats laid out upon the dirt, wearing mismatched soiled clothing and running around barefoot, that children still manage to share a bright, white smile, yelling and squealing as an Obruni passes by.
My heart fills with warmth as I think about those kind locals in my Labadi community, who awoke from sound sleep to check on me one recent night, making sure I had a place to stay, as I sat on a stoop, head in my hands crying, missing home and scared to enter my compound due to the barking and biting guard dog behind the gate.
A smile spreads across my face when I think of my neighbours five-year-old Benjamin, 15-year-old Frank and 13-year-old Gabriel, who chase me down and walk me to my gate on my way home from work. A consoling gesture after a frustrating day on the job.
I chuckle when I think about the girl at the MTN cell phone calling card stand, who called out to me as I walked by chugging back a bottle of chocolate milk, "you really enjoying that", recognizing my love for what's been the ultimate comfort food.
These experiences, and the many more I am leaving out, are what help me get through those days in Accra, Ghana when everything is foreign, when I just don't fit in, when I feel useless at my work, when the stares, chuckles and constant attention gets too much and when giving up and coming home seems a better option.
Because in the end it's all about perspective, right?
2 comments:
It's been a hard go, my dear. We are doing ok though. I'm proud of you. I almost just typed "one love" and then hit myself in the face before I went too far. But know that I'm here for ya...all the time. see you on the porch.
Love your posts -
It's been a long, long time since I was in Ghana but my memories remain vivid and full of many similar unique experiences...
I miss it all so much..!
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