Prior to leaving home for Ghana, I was told by another traveler, who spent some time in Malawi, that I may as well kiss my yoga practice goodbye once I arrived in Africa. Time, space and the overall environment would not allow for it.
With that in mind, I departed from Toronto on October 1st with the resolve that for the next eight months practising and teaching would fall by the wayside and that I would simply have to get back to uniting the body, breath and mind when I returned home.
But, like many warnings I received about Ghana that haven't proved true, yoga and I have not parted. In fact, with a little self discipline, it's been quite easy to continue. Not only can I practice in my home - which to my dismay is bigger than any place I have ever lived - but upon my first day at the Daily Guide newspaper, where I am volunteering as a JHR print journalism trainer until June, a yoga teaching opportunity fell into my lap during an introduction meeting with the executive editorial team.
The Daily Guide's managing editor, who is also wife of one of the government ministers, was taking a gander at my CV when she came across that I was a certified yoga teacher. My journalism skills and role as journalist trainer suddenly lost their lustre.
"You teach yoga?" she exclaimed. "Then you can teach me! I need yoga!"
Having arrived just one week ago in this West African nation, I was unsure (and remain so) when and how to take Ghanaians seriously, but agreed nonetheless to embark on this next yoga teaching expedition. What better way to get "in" with the editor than to spend time with her outside the newsroom?
A week passed, and with the trials of finding my place in a totally foreign newsroom, the "We'll talk yoga later" departure from her office that first day dissipated from my mind. It was not until she passed me in the Daily Guide's front foyer Wednesday of week two and requested to see me with a stern "We need to meet" that acquiring my first Ghanaian yoga student was realized.
Assuming that she wanted to speak with me about my accomplishments building human rights awareness in her newsroom, rather than how to do the downward dog, I hesitantly hopped up the stairs, tripping on the last uneven one, to her office.
Once seated, it was not what human rights stories I had worked on, how the editing process was going, or which reporters I had managed to connect with that she wanted to talk about. Rather, she got straight into what day and time was best for us to get started on helping her relax after a 12-hour-six-day-a-week work schedule.
That coming Saturday, 9am it was. A driver would pick me up from my home in Labadi. Price per class was to be determined. We would touch base that Friday to confirm we were on.
The week went and a text message Friday confirmed a delayed pick-up time of 9:30am, outside Jokers bar - a landmark I use for taxis and tro-tros, which is a two-minute walk from my home - for a payment of 10 Ghana Cedis per hour of my time.
Saturday morning came fast after a night of STAR beer, whiskey and dancing at Vienna City nightclub with my fellow JHR trainers, Alison and Hannah.I awoke with a panicked jolt at about 8:30 a.m., not to the sound of an alarm but rather the call of a rooster, showered quick, pulled on my yoga clothes, brushed the fuzz off my teeth, sprinkled a few drops of Visine to whiten my bloodshot eyes and set off along the dirt road, expecting a further delayed pick-up due to the tardy reality of Ghanaian time.
By 9:37 a.m. the black Mercedes with grey leather-interior pulled up and I hopped in, to be greeted by my first Ghanaian yoga student in her comfy's - a stark difference from her classic or traditional African attire and heels worn daily at the office. She was chatting business seriously on her cell in Twi (the local language).
We drove off along La Road, across Ring Road and veered right at Danquah Circle. Intermittent silence was quelled with conversation about our weekend plans, her scheduled trip to Allure spa to get her hair and nails done following yoga and how I was liking Ghana so far. No mention of Human Rights issues or my work at the Daily Guide whatsoever and I hesitated to bring it up not wanting to dwell upon work-related topics on her only day off, while also fearing to admit that I was struggling to fit in and do the job I was sent to do. Getting "in" in that way with the editor would have to wait until at least our second yoga session.
The minister and his wife's home, or estate as I am sure it is considered by Ghanaian standards, is shielded from the paved road in the Cantomnes area of Accra, by a similar metal gate that blocks my home from the outside Labadi community. With the honk of that Mercedes horn a guard opened up the gate and we pulled up onto a stone driveway bearing three additional luxury cars, including some type of SUV. Since the minister himself was traveling for the weekend, I am certain a fifth luxury car also exists. There were two double open-air garages, a gate to the backyard, which I never got to see, and a decent-sized front yard blanketed in green grass. My imagination worked overtime as I visualized what her home would be like on the inside.
Entering in through a side door, I immediately slipped off my 'pleather' sandals - made by and bought for 4 Ghana Cedis from Alex, a local who nabs vulnerable tourists as customers on the streets of Osu - only to be told to keep them on. Placing them back on my already dusty feet, I stepped and sank into thick red carpet. To my right there was a dining room that led to an out-of-my-view kitchen. To my left a main entrance and in front a living room, with cream leather couches, lacy curtains, a wooden coffee table ... all a contrast to that plush carpet, but exuding a sense of comfort I did not anticipate in the house of a government minister. The air was heavy and damp, despite individual air conditioners placed in each room.
I was directed to have a seat on one of the couches, while my yoga student settled what appeared to be another business transaction - perhaps a conclusion of her phone conversation in the car. A Ghanaian man, I was briefly introduced to, sat on the other couch conversing with her in Twi, while I gazed awkwardly around the room trying desperately to mind my own business despite not being able to understand a word they were saying.
Once papers were signed and the apparent deal was sealed, I was led up a narrow staircase to her bedroom, the out of sight destination in the house where she preferred to do yoga. The upstairs was more modest than below. A chest of drawers with imported food items from England scattered across its top was to my right, an ironing board and bathroom to the left, an old computer desk and the doorway to the bedroom in front. The carpet here a mousy brown, worn down, with scattered stains. The bedroom itself was quite small, crammed with a double bed wrapped in mis-matched floral sheets, bedside table cluttered with papers, books and an alarm clock, a dresser scattered with perfumes, deodorant and cosmetics and an open closet door revealing clothes stacked in uneven piles.
She unrolled a plastic straw mat, identical to those sold in the local markets, and lay it down in the small space between her bed and dresser. Then without hesitation she pulled off her track pants, grabbed something from her closet and left the room to, I assumed, fully change. Though an air conditioner blasted from above the air remained thick and sticky and I felt sweat form along my brow as I removed a notebook and pen from my bag.
A couple of minutes passed and through the door she came decked out in a hot pink and white velour short and tank top set. Though surprised, I was comforted by this 51-year-old's lack of modesty, her automatic sense of comfort, unsure whether I was relating to Ghanaians really well or if this was just a cultural thing.
And so the practice began ... we started in a seated cross-legged position ... myself squeezed in a tiny space left between the bed and her mat.
"Close your eyes, begin to focus on the breath, inhale and exhale through nose, feel the spine lengthening with each breath, let go of the week behind you and the week to come ..."
I used my standard yoga dialogue as she intermittently released an "hm hm" and an "okay".
We moved into cat and dog tilts, neck stretches and shoulder rolls, standing forward bends, rises up onto the toes all in a flowing sequence ... until her cell phone rang.
"Sorry, but it's money" she said as she reached for the phone on her bed and began to speak seriously in Twi again.
Following her money talk, she turned her cellphone off adding "if i can't go an hour without my cell phone, there's a problem." Before continuing, we joked about cell phone culture in Ghana and Canada, making fun of ourselves for not being able to leave home without them.
Coming back to the breath, we flowed through a triangle sequence, warrior I and II and a balancing pose. I was impressed by how limber she was and at her ability to control and lengthen her breath. Within half an hour, sweat was streaming down her face. We exchanged looks ... the time was 10:30 a.m., only half and hour had gone by. I asked her if she wished to continue for the full hour and she cracked up laughing. "I think that's enough for today" she chuckled.
And, so Svasana - corpse pose I translated to her - it was. She lay down upon that musty carpet, having kicked aside the slippery mat long ago, and closed her eyes again, letting her breath return to normal and allowing her body to absorb the postures she had just flowed through. I scribbled away in the notebook writing down the practice so I would remember it. I promised to detail it all out with diagrams over the weekend and present it to her on Monday so she could continue yoga in her own time at home.
Feeling what she described as "great!", my first Ghanaian yoga student thanked me, quickly changed in preparation for her spa appointment, and then led me down through her estate, outside and back into to her black Mercedes with leather interior.
On our drive through Cantomnes, around Danquah Circle, across Ring Road, to La Road and Jokers, we spoke of how she missed her three children - a daughter, who was at boarding school in Tema, one son who was studying in Sydney, Australia and another who was studying in London, England - how the house has been too quiet since they left. We spoke about the struggles of maintaining a marriage when both husband and wife are so career-driven and how if she could turn back time now, she would not marry, but rather have children some other way, raising them on her own. We delved into why many young Ghanaian men and women are single and how these days education is often considered of greater importance before raising a family.
Ten minutes later I was back where I started, dropped off outside that seedy bar, strolling back down that dirt road in the hot sun to my home in Labadi.
I chuckled to myself wondering how I managed to snag my first yoga student before producing a real human rights story in Ghana, Africa; thinking how crazy it was that my student was a government minister's wife; that her home seemed one of comfort rather than status, that she could change her clothing right in front of me, almost a stranger, without flinching, that she shared her nontraditional thoughts on marriage and family and that in all of that not once did my role at the Daily Guide come up.
Getting "in" with the editor was far more intimate than I had anticipated.
With that in mind, I departed from Toronto on October 1st with the resolve that for the next eight months practising and teaching would fall by the wayside and that I would simply have to get back to uniting the body, breath and mind when I returned home.
But, like many warnings I received about Ghana that haven't proved true, yoga and I have not parted. In fact, with a little self discipline, it's been quite easy to continue. Not only can I practice in my home - which to my dismay is bigger than any place I have ever lived - but upon my first day at the Daily Guide newspaper, where I am volunteering as a JHR print journalism trainer until June, a yoga teaching opportunity fell into my lap during an introduction meeting with the executive editorial team.
The Daily Guide's managing editor, who is also wife of one of the government ministers, was taking a gander at my CV when she came across that I was a certified yoga teacher. My journalism skills and role as journalist trainer suddenly lost their lustre.
"You teach yoga?" she exclaimed. "Then you can teach me! I need yoga!"
Having arrived just one week ago in this West African nation, I was unsure (and remain so) when and how to take Ghanaians seriously, but agreed nonetheless to embark on this next yoga teaching expedition. What better way to get "in" with the editor than to spend time with her outside the newsroom?
A week passed, and with the trials of finding my place in a totally foreign newsroom, the "We'll talk yoga later" departure from her office that first day dissipated from my mind. It was not until she passed me in the Daily Guide's front foyer Wednesday of week two and requested to see me with a stern "We need to meet" that acquiring my first Ghanaian yoga student was realized.
Assuming that she wanted to speak with me about my accomplishments building human rights awareness in her newsroom, rather than how to do the downward dog, I hesitantly hopped up the stairs, tripping on the last uneven one, to her office.
Once seated, it was not what human rights stories I had worked on, how the editing process was going, or which reporters I had managed to connect with that she wanted to talk about. Rather, she got straight into what day and time was best for us to get started on helping her relax after a 12-hour-six-day-a-week work schedule.
That coming Saturday, 9am it was. A driver would pick me up from my home in Labadi. Price per class was to be determined. We would touch base that Friday to confirm we were on.
The week went and a text message Friday confirmed a delayed pick-up time of 9:30am, outside Jokers bar - a landmark I use for taxis and tro-tros, which is a two-minute walk from my home - for a payment of 10 Ghana Cedis per hour of my time.
Saturday morning came fast after a night of STAR beer, whiskey and dancing at Vienna City nightclub with my fellow JHR trainers, Alison and Hannah.I awoke with a panicked jolt at about 8:30 a.m., not to the sound of an alarm but rather the call of a rooster, showered quick, pulled on my yoga clothes, brushed the fuzz off my teeth, sprinkled a few drops of Visine to whiten my bloodshot eyes and set off along the dirt road, expecting a further delayed pick-up due to the tardy reality of Ghanaian time.
By 9:37 a.m. the black Mercedes with grey leather-interior pulled up and I hopped in, to be greeted by my first Ghanaian yoga student in her comfy's - a stark difference from her classic or traditional African attire and heels worn daily at the office. She was chatting business seriously on her cell in Twi (the local language).
We drove off along La Road, across Ring Road and veered right at Danquah Circle. Intermittent silence was quelled with conversation about our weekend plans, her scheduled trip to Allure spa to get her hair and nails done following yoga and how I was liking Ghana so far. No mention of Human Rights issues or my work at the Daily Guide whatsoever and I hesitated to bring it up not wanting to dwell upon work-related topics on her only day off, while also fearing to admit that I was struggling to fit in and do the job I was sent to do. Getting "in" in that way with the editor would have to wait until at least our second yoga session.
The minister and his wife's home, or estate as I am sure it is considered by Ghanaian standards, is shielded from the paved road in the Cantomnes area of Accra, by a similar metal gate that blocks my home from the outside Labadi community. With the honk of that Mercedes horn a guard opened up the gate and we pulled up onto a stone driveway bearing three additional luxury cars, including some type of SUV. Since the minister himself was traveling for the weekend, I am certain a fifth luxury car also exists. There were two double open-air garages, a gate to the backyard, which I never got to see, and a decent-sized front yard blanketed in green grass. My imagination worked overtime as I visualized what her home would be like on the inside.
Entering in through a side door, I immediately slipped off my 'pleather' sandals - made by and bought for 4 Ghana Cedis from Alex, a local who nabs vulnerable tourists as customers on the streets of Osu - only to be told to keep them on. Placing them back on my already dusty feet, I stepped and sank into thick red carpet. To my right there was a dining room that led to an out-of-my-view kitchen. To my left a main entrance and in front a living room, with cream leather couches, lacy curtains, a wooden coffee table ... all a contrast to that plush carpet, but exuding a sense of comfort I did not anticipate in the house of a government minister. The air was heavy and damp, despite individual air conditioners placed in each room.
I was directed to have a seat on one of the couches, while my yoga student settled what appeared to be another business transaction - perhaps a conclusion of her phone conversation in the car. A Ghanaian man, I was briefly introduced to, sat on the other couch conversing with her in Twi, while I gazed awkwardly around the room trying desperately to mind my own business despite not being able to understand a word they were saying.
Once papers were signed and the apparent deal was sealed, I was led up a narrow staircase to her bedroom, the out of sight destination in the house where she preferred to do yoga. The upstairs was more modest than below. A chest of drawers with imported food items from England scattered across its top was to my right, an ironing board and bathroom to the left, an old computer desk and the doorway to the bedroom in front. The carpet here a mousy brown, worn down, with scattered stains. The bedroom itself was quite small, crammed with a double bed wrapped in mis-matched floral sheets, bedside table cluttered with papers, books and an alarm clock, a dresser scattered with perfumes, deodorant and cosmetics and an open closet door revealing clothes stacked in uneven piles.
She unrolled a plastic straw mat, identical to those sold in the local markets, and lay it down in the small space between her bed and dresser. Then without hesitation she pulled off her track pants, grabbed something from her closet and left the room to, I assumed, fully change. Though an air conditioner blasted from above the air remained thick and sticky and I felt sweat form along my brow as I removed a notebook and pen from my bag.
A couple of minutes passed and through the door she came decked out in a hot pink and white velour short and tank top set. Though surprised, I was comforted by this 51-year-old's lack of modesty, her automatic sense of comfort, unsure whether I was relating to Ghanaians really well or if this was just a cultural thing.
And so the practice began ... we started in a seated cross-legged position ... myself squeezed in a tiny space left between the bed and her mat.
"Close your eyes, begin to focus on the breath, inhale and exhale through nose, feel the spine lengthening with each breath, let go of the week behind you and the week to come ..."
I used my standard yoga dialogue as she intermittently released an "hm hm" and an "okay".
We moved into cat and dog tilts, neck stretches and shoulder rolls, standing forward bends, rises up onto the toes all in a flowing sequence ... until her cell phone rang.
"Sorry, but it's money" she said as she reached for the phone on her bed and began to speak seriously in Twi again.
Following her money talk, she turned her cellphone off adding "if i can't go an hour without my cell phone, there's a problem." Before continuing, we joked about cell phone culture in Ghana and Canada, making fun of ourselves for not being able to leave home without them.
Coming back to the breath, we flowed through a triangle sequence, warrior I and II and a balancing pose. I was impressed by how limber she was and at her ability to control and lengthen her breath. Within half an hour, sweat was streaming down her face. We exchanged looks ... the time was 10:30 a.m., only half and hour had gone by. I asked her if she wished to continue for the full hour and she cracked up laughing. "I think that's enough for today" she chuckled.
And, so Svasana - corpse pose I translated to her - it was. She lay down upon that musty carpet, having kicked aside the slippery mat long ago, and closed her eyes again, letting her breath return to normal and allowing her body to absorb the postures she had just flowed through. I scribbled away in the notebook writing down the practice so I would remember it. I promised to detail it all out with diagrams over the weekend and present it to her on Monday so she could continue yoga in her own time at home.
Feeling what she described as "great!", my first Ghanaian yoga student thanked me, quickly changed in preparation for her spa appointment, and then led me down through her estate, outside and back into to her black Mercedes with leather interior.
On our drive through Cantomnes, around Danquah Circle, across Ring Road, to La Road and Jokers, we spoke of how she missed her three children - a daughter, who was at boarding school in Tema, one son who was studying in Sydney, Australia and another who was studying in London, England - how the house has been too quiet since they left. We spoke about the struggles of maintaining a marriage when both husband and wife are so career-driven and how if she could turn back time now, she would not marry, but rather have children some other way, raising them on her own. We delved into why many young Ghanaian men and women are single and how these days education is often considered of greater importance before raising a family.
Ten minutes later I was back where I started, dropped off outside that seedy bar, strolling back down that dirt road in the hot sun to my home in Labadi.
I chuckled to myself wondering how I managed to snag my first yoga student before producing a real human rights story in Ghana, Africa; thinking how crazy it was that my student was a government minister's wife; that her home seemed one of comfort rather than status, that she could change her clothing right in front of me, almost a stranger, without flinching, that she shared her nontraditional thoughts on marriage and family and that in all of that not once did my role at the Daily Guide come up.
Getting "in" with the editor was far more intimate than I had anticipated.
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