A spit from the truth

Where I come from spitting on or at someone is an ultimate sign of disrespect.

By law, it can even be considered an act of assault or battery.

To my understanding, the same stands true in Ghana.

I have witnessed Ghanaians spitting out of a tro-tro windows, into gutters, and even seen evidence of it splattered on sidewalks (i.e. last week while waiting outside Accra Stadium I almost placed my knapsack into two fresh and gleaming piles). I never imagined however, being greeted this way in a country where warm smiles are exchanged to the random passerby, introductory handshakes end with a quick snap of the finger and a phrase as soothing as "Ete Sen" means “Hello."

It was a Saturday, late afternoon, when I hopped off a tro-tro at one of Accra’s main transportation and market hubs, Circle, to find the STC bus station. I needed to purchase an advance ticket to Tamale, where I would travel the following week to explore Northern Ghana.

Unbeknownsed to me, this bus station was quite a distance away from Circle, so I pressed play on my IPOD and began the trek along Ring Road in the dry, lip-cracking Harmatan heat.

As usual, Circle was a hustle and bustle of tro-tros loading and unloading passengers and swerving around regular traffic. Market women and men were selling anything from pineapples, roasted plantains and groundnuts to deodorant, used shoes from the west and an abundance of red, green and yellow (Ghana’s national colours) CAN2008 paraphernalia, while locals rushed through the maze finishing up Saturday errands.

The walk was longer than I expected and I asked a few people along the way, receiving more than willing help to lead me in the right direction.

Bobbing my head to the familiar tunes from home blaring through my headphones, I caught eye contact with a man stomping towards me with either utter determination or a brewing grudge, perhaps held onto from years ago. His glare was hard, long and filled with contempt, anger and disgust. It caused my heart to jump up to my throat and fear to fill my belly.

Just a few paces away from me, the man pursed his lips and out shot a large glob of saliva in my direction, the oozing blob striking the pavement right before my feet. I dodged it with my next step and spun around to see that man’s glare still peering into mine. He pursed his lips again in my direction and I cried out “Don’t!”, heart pounding, scurrying away like a mouse avoiding the pounce of a leering feline. Luckily spit didn’t fly this time.

Now unless this man is from Kenya or Tanzania and is a member of the Massai tribe, who respectfully spit upon each other upon greeting and departing, it was clear he either did not like me or perhaps, in his mind, what I represented.

Tears welled up in my eyes. Through my next few paces confusion, guilt, anger and alienation -- a myriad of emotions – shifted through me. My angst turned to the ongoing conflict I’m experiencing as an NGO worker, contemplating the effectiveness or lack thereof with development work in Ghana and across the African continent.

“What am I doing here?”

“Is any of this sustainable?”

“If unreliable condoms can be manufactured, are we really trying to halt the spread of HIV?”

“If an abundance of SlimFast products can be sent over to Ethiopia as aid relief, are we really trying to feed the starving?”

“How can mistakes like these be made along the way?”

“Should we be doing these things in the first place?”

“Is development work and the presence of NGOs another form of colonization, in disguise?”

“Screw it, should we all just head home to watch and see what happens?”

These questions only skim the surface of what runs through my mind as a volunteer journalist trainer in Accra, Ghana, manifested as I read books including Margaret Laurence’s This Side Jordan, Maya Angelou's All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes, and William Power’s Blue Clay People.

But that Saturday, I trekked on to the STC station buying that bus ticket to Tamale, dashing a guy 50 peshwa for showing me the rest of the way. And, I’ll stick around for the last four months of my placement, perhaps staying on longer if Ghana continues to suit my needs and fulfill my ambitions.

But not without continuing to wonder...

Who is benefiting more...?

Us or them...?