Reduce Reuse Recycle . . .

. . . does not mean that you should send all of your old crap to Africa.

I have frequently sat in the passenger seat of a rickety taxi chugging along behind a van, truck or other rambling vehicle while it belches black, stinky smoke from its tail to my lungs.  While plugging my nose and holding my breath, I thought, "how on earth did that thing ever make it here?"  Over here we have every vehicle that drowned in Katrina, failed Obama's inspection or would never dare to fashion the streets of a cleaner city.  The funny thing - we don't even need vehicles.  Thanks for your offer, but we have enough.

Really, everything makes it to Africa eventually.  Africans proudly don the jerseys of Pittsburgh Steelers, carry their goods in cast off bags from Whole Foods and ride around in the car you smashed up and Carmax paid $500 for parts.  While on a relaxing holiday at my favorite beach joint, I noticed a recycling container labeled as property of Gulfport, FL.

A Newsweek article published in August, 2011 reports that, "on the outskirts of Accra lies the Agbogbloshie slum - one of Ghana's largest electronics-waste dumps.  Amid black smoke and the stench of burning plastic, a mountain of abandoned motherboards, computer monitors, and hard drives litters the landscape.  It is no wonder the locals call it, 'Sodom and Gomorrah'.  Behind this apocalyptic scene is the best of intentions gone awry."  Given the massive amount of electronic products produced each year, and technological advances that people just 'need' to have, the need for disposal alternatives has skyrocketed.  "The result has been unregulated shipping containers, marked 'donations'."  What happens once your electronic donations get here?  Well, given that we don't have a huge need for electronic equipment in rural villages with no electricity or internet, it is dumped into a treasure trove.  It is burned in order to extract copper and other salable metals.  Can you imagine the fumes and debris that pollute soil and water with high concentrations of lead, mercury and other toxic metals?

My message here:  Thanks for looking out for us.  Thanks for thinking about those in need.  But there's a balance.  Sending your unwanted consumerism as donations to those in extreme poverty doesn't take you off the hook for proper disposal of your unwanted goods.

Hoarders

My name is Rebecca, and I'm a compulsive hoarder.  Don't worry, I'm not inside the house buried under stacks of newspapers or garage sale bargains, my hoarding is limited to black beans, squishy toilet paper and band aids.  We never know what, when or if we can get our favorite nibbles to eat or shampoos to soften our hair.  The rule of thumb:  If you might ever want it, get it now!  You can frequently see us running through shops to get a trolley at the sight of black beans on the shelf or filling our basket at the market with fresh herbs.  If we even utter the thought of, "I'll get it next time," it absolutely will not be there when we return.  We have a special cabinet bursting with life's essentials like moisturizer, sun screen, mosquito spray and Neosporin.  We have cupboards that host stacks of spices, chocolates, almonds and dried fruits.  Our drawers burst with enough socks to outfit the soccer team.  You never know when you might get a hole.

Some of our favorite hoardings:
Hair conditioner
Chocolate
Corn chips
Black beans
Cheese
Rotel spicy diced tomatoes
Mosquito spray
Cat litter
Charmin
Band aids
Almonds
Dried blueberries
Stroop Waffels
Herbal tea
Maker's Mark

At my school, the little 3-5 year-olds walk around touting that sharing is caring.  Not in my house.  I hoard and I'm not sharing my stash.

A lesson in the real world

At the tail end of a blissful weekend on the beach, my power-lounging mates and I received an urgent call from a friend of ours letting us know that while we were deciding what kind of pancakes we wanted for breakfast, he was hiding in the bush, surrounded by gunfire and inhaling tear gas.  The real truth seems to be garbled, cryptic and disputable, but what we do know is this:

Buduburam, the Liberian refugee camp houses around 18,000 people, most of which are refugees from Liberia, Sierra Leone and other neighboring west African countries.  The camp has been active for nearly two decades.  Yesterday, there was an unofficial changing of leadership in the camp, which is now considered to be a small town.  The citizens called for this change when they felt as if their current leader failed to represent them and support their basic needs.  These people frequently go weeks without water, even though they are just outside the city of Accra, and they just spent 3 weeks without electricity.  Since Ghanaian officials did not approve of their quest for satisfaction of basic needs, and hence a new leader, they entered the camp with force.  They released tear gas and opened fire.  At the onset of this forceful entry, a woman was accidentally shot and killed.  Our dear friend Younis was in plain sight of the woman and captured her image on his phone.  Moments later, a ten-year-old boy was also shot and killed.  There are conflicting reports as to the extent of those killed or injured by bullets.  Some say 3 while others say 5.  I'm afraid we will never have the full story.  Meanwhile, many of the male residents were arrested and fear deportation.

With a little luck, we were able to meet Younis by the roadside, as he crept out of the village to meet us and bring him safely to Accra.  At the time that we met up with him, all citizens were ordered to stay inside their homes or face arrest.  Since it was the men who were threatened with arrest and looting is a known issue, Younis made the decision to get into the car along with a friend and leave the rest of his family behind.  Eventually, later in the day, he made the decision to have his wife pack all of their belongings (which fit into two backpacks) and hire a car into the city.  As anyone can imagine, this family of four is shaken and suffering from tear gas induced headaches.

I'm just not sure that I've ever seen or felt such heaviness, sullenness or pure fear.  Before picking up Younis from the roadside, we approached the entrance of the camp.  Standing there was a group of people banded together, looking on and unsure of their fate.  These are people that can find the light in most any situation, but on this particular day they could barely utter a word or peel their eyes from the scene in front of them.  At that time, their friends and family were being loaded onto a truck by men in riot gear and driven away.  Many of them will suffer from retraumatization.  These are people who have already experienced war.  They've run from bullets, left dead or suffering family members behind and made a life in a new, presumably safe environment.  Yesterday returned them to their pain.  I could see it in their eyes.

As people who live a relatively safe and comfortable life, we have no idea what real terror is.  We have no idea what it is like to live under conditions where you are forced to forgo basic needs in exchange for safety.  We know these problems exist, but we think they are for others.  Yesterday I had a lesson in just how terrifying life can be so close to home.

A tasty treat

The first thing that passes my mind when I think of peanut butter is crunchy cookies, a salty balance for jam or the stuff that fills the center of gooey chocolates.  Here in Ghana it becomes a staple for dinner.  For something new, try Groundnut Soup (groundnuts are what we call peanuts).

Ingredients:

salt and pepper, to taste

2 large onions, finely chopped

4 large very ripe tomatoes or 13 ounces canned tomatoes

6 1/2 ounces creamy peanut butter

3 1/2 pints boiling water

red chile, to taste

4 -8 mushrooms (optional)

Directions:

1. Blanch the tomatoes in boiling water, peel off the skin and blend the flesh to a smooth juice. If using canned tomatoes, blend.

2. Put the peanut butter into a big bowl, add 3/4 pt. of the boiling water and use a wooden spoon or a blender to blend the peanut butter and water carefully together to form a creamy, smooth sauce.

3. Mix together the tomatoes, peanut butter mixture, red chilies and mushrooms.

4. Continue to simmer, stirring only occasionally to prevent the food sticking to the bottom of the pan. This is now the basic soup.

5. Pour the rest of the boiling water into the soup and simmer slowly on medium heat for 20 mins or so.

Serve over rice.  Enjoy!

Read more: http://www.food.com/recipe/peanut-groundnut-soup-198018#ixzz1DxHuREiy

To the Bat Cave

The world is marvelous, isn't it?  Each evening we relax on our terrace, letting the breeze take away the day's stress, and watch as hundreds (thousands, maybe?) of bats make their daily trek.  It's not that we particularly love bats, but it is incredible to see them move in their pack all at once.  This nightly phenomenon has become one of the favorite parts of our day.  The sky is littered with them and each night our jaws drop and we explode with, "Whoa!  Look at them!"

During the daylight ours, our bats hang in trees clumped together at one particular intersection in town.  They are said to be sacred, and as all things in Ghana, the history behind their roosting place is rich in tradition and story.  Legend tells that they followed one particular chief from the village to the hospital adjacent to the place they now consider home.  These bats are still there today, waiting for the chief, even though it has been years since he died there.  They stay in the middle of the city waiting for the chief by day, fly to the forest for food in the evening, and return each morning to wait once again.

I wonder what the scientific explanation might be for them, especially since they seem to disappear or thin out at certain times of the year, but for now, I'll stay wrapped up in the folk lore and ask them as they pass if there's any news on The Chief.

The culture of ME

Today I had the honor of being a guest speaker in a grade 2 classroom where the kids are learning about the concept of culture, and how it shapes a person's identity.  They are exploring the idea that, as third culture kids, and even those that are not, culture isn't just where you've come from, but perhaps a collection of tidbits gathered along the way.  As I was talking about aspects of my own personal culture, grounded on my collection of beliefs and values, I was asked about some things that have changed for me since adding pieces of Ghanaian culture to my own.  I thought I'd share some here:

• I take my shoes off before entering someone's living room.
• I greet everyone with, Good morning, Fine morning; You are welcome; or How is the day?
• I have extended my family.
• I still enjoy a family dinner each night, but it includes anyone who might happen to be around.  Everyone is invited to eat.
• I shake hands with everyone, even if I know them.
• When in a group, I shake hands from right to left.
• I say Good evening! instead of Hello.  Along the same lines, I always greet someone and ask of their family before I begin a conversation.
• I wave only with my right hand.
• I am culturally sensitive in regards to my dress.
• All the typical cultural activities, like dancing, drumming, eating and clothing.

The list seems small, as I know I've adopted other bits of Ghana into my identity.  Perhaps I'll watch the list grow as time goes on.  

Pounding fufu with Auntie Akua.

Blending in

It's no secret that I love Ghana.  I love Ghana and I am in love with Ghanaians.  I am charmed by the ways that we interact with one another, shouting to each other on the street, greeting everyone and any one, and enjoying hearty laughs.  It lightens my sould to have daily exchanges with my brothers and sisters, uncles and aunties from the car window, at the market or in my own home.  My heart is always open to othe laughter and waves of children.  Some of these moments happen because I am Obroni, but most happen because I am Ghanaian.

But it can also be exhausting.  Sometimes I just want to blend in.  The little moments that happen simply because I stick out in the crowd can be entertaining, but sometimes they wear me out.  There are times when I want get lost in the tunes on my headphones, read a book on the beach or eat my toast on the way to work without interruption.  I don't want to be the victim of a pop-in visit.  No, I don't want you to cut a coconut for me.  No, I don't want to buy your apples.  Yes, I have a tattoo.  No, my skin doesn't feel differently than yours.  Yes, I am white.  Yes, I just sat down to eat dinner and want to do so in minimal clothing.  I just wonder where the the line is drawn between captivating culture and tedious annoyances.  The line of tolerance seems to fluctuate daily.  I know Ghanaians find me to be just as interesting as I find them, but sometimes I'm just too tired to reciprocate and I just want to blend in.

This poor gal wasn't getting any reading done either.

I went to the beach in hopes of bonding with a novel.  Instead I bonded with these guys.

Mr. Golden Sun

There's a song that says, "...haven't seen the sun in three damn days..."  If you live in West Africa right now, it's been much longer than 3 days.  We are in the thick of Harmattan, the thickest in several years, and it is toying with our health and humor.  It takes hours to pick all the sand out of my eyes each morning; my nose is caked with crust; and the other morning I woke up in the middle of the night to find my lips stuck to the pillow case.  It's dry.  It's dry and dusty.  It's dry and dusty and we haven't seen the sun shine in days.

Harmattan is a phenomenon that blows through West Africa each year, some time between December and March.  Typically, we get it here in southern Ghana around early January and it lasts only a few weeks.  It is a trade wind that blows from the Sahara to the Gulf of Guinea, and it brings with it fine particles of sand and dust.  On the bright side, it also lowers humidity and can provide delightfully "cool" temperatures.  Those pleasures, however, are mostly offered to our friends in the north who have much more sand and dryness to contend with.

Each of the last two years, we've noticed a hazy sky and a bit of extra crust around the eyes in the morning, but mostly just enjoyed the cool evening breeze that blows it all in.  THIS year, however, slam!  We got it, but good.  I'm used to sunshine.  I'm used to the blue skies that Crayola crayons are named for.  This little Florida gal just doesn't understand how the sun can hide for this long.  Earlier today I emerged from my office just at the moment that the children were being called in from their recess.  Looking like the setting for a science fiction movie, the kids emerged from a yellow-ish haze, muddling through the thickness.

Hope is on the hidden horizon, along with softer lips and the dissipating yellow fog.  Until it arrives, I'll keep plenty of moisturizer on hand and refrain from trying to rub the smudges from my glasses.

The rising sun, as seen through an aperture in the early morning haze.

The view from our terrace.  Typically, the town below shows through the clear skies.  This is actually a light haze as compared to recent days.

Puddle?

The aforementioned "puddle" on the way home . . .

Although the water level has gone down considerably (it used to be up to the doors) due to the fact that we haven't had any rain in a month and a half, we hear of at least 2 cars and a 4x4 each week getting stuck.

Auntie

Somehow I earned the title of Ghana's favorite auntie.  Many folks who know me also know that after 3:30 kids aren't necessarily my favorite.  I love everything about them, their giggles, their strange questions and crazy ideas during the school day, but after that I value peace, quiet and clean hands.  Living in Ghana has put an abrupt end to my solitude and opened my heart and home in ways I never thought I was capable of.



Last Sunday, Samuel called and said, "Please, we are coming."  How naive of me, but I thought "we" was simply his wife, children and him.  Instead, I came down the stairs, rounded the corner and found
9 cuties lined up on the edge of the couch, sitting tall and stiff like the Von Trapp children.  When I asked them to introduce themselves,
they followed suit by standing up down the line, stating their first and last name, followed by their age.  What is one to do with 9 little ones, ages spanning from 3-16 on a lazy Sunday afternoon?  Run to the kitchen, find cake and chips, feed them and then bust out the drums.  In line with the usual festivities at Auntie's house, we drummed and boogied into the evening, laughing all the way.  At some point we figured the more the merrier and got the neighbor and her kids in on the action as well.  11 drummers drumming.  And of course, at the end of it all, the entire lot piled into the Kia tired and full-bellied, with one last nugget of chocolate in their hands to savor another time.

Kofi's daughter Rachel was to celebrate her birthday on Tuesday.  What better way to celebrate it, than American style at Auntie's house?  Well sort of.  Armed with Glynn's chocolate cake (that had to be served already cut into clumps due to a minor trauma in the kitchen) and a decorative candle placed on the side (praise me for my improvisational skills), we gathered 'round and sang Happy Birthday to a joyful little 6-year-old and allowed her enough chocolate to satiate her coco-filled dreams.

Wait, I'm seeing a pattern.  Maybe it's the good chocolate at Auntie's house that brings them in droves.


I spent the majority of Saturday hopping around town with a 17-year-old in tow and in search of the perfect dormitory snacks.  Priscilla is headed off to her second semester at secondary school and was in need of provisions.  As we filled her bags with a four month's supply of corn flakes, powdered milk and TP, we decided to spice things up a bit.  One step inside the US Commissary and her eyes popped out of her head at the sight of things she never dreamed she could eat.  A quick introduction to the world of Tootsie Pops, Doritos and Cherry Coke led to a full trolley and her road to the most envied girl in school.

Whatever it is that makes them come my way is irrelevant.  The point is that the door will always be open.  Suddenly that uninterrupted evening or weekend quiet time just doesn't matter much.  It's the squeals of delight, the light in the eyes and the little love notes left on my fridge that make it all mean something.  Whether they call in advance or I find myself the victim of a pop-over visit, I find myself secretly loving my new role as Auntie.

Dancing into the New Year

Before zipping off to the US for the holidays, what better way to end my 2010 in Ghana than to dance out?  My plane didn't leave until after 11:00 p.m., so I figured that final Friday should be spent with the people I adore most.  We danced, drummed, sang and cooled off with frosty beverages.

When I dreamed of living in Africa, part of the fantasy was spending each evening with rhythm.  I envisioned the pounding of drums and feet while the sun set.  I knew this to be part of the African culture and tradition and wanted it to be mine.  Now it's a part of me, and nothing lifts my spirits higher.

On that balmy Friday evening, we ended the year and kicked off the holidays with the blessings of one another.  Sweaty and high on life I took off for the airport and left many of my friends in the house behind me and still beating.  It was perfect in so many ways.  I guess I should also add that halfway through my US holiday trip, I felt homesick.  There I was in the land of Starbucks, smooth roads and instant gratification, and I longed to bargain for my cup of tea, buy a snack at the stoplight or bounce on a pothole.  The malls and restaurants just seemed so sterile and impersonal.  Where were the handshakes (we Ghanaians have a special handshake with one another), shouts at the neighbors as I pulled out of the driveway and someone to say "you are welcome" when I came home?  Not one single person called me "white lady."  Perhaps it was the incredible send-off and the lasting joy that came from the soiree that made the first world pale in comparison.  After all, experiences like that one leave an impression.

Now I am back in Ghana and in my home.  One of the greatest compliments I've received came from the immigration officer, my first point of contact.  When I approached his booth, I said to him, "Eh, Boss.  Good afternoon.  How is the day?"  His reply, "I think you must live here."  The following day Samuel showed up on our doorstep.  His initial greeting was to Glynn, a long and warm hug shared between the two of them.  And to me:  "Hey, Chale!"  On my first day back to work, the traffic on the main road was backed up further than usual, so Samuel took the "fast way" by barreling over the bumps and humps of the dusty shoulder, weaving around bushes and muffin sellers.  As we passed the stalls selling random biscuits and phone credits, the yard of spoiled buses, cars and machinery, and the broken down dump truck with rocks behind it's wheels to hold it in place, I thought to myself, "Wow!  THIS is where I live!"  I gave up a smooth ride but never have a dull moment.

2010 ended with me dancing out of Ghana, and 2011 began with a warm welcome home.  My plan for 2011?  Keep the beat, lift the spirit and enjoy the small things.  Cheers!

It takes a village

Thanks to Hillary, this has become a well-used euphemism.  Here it has true meaning, as it surely does take a village to do anything, especially to satisfy the most basic of needs.  For my own personal meaning, I'm thinking that the Ghanaian episode of my memoir might be titled, It Takes a Village to Raise Madame.   I am taken care of.  I am loved.  Frankly, I am down right spoiled.  I no longer need to waste my time with trivial matters, such as washing dishes, pulling weeds, ironing or pumping gas.  My Ghanaian family has enveloped me, adopted me and made me one of their own.  They make sure that I am happy and safe, and mostly I find this to be somewhere between charming and humorous.  Sometimes I laugh at the fact that Stella, Samuel and the guards think I can't do things for myself.  I mean honestly, it's as if they don't realize that in a former life I painted my own walls, swept my own floors, washed my own clothes and carried my school bag to the car each morning.  Everyone looks out for me and does everything in their power to ensure my care.  Again, mostly I find it a sentiment of genuine care.  

And then there are the days that I just want to stand in the middle of it all and shout, "Leave me alone.  I can do it!"  I am a grown woman, perfectly capable of managing my own affairs.  While sitting on the terrace enjoying a drink and the view with a friend, Kofi made a special trip outside to ask if I had put on my mosquito spray.  Between the dance performance and heading out to boogie, I was told to go take a shower because I was sweating too much.  I can't take out the trash in my bare feet for fear of harassment from Mohammed, "Madame, where are your slippers?"  There is a point at which charm crosses the pestering border.  Maybe it's the same line that all family members tread between love and interference.  

I don't need a village to raise me.  Or do I?  The last time the gardener and I were outside scouting the perfect spot for the ficus tree, I felt the vibration of the shout and the squeeze of my arm as he warned me not to step in the spot where weeds had disguised some weak planks covering the entrance to the septic system.  On the way home from Togo, after the car I was in broke down on a desolate road after dark, it was Samuel who ventured out in the night to borrow a car and come to my rescue.  A few nights ago, he sat out front and waited while I got myself ready to go to a friend's house.  The friend lives the equivalent of 2 or 3 blocks down the road, but the road is dark, dusty and lined with forest.  He refused to let me walk so that no one would "cut my head."  Last night I lost my house key for the second or third time.  Stella hustled up the hill and down the road to hurry home from her evening rounds to let me into my own house.

I have nothing to complain about.  When I think about it, perhaps my family needs to cross the line.  Perhaps they do think that I can't take care of myself, and when it comes to living here, in all honesty, I can't.  I'm thankful that Stella notices when we are out of cat food and offers to make a special trip to pick up a feast for the girls.  Knowing that Samuel will come to check how much drinking water I have left so that he can take the bottles for a refill while he's driving around during the day scratches one more thing off my to-do list.  I have no idea how to work the generator or creatively engineer the spoiled water pump.  The guards do, so I guess it's the least I can do to listen to their lectures of how I just might step on the stinger of an unseen scorpion if I venture outside shoeless.  They are the ones who come running in the middle of the night when the bathroom is flooding to seal the tap and help me bail water.  How can I even think of complaining that they do too much for me?  

When I dig deeper and think about it, I want to live in a place that believes in the power of the village.  I mean, isn't that what all of us hippies reach for as a penultimate goal?  And now I'm here.  Why not just sit back and let it unfold?

Every day is an adventure

Since I've arrived in Ghana, I've come to find that the best experiences happen in taxis.  This is the setting for making new friends, purchasing necessities, traversing uncharted territory, learning Twi and pushing the limits of a small engine.  I practice my best negotiating phrases and flirtatious grins in order to even get a chance at adventure.  "Eh, my friend, how are you?"  "Eh, sist-ah, I'm fine.  How are you too?"  And from there the dance continues until the agreement is reached and the driver says simply, "Sit down."  Heck, I've had marriage proposals on the 10 minute drive home.  I have a few regular drivers:  Samuel (my main man and protector), who refuses to call me anything but My Madame, Joe who calls me Mommy and Kwame who gives a flat Mom, but pairs it with a toothy grin the size of Texas.

This afternoon, with Kwame as my escort, I set off on the ride home.  Other than his repeated mantra of "Eh, the traffic-oh," Kwame doesn't speak a lick of English.  The glass half full version of this scenario is that I'm forced to practice my Twi.  The glass half empty is outlook is that I often end up in strange places and situations while under Kwame's care.  One morning he fell asleep at the wheel, missed the turn to my office, and by the time I could gesturally explain to him that he was in la-la land, we were around the bend, over the river, and through the woods.  In the time it took to turn around and get back on track, his mantra became, "sorry-oh . . . sorry, sorry, sorry . . . sorry-oh . . ."

This afternoon, after the third or fourth repeat of the traffic mantra, Kwame took a sharp turn left, crossed oncoming traffic and paved his own path.  I wish I could fully explain to you in such a way that you create your own visual of the "motorway."  This two lane road is currently under massive construction.  The two lanes are full of potholes and are caked with a thick crust of dust that rises in a colossal puff as the cars chug through.  Most days I can feel the crunch of sand between my teeth.  Alongside the "road" is what we all hope might someday become the two newest lanes of this disaster area.  These two new lanes, still in the form of sand, are in some places blocked and in others open.  They are not officially open, you see, but they are passable to the occasional driver looking to satiate his need for adventure.  And the trick is that each day they are open and closed in different places, forcing one to outsmart the rocks and think ropes set in place to divert off-roading.  However, for those braver than the rest, there is a small pass that is always open.  One would think that the natural obstacle in its center would be enough to deter anyone and everyone.  What used to be a puddle in the middle of a dirt path continues to grow into what is now a sizable fishing pond.  Not literally because no fish would care to live in its thick, murky quicksand.  Only the officially insane would try this route in anything less than an Army tank.  Except Kwame.  And Kwame drives a compact sized Kia.

Kwame continually pushes the bounds of his luck by attempting this route, each time causing me to hold my breath and pick my feet up from the floorboards of the car for fear that the extra pressure will surely cause our demise.  Most certainly we've managed to float through this Ghanaian mini-swamp each time, the engine drowning and the tires struggling to find something to hold onto.

Last night there was a monsoon.  This morning the entire city was bathed in mud and even the smallest potholes were full of enough water to float a ship.  And here goes Kwame banking a hard left and heading toward the lagoon to dodge the traffic.  And here goes me trying to communicate through gestures that we were sure to sink, or at the very least have to get out of the car and push while waist deep in quicksand.  Oh Kwame . . . he just couldn't get it.  I tried all of the English he might know:  "No."  "Car spoiled."  "Water."  "Are you sure?"  I tried a quick game of charades:  Rain, deep, chug-chug, row row row your boat.  But all I got in return was, "Eh, the traffic-oh."

As we approached the bank of Lake Michigan, Kwame hesitated.  He looked around for another driver to which he might inquire about its depth or seek advice on the power of his Kia.  He looked at me and I know he saw fear.  It was at that point that we heard the honk, honk of an insanely impatient tro-tro driver behind us.  It was sink or swim time, but we were going.  Once again I held my breath and picked up my feet.  This time I leaned as far forward as I could hoping that at least a little bit of body weight could add forward momentum.  The engine revved and we could tell that we were losing power.  I could see the circle of ripples in the mud slowing down, a visual story telling us that we were doomed.  And then . . . it happened . . . a Monday afternoon miracle!  I swear that it was the wake sliding off the bow of the tro tro that pushed us through.  The two feet it sent us was enough for the tires to find something solid and with that we eeked out on the other side.  The engine let us know its distaste for the adventure as it smoked and steamed.  I exhaled a heavy sigh, clapped my hands and let out a cheer, not for Kwame's skilled driving or the rescue waves sent by the tro tro, but for the fact that today would not be the day I had to splish splash in that stinkin' puddle.  The problem is that I don't know if crazy Kwame realizes his luck or if he thinks it was just another day in paradise.  I guess I'll find out on the ride home tomorrow.

Fifteen minutes of fame

If you add it all up, I probably have more than 15 minutes of fame under my belt, just from this past weekend alone.  It all started when the lights came up on stage at the Contemporary African Dance Festival in Togo and the audience gasped.  I panicked for just a short moment thinking something was wrong, possibly the end of my dress stuck in the waist of my tights or a fallen drummer behind me, but then I realized, "Oh yeah, I'm white!"  This was the last performance of the second night of the festival and I was the only white girl to enter from stage left.

My partners, Kofi and Emmanuel, and I had been collaborating for weeks on a piece that depicts the continental struggle for essential resources, from drought to survival.  We proudly took command of the stage to share our work, a perfect marriage of African and contemporary dance, complete with black and white not only in style, but also in color.  We carried the audience on a journey from daily chores at the well, like bathing and washing, through suffering in the dry season and then a joyous thunderstorm and ensuing well-side frolic.  We danced, we sang, we drummed, we carried each other.  By performance end, we were soaked, not only with the sweat of hard work, but also the splashes of water incorporated in the dance.

At performance end, our francophone audience rewarded us with calls of "Bravo!"  They too had shared in our joy, our anguish and even our singing of native songs.  For me, more than the hugs, the reward came in the euphoric feeling of being lost in the dance for 25 minutes.  I took residence in each moment, each jump, turn and lift.  I reveled in the opportunity to express true emotion and tell a story with my body.  Many times in the performing arts we say that we have a gift to share with the audience.  I would argue the contrary, as it was me who received a gift that night, the chance to experience my own vitality and life force.  Having that gift compounded by the presence of an African audience made it all the more jubilant.

When adding together the minutes on stage and the revelry afterwards, not to mention the participation as the only white girl boogying in an African dance workshop earlier that day, I know I can be credited with at least 30 minutes of fame.  I gave the Africans something to talk about, but if I'm only a legend in my own mind I'm grateful for that as well.

Who wore their patient pants today?

Living here either grants you patience . . . or takes it away.  Let's use a popular example:  You need money.  It is par for the course that when you need money, the first ATM you visit will either be "finished" or "spoiled."  This is a roulette game, and it seems that no matter which way you roll the dice or spin the wheel, your prize is a 30 minute trip around town in a hot taxi, on a dusty road and through traffic, holding onto your card and approaching each machine as if you are walking up to the well after the first rain of the season.  Often, to add insult to injury, the machine will tell you to extract your cash when it offers nothing for the taking, the winner of this hand being anyone but you.  We know that in Ghana you cannot wait until you are in dire straights to fetch anything, let alone a few dollars to buy dinner when you're hungry.  It takes patience, this hunt to earn your own money.

This afternoon I fell into the trap.  I put off a visit to the ATM knowing that it was going to require more energy than I had on reserve this week, but I arrived at the point where I must have money.  With only 2 cedis in my pocket, I needed to eat dinner, pay for a taxi (the very one that I was taking on this scavenger hunt) and buy a ticket to the school play.  I set off on my journey expecting the usual, but got something worse.  The ATM ate my card!  I pleaded with the machine.  I gave it puppy dog eyes.  I pushed its buttons in offer of a gentle reminder.  I pounded on it in an attempt to intimidate.  Nothing.  I got nothing in return. The man who "watches" the machine said, "Oh, it will come.  Just wait for some few seconds."  I could wait until seconds turned to minutes or hours, but that card wasn't going to see the light of day.

I know this story will seem anti-climactic to you my friends, but to me, like watching the Titanic sink, I know the ending.  My next 36 hours will be filled with teeth grinding tension as I have conversations with blank stares and make my rounds inside the bank.  Anything is better than the bank.  I will make several trips, most of them ending with no results.  It's going to be a wild ride.  I hope my patient pants are clean.

Akwaaba!

I am nearly 2 and a half years into living my dream of taking part in West African culture.  I've seen a lot, experienced a lot, done a lot.  So many times I find myself wishing I could share my experience with others in a meaningful way.  I wish my friends and family could experience along with me the joy, the humor, the rigor and everything else that comes my way each and every day as I traverse the rough road to work, haggle with market mammies or laugh and shake hands with my brothers and sisters.  Every morning I am cheerfully greeted as I walk out my front door and see the guard who is just ending his twelve hour shift for the 6th day in a row.  I jump into the Kia with my favorite Ghanaian pal who selflessly carries my load, reminds me to put on my seat belt and struggles to dodge the potholes so I don't spill my tea.  Throughout my work day I am surrounded by smiles and kisses of a multi-cultural, open-minded, self-motivated student body and cast of caring teachers.  At the end of a hard day, I am sure to pass a tro tro full of drummers, ride behind a truck bursting with water sachets that provide a napping pad for its navigator or buy a loaf of bread through the car window.  I field the stares, calls and giggles of little children who wish they could touch me to see if my skin feels different and squeal with delight at a simple wave.  In order to eat dinner I negotiate the price of tomatoes and when I arrive home I am always greeted with a welcome from one of the charming people to whom I pay a modest salary.  At days end, I wind down by playing music or dancing with friends, and even on the most rigorous of days, I fall into sleep with a smile.  Living here can be challenging, but those challenges are nearly always over ridden by the humor, passion, and loving kindness of the people by which I am surrounded.  I am thankful that they have accepted me as their Obroni, their sister, mother, auntie, boss and friend.

This is the beginning of my blog, my offer to you to share in my world.  Akwaaba, welcome, and enjoy!