Monday, January 17, 2011
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.
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 found9 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.
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.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
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!
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!
Thursday, December 16, 2010
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?
Monday, December 13, 2010
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.
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.
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