Whatever the opposite of an SOS is, that's what this is.
As fun as it is to watch my big tough guy friends turn into mother hens- everybody can stop worrying about me! I am safe, healthy and happy!
The biggest issue that seems to be worrying people back home is the men here. But I have never once felt genuinely afraid or threatened by the overly flirtacious behavior of many Ghanaian men. In all honestly, I'm 100x more likely to get hurt in a vehicular accident than to get attacked by someone. (And I minimize that risk by not travelling at night and not taking motos very often now that I've seen at least 3 crash right in front of me.) Besides, I've developed very strong self-defense reactions to being grabbed by the arm or elbow when the more persistent men want my attention a little too much. I actually smacked my friend once when he did that because I didn't realize who he was at first, heehee.
I know there's a lot of concern about malaria as well. Thankfully that's the only somewhat serious disease I'm at any realistic risk of contracting. What most people don't know is that with treatment, and especially when you've already been taking preventative measures, malaria is rarely worse than the flu. Malaria is (I believe) the #1 killer in Ghana, but that is a bit of a misleading statistic. It poses the biggest threat to the sick and the very young/old- not a healthy young adult like me- and kills because most people fail to seek treatment in time, if at all. One of the volunteers got it, got meds, was sick in bed for 3 days, and then felt just fine. It's nothing to panic about! I got tested 3 weeks ago and I'm malaria-free so far anyway!
Aside from that, Ghana is politically stable, there are no big, scary animals in Aflao and no natural disasters scheduled. I drink plenty of water, use sunscreen when forced, eat 3 meals a day, sleep way too much and rarely feel homesick.
As the rastafari would say-
No worries in life. 'S all cool, man.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Good Things Come In Three's
I spent most of Monday hanging out in Esther's office.
I'm pretty sure I've mentioned her- she's a social worker from Accra who moved into Good Shepherd a month after I got there and we've become good friends. She's an amazing woman and as been my biggest moral support/ally at school.
We were talking about how Esther wants twins and somehow it turned into this big joke about how she's going to mail me one, but we got stuck because I said I wanted a girl and she wants twin boys.
Tuesday morning, Esther calls me up to her office and goes, "Well, problem solved."
Three babies showed up at the orphanage overnight- two boys and a little girl.
They're not related and they were all found at different times, but Esther's only response when I asked how they all happened to come to us at the same time then was, "Social welfare knows I'm a strong woman."
No arguments there.
The newly-dubbed Mawuto (meaning "God's own") is the oldest at around 9 months. He's starting to teeth and can sit up and roll over by himself. He's the smiliest little guy who makes these ridiculously adorable faces with his turtlelike, toothless mouth. He spends most of his time babbling away to himself.
Prince is younger by maybe a month or two. He's slightly underweight and his skin is peeling all over, as if he got a bad sunburn. Between his physical condition and his excessive fussiness, he's the hardest to deal with, but he's become my little buddy.
Princess is the youngest at 5 or 6 months, and she's an absolute angel. She never cries. She just looks around with her huge, sweet brown eyes and will happily wait for you to feed or change her as long as you need. You can hear her across the room slurping on her fingers, but otherwise she barely makes a sound.
I love babies, and I've had so much fun with them the last couple days.
But, of course, infants are the last thing you want to see at an orphanage. Kids of any age are really the last things I want to see at an orphanage, but there's something particularly heartbreaking about staring into these little faces and knowing neither they nor us will ever know their exact birthdays or their original names or who their parents were, much less why they abandoned them.
The injustice of it makes me so helplessly angry.
As I said, Prince is by far the fussiest of the three. Esther is exhausted from caring for three babies and her thirty other children literally around the clock, and, understandably, she is beyond frustrated with him. We can't figure out what's wrong with him - he seems to want to cry simply for the sake of crying.
So Prince and I have spent a lot of time together to give her a much-needed respite.
In the rare times when I can calm him enough to lay quietly in my lap, he stares up into my face for as long as he can keep him eyes open. Finally, every time without fail, before he will give in and let himself fall asleep, he reaches out for my hand and hugs my arm to his chest, latching himself on to me with both of his frail little arms. Even in sleep, his grip doesn't fully relax.
It's as if he's afraid I'll be gone when he wakes up.
Certainly enough people have already walked in and out of his short life.
Just keep hanging on, kid.
I'm pretty sure I've mentioned her- she's a social worker from Accra who moved into Good Shepherd a month after I got there and we've become good friends. She's an amazing woman and as been my biggest moral support/ally at school.
We were talking about how Esther wants twins and somehow it turned into this big joke about how she's going to mail me one, but we got stuck because I said I wanted a girl and she wants twin boys.
Tuesday morning, Esther calls me up to her office and goes, "Well, problem solved."
Three babies showed up at the orphanage overnight- two boys and a little girl.
They're not related and they were all found at different times, but Esther's only response when I asked how they all happened to come to us at the same time then was, "Social welfare knows I'm a strong woman."
No arguments there.
The newly-dubbed Mawuto (meaning "God's own") is the oldest at around 9 months. He's starting to teeth and can sit up and roll over by himself. He's the smiliest little guy who makes these ridiculously adorable faces with his turtlelike, toothless mouth. He spends most of his time babbling away to himself.
Prince is younger by maybe a month or two. He's slightly underweight and his skin is peeling all over, as if he got a bad sunburn. Between his physical condition and his excessive fussiness, he's the hardest to deal with, but he's become my little buddy.
Princess is the youngest at 5 or 6 months, and she's an absolute angel. She never cries. She just looks around with her huge, sweet brown eyes and will happily wait for you to feed or change her as long as you need. You can hear her across the room slurping on her fingers, but otherwise she barely makes a sound.
I love babies, and I've had so much fun with them the last couple days.
But, of course, infants are the last thing you want to see at an orphanage. Kids of any age are really the last things I want to see at an orphanage, but there's something particularly heartbreaking about staring into these little faces and knowing neither they nor us will ever know their exact birthdays or their original names or who their parents were, much less why they abandoned them.
The injustice of it makes me so helplessly angry.
As I said, Prince is by far the fussiest of the three. Esther is exhausted from caring for three babies and her thirty other children literally around the clock, and, understandably, she is beyond frustrated with him. We can't figure out what's wrong with him - he seems to want to cry simply for the sake of crying.
So Prince and I have spent a lot of time together to give her a much-needed respite.
In the rare times when I can calm him enough to lay quietly in my lap, he stares up into my face for as long as he can keep him eyes open. Finally, every time without fail, before he will give in and let himself fall asleep, he reaches out for my hand and hugs my arm to his chest, latching himself on to me with both of his frail little arms. Even in sleep, his grip doesn't fully relax.
It's as if he's afraid I'll be gone when he wakes up.
Certainly enough people have already walked in and out of his short life.
Just keep hanging on, kid.
Monday, December 6, 2010
I Put A Spell On You
I was walking down the road to the beach the other day, when a man on a motorbike crashed into a goat not 10 feet in front of me.
It was a simple matter of the goat and the guy swerving in the same direction at the same time, and somehow he managed to tip his bike and trap the goat in between the front wheel and the body.
Fortunately, the goat- a big, black specimen appropriately enough- wriggled out from under the bike and ran away without so much as a limp, and the man and his moto seemed to be fine. However, it took less than a minute for one of the onlookers to start screaming, "The goat's a witch!"
Adjusting to African superstition has gone hand in hand with adjusting to African religion. Even the most devout Christians believe in juju and are wary of it, although they believe they are completely safe from it as long as they call on the name of Jesus and have a strong prayer life.
My host mother, for example, is a dedicated Christian, but when one of my friends wanted to visit me from Keta, she told me in no uncertain terms that he could not come to our house and I should tell him not to call me anymore, because there's no guarantee that he wouldn't try to put some juju spells on me. Of course I think the real threat in her eyes was that he was a black man and a stranger because she didn't start saying any of that until she had determined that he was male and not a yevu...
But still- from an African perspective, an active and often dangerous spirit world is not a myth but a reality.
I have not met a Ghanaian yet who has not had at least one personal experience with ghosts or spells or possession- and usually they've had multiple experiences with all three.
It's easy to scoff at. And certainly I approach the issue with no small amount of skepticism.
When I visited the voodoo market in Lome, for instance, I got to experience juju up close and personal...but all I saw was a bunch of fascinating rituals and some very adept conmen.
And yet...being here makes me wonder if perhaps there are invisible forces, both good and evil, that interact with our tangible world. It's a belief so basic to African culture that it's difficult to be part of this place and reject the idea completely.
I should explain that better though, because, as a Christian, I have already believed my whole life in a "spiritual world", if you will. But Western religion tends to portray a somewhat watered down version of that world. I know many Christians who even shy away from the idea of there being a Devil, and no one who would openly talk about being tempted by a demon. Even if that's what they really meant, they're not likely to say it in those terms because to us, that sounds a little bit nutty.
Can't even tell you how many times I've heard phrases like that here though.
Perhaps the further a country develops, the more antiquated the idea of God becomes as we ourselves rise to that status, so the Western world has learned to ignore that intangible reality. Then again, perhaps this type of raw superstition simply appeals to Africans because it aligns with their traditional beliefs - it certainly wouldn't be the first time Christianity has cross-bred with native religions, in any case.
I don't have an answer myself, I guess I'm mostly just musing.
I was there when Esther, my friend the social worker at Good Shepherd, gathered the other children together to speak to them after Nyamekye's funeral.
I expected her to finally give them the details about why and how she died.
And I suppose, from Esther's perspective, she did.
She told them how Nyamekye had been having dreams every night about witches coming to take her spirit away and offering her rice and fruits and blood to eat. According to what Nyamekye told Esther just a few hours before she died, that previous night she had accepted the food and blood from the witches, who stole her heart after she had eaten. An angel came and fought them, but wasn't able to get her heart back.
Chilling, isn't it?
But no less scary than the fact that not a word was said about Nyamekye's sickle cell anemia, or about how
taking her to the hospital several days earlier may easily have saved her life. That was all secondary to the fact that from that moment, Nyamekye had been spiritually dead, and therefore physical death couldn't be long in coming too.
I consider myself very open-minded about juju and the role of a spirit world, but I can't accept witchcraft as a replacement for what was obviously medical negligence on the orphanage's part. However that's a bitter tangent I'll avoid going into further.
When bad things happen, such as Nyamekye's death, the first response many Ghanaians will give you is "It was God's will; it was supposed to happen that way." In other words- get over it and don't question the Big Man.
But I can't help wondering if that response comes out of deep faith and a genuine belief in the truth of their words...or if it is more of a knee-jerk coping mechanism.
Misfortune is a little bit easier to swallow when you can blame the goat witch.
It was a simple matter of the goat and the guy swerving in the same direction at the same time, and somehow he managed to tip his bike and trap the goat in between the front wheel and the body.
Fortunately, the goat- a big, black specimen appropriately enough- wriggled out from under the bike and ran away without so much as a limp, and the man and his moto seemed to be fine. However, it took less than a minute for one of the onlookers to start screaming, "The goat's a witch!"
Adjusting to African superstition has gone hand in hand with adjusting to African religion. Even the most devout Christians believe in juju and are wary of it, although they believe they are completely safe from it as long as they call on the name of Jesus and have a strong prayer life.
My host mother, for example, is a dedicated Christian, but when one of my friends wanted to visit me from Keta, she told me in no uncertain terms that he could not come to our house and I should tell him not to call me anymore, because there's no guarantee that he wouldn't try to put some juju spells on me. Of course I think the real threat in her eyes was that he was a black man and a stranger because she didn't start saying any of that until she had determined that he was male and not a yevu...
But still- from an African perspective, an active and often dangerous spirit world is not a myth but a reality.
I have not met a Ghanaian yet who has not had at least one personal experience with ghosts or spells or possession- and usually they've had multiple experiences with all three.
It's easy to scoff at. And certainly I approach the issue with no small amount of skepticism.
When I visited the voodoo market in Lome, for instance, I got to experience juju up close and personal...but all I saw was a bunch of fascinating rituals and some very adept conmen.
And yet...being here makes me wonder if perhaps there are invisible forces, both good and evil, that interact with our tangible world. It's a belief so basic to African culture that it's difficult to be part of this place and reject the idea completely.
I should explain that better though, because, as a Christian, I have already believed my whole life in a "spiritual world", if you will. But Western religion tends to portray a somewhat watered down version of that world. I know many Christians who even shy away from the idea of there being a Devil, and no one who would openly talk about being tempted by a demon. Even if that's what they really meant, they're not likely to say it in those terms because to us, that sounds a little bit nutty.
Can't even tell you how many times I've heard phrases like that here though.
Perhaps the further a country develops, the more antiquated the idea of God becomes as we ourselves rise to that status, so the Western world has learned to ignore that intangible reality. Then again, perhaps this type of raw superstition simply appeals to Africans because it aligns with their traditional beliefs - it certainly wouldn't be the first time Christianity has cross-bred with native religions, in any case.
I don't have an answer myself, I guess I'm mostly just musing.
I was there when Esther, my friend the social worker at Good Shepherd, gathered the other children together to speak to them after Nyamekye's funeral.
I expected her to finally give them the details about why and how she died.
And I suppose, from Esther's perspective, she did.
She told them how Nyamekye had been having dreams every night about witches coming to take her spirit away and offering her rice and fruits and blood to eat. According to what Nyamekye told Esther just a few hours before she died, that previous night she had accepted the food and blood from the witches, who stole her heart after she had eaten. An angel came and fought them, but wasn't able to get her heart back.
Chilling, isn't it?
But no less scary than the fact that not a word was said about Nyamekye's sickle cell anemia, or about how
taking her to the hospital several days earlier may easily have saved her life. That was all secondary to the fact that from that moment, Nyamekye had been spiritually dead, and therefore physical death couldn't be long in coming too.
I consider myself very open-minded about juju and the role of a spirit world, but I can't accept witchcraft as a replacement for what was obviously medical negligence on the orphanage's part. However that's a bitter tangent I'll avoid going into further.
When bad things happen, such as Nyamekye's death, the first response many Ghanaians will give you is "It was God's will; it was supposed to happen that way." In other words- get over it and don't question the Big Man.
But I can't help wondering if that response comes out of deep faith and a genuine belief in the truth of their words...or if it is more of a knee-jerk coping mechanism.
Misfortune is a little bit easier to swallow when you can blame the goat witch.
Eau...Eau...Etsi Lasiwa?
November 22, 2010
I realized this weekend that I speak significantly more Ewe than French.
I love my life! :)
I've lived within walking distance of Togo for almost 3 months now, and I decided it was finally time to see Ghana's Canada. (The comparison is almost perfect: the English-speaking country's French-speaking neighbor that they are on good terms with but still make fun of.)
Togo is the country directly to our Eastern border. They were a French colony up until 1960 when they gained their independence.
The separation between Ghana and Togo is a classic example of the effect of European colonialism in Africa...and I really feel like I should be writing a college paper right now... The Ewe territory lies partly in Togo and partly in Ghana. Similarly the Togolaise capital, Lome, and Aflao, where I live, used to be the same city until the artificial border was imposed to differentiate the colonies. It's all too easy to condemn the Europeans for how they manipulated Africa, but the present day results aren't entirely bad. For instance, because they share the same language, ancestry and root culture, there is a very strong bond between Togo and Ghana. But unfortunately, what started as a separation in name only has yielded some very real and tangible present-day differences.
It's hard to imagine Lome and Alfao as one fluid city now. Aflao is essentially a sprawling ghetto: the largely unpaved road is full of potholes that put even Michigan's to shame and the air is visibly thick with dust. The buildings are low, badly maintained and surrounded by numerous dumps. It's an inner city without...an outer city?
In contrast, Lome is sleek and modern...at least on the outset. A smooth paved highway, complete with traffic lights and sidewalks, winds through the shiny highrise buildings. Many of the numerous hotels, cafes and restaurants could pass for Western establishments.
But turn off the main road onto any of the sidestreets, and the glitzy veneer wears thin. Poverty will be waiting to take you on a tour of the real Lome.
My first trip to Togo was on Friday with Laura and Paul, a Ghanaian guy my brother's age who I have recently become friends with. The first two hours were stressful as we went through the agonizing process of changing our money, buying our Visas and debating about whether or not to charter a car.
My least favorite part of Togo is the money.
The exchange rate between cedis (Ghana money) and US dollars is 1.44, and I've gotten pretty good at estimating how much I'm spending. Plus I know how much things should cost in Ghana now, so I know when someone is ripping me off.
Togo money is called cephas and 10,000 cephas is 30 cedis. Ok, I could get the hang of the cepha-cedi conversion (knock off 3 zeros and multiply by 3)...but that didn't give me an accurate idea of what anything should cost because prices in Togo are more expensive. Very frustrating.
Our first stop was Holy Child International School, where my host father works. It was really nice to see where he spends his days and meet his class, etc. Then we went to a voodoo market, the art market and then to the beach for a little while.
It was a nice introduction to Togo, but Laura and I felt a little restricted.
So, against the advice of every Ghanaian we know, we returned to Togo on Sunday with Karina and without a Ghanaian guide. Although Ghana and Togo have a good relationship, Ghanaians are still convinced that, unlike Ghana, Togo is extremely dangerous for unaccompanied yevus.
However, our trip on Sunday was extremely relaxing and fun. Shockingly, no one tried to mug us in broad daylight so Togo didn't really live up to its reputation after all.
From the border, the three of us decided to walk towards some church spires we saw in the distance. We walked for close to an hour with the city to our left and the beach on our right, just enjoying the sights and rhythms of Lome. The cathedral was gorgeous, very European which surprised us.
Our next stop was a return to the voodoo market!
Full of skins, heads and bones from every African animal imagineable, the voodoo market is pretty high on the morbid list. However, for me, it was a valuable experience in traditional African beliefs. We were introduced to the gods and they explained many of the basic juju charms and amulets. It was fascinating, and one of my favorite experiences so far.
We went to a lunch at a cafe that was so Western I could pretend I was in Ann Arbor if I didn't look out the window.
Afterwards, as we walked back towards Ghana (I still get a kick out of the fact that I can walk to another country) we saw horses on the beach! For a couple cephas, I got to ride around once with Laura and then once solo so I could trot. Riding horses along the beach...Now if only I was wearing a flowy white dress, my life would be a perfect B movie.
I realized this weekend that I speak significantly more Ewe than French.
I love my life! :)
Togo is the country directly to our Eastern border. They were a French colony up until 1960 when they gained their independence.
The separation between Ghana and Togo is a classic example of the effect of European colonialism in Africa...and I really feel like I should be writing a college paper right now... The Ewe territory lies partly in Togo and partly in Ghana. Similarly the Togolaise capital, Lome, and Aflao, where I live, used to be the same city until the artificial border was imposed to differentiate the colonies. It's all too easy to condemn the Europeans for how they manipulated Africa, but the present day results aren't entirely bad. For instance, because they share the same language, ancestry and root culture, there is a very strong bond between Togo and Ghana. But unfortunately, what started as a separation in name only has yielded some very real and tangible present-day differences.
It's hard to imagine Lome and Alfao as one fluid city now. Aflao is essentially a sprawling ghetto: the largely unpaved road is full of potholes that put even Michigan's to shame and the air is visibly thick with dust. The buildings are low, badly maintained and surrounded by numerous dumps. It's an inner city without...an outer city?
In contrast, Lome is sleek and modern...at least on the outset. A smooth paved highway, complete with traffic lights and sidewalks, winds through the shiny highrise buildings. Many of the numerous hotels, cafes and restaurants could pass for Western establishments.
But turn off the main road onto any of the sidestreets, and the glitzy veneer wears thin. Poverty will be waiting to take you on a tour of the real Lome.
My first trip to Togo was on Friday with Laura and Paul, a Ghanaian guy my brother's age who I have recently become friends with. The first two hours were stressful as we went through the agonizing process of changing our money, buying our Visas and debating about whether or not to charter a car.
My least favorite part of Togo is the money.
The exchange rate between cedis (Ghana money) and US dollars is 1.44, and I've gotten pretty good at estimating how much I'm spending. Plus I know how much things should cost in Ghana now, so I know when someone is ripping me off.
Togo money is called cephas and 10,000 cephas is 30 cedis. Ok, I could get the hang of the cepha-cedi conversion (knock off 3 zeros and multiply by 3)...but that didn't give me an accurate idea of what anything should cost because prices in Togo are more expensive. Very frustrating.
Our first stop was Holy Child International School, where my host father works. It was really nice to see where he spends his days and meet his class, etc. Then we went to a voodoo market, the art market and then to the beach for a little while.
It was a nice introduction to Togo, but Laura and I felt a little restricted.
So, against the advice of every Ghanaian we know, we returned to Togo on Sunday with Karina and without a Ghanaian guide. Although Ghana and Togo have a good relationship, Ghanaians are still convinced that, unlike Ghana, Togo is extremely dangerous for unaccompanied yevus.
However, our trip on Sunday was extremely relaxing and fun. Shockingly, no one tried to mug us in broad daylight so Togo didn't really live up to its reputation after all.
From the border, the three of us decided to walk towards some church spires we saw in the distance. We walked for close to an hour with the city to our left and the beach on our right, just enjoying the sights and rhythms of Lome. The cathedral was gorgeous, very European which surprised us.
Our next stop was a return to the voodoo market!
Full of skins, heads and bones from every African animal imagineable, the voodoo market is pretty high on the morbid list. However, for me, it was a valuable experience in traditional African beliefs. We were introduced to the gods and they explained many of the basic juju charms and amulets. It was fascinating, and one of my favorite experiences so far.
We went to a lunch at a cafe that was so Western I could pretend I was in Ann Arbor if I didn't look out the window.
Afterwards, as we walked back towards Ghana (I still get a kick out of the fact that I can walk to another country) we saw horses on the beach! For a couple cephas, I got to ride around once with Laura and then once solo so I could trot. Riding horses along the beach...Now if only I was wearing a flowy white dress, my life would be a perfect B movie.
I thoroughly enjoyed my brief adventure to Lome- and hey, now the number of African countries I've been to has doubled! Yet for all it's glamour...I was strangely relieved to get back to Aflao's dust and potholes. Togo may have milkshakes and traffic lights, but Ghana is home.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Light Off
I was sitting outside last night journaling when suddenly -- light off, a power outage swept through Aflao.
In the blink of an eye, the world became dark and quiet.
After the initial (somewhat humorous) cry of dismay echoed throughout the entire city, everything fell eerily silent. I hadn't realized how loud the sound of a dozen different radios blaring gospel music was until it cut out. I hadn't realized how bright our house lights were until they were gone either.
It was the most breathtaking moment I have had in Africa so far.
The shock of the sudden light off jerked me out of my self-absorption. I was totally engrossed in my journal, concentrating on writing down everything so I wouldn't miss a single detail- but that moment forced my chin up and said,
"Look at what you're missing now."
There was a split second I was tempted to grab my flashlight and keep writing, but I realized that would've been sacriligious somehow.
Instead I gave in and let myself be in the moment.
For a long time I laid back on the benches in front of our house and just soaked it all in- the dancing black silhouettes of the coconut trees, lightning flickering in the distance. As the darkness saturated the night, I watched the stars appear one by one.
My host father returned from some errand and we talked for a long time. Some of my best moments in Ghana have been simply sitting with Worfa in front of our house. There is no doubt that the relationships I have made have defined my experience here. He taught me a song in Ewe and told some old Ghanaian stories that were neither history nor legend, but something in between. My host mother Victoria returned from market and some of our neighbor women came over. We sat eating Triscuits and laughing uproariously at nothing.
After they left, my host parents and I spread our mats in the sand and laid down to marvel at the night in comfortable silence. Several airplanes flew overhead and I wondered what Aflao looked like from the air. Was it even visible without the glow of electric lights?
It was a moment of exquisite freedom.
No Nollywood movies spouting their drama on the television.
No emails to answer.
No texts buzzing in my pocket.
No Holy FM blasting hiplife on the radio.
No light to tempt me to lose myself in a book or a crossword puzzle.
Light off.
Flower Mode
After our rough week, Julia and I decided we needed some serious R&R. We headed off to Mountain Paradise, a lodge near the Tafi Atome monkey sanctuary that touted beautiful mountain views and organic coffee.
The tro-tro dropped us in the little town of Fume at the base of the mountain. A sign at the junction informed us that Mountain Paradise was "4 km -- uphill." We briefly considered walking, then came to our senses and asked some locals to call us a couple of motorbikes. While we waited, a nice pick-up drove by. I happened to notice a hand emerge from the window and, with a subtle upward flick of the wrist, make the Ghanaian gesture for "where are you going?" I pointed up the mountain. The truck stopped and we got in.
Our good luck had begun!
The hand belonged to John, a high-ranking government official from Accra who had come for a friend's mother's funeral and was on his way to spend the night in his hometown. He was with Patrick, another government official, who I came to think of simply as John's sidekick.
The road up the mountain was steep, in bad condition and full of sharp curves; I can't imagine having ridden it on a motorbike...yikes.
I. LOVE. GHANAIAN. HOSPITALITY!
We spent the evening with John and Patrick. We stopped to see the tail end of the Rice Festival going on in Biakpa, one of the lower mountain villages where Mountain Paradise is. Then we stopped to check out the lodge itself. Julia said it wasn't so bad, but I was deeply disappointed with our anticipated...well, paradise. It was small, dark and only about halfway up the mountain. John must've seen my expression, and kept insisting we needed to see his cousin's hotel further up the mountain. We proceeded to John's hometown, the village of Vane. He took us to meet a bunch of relatives and friends, who fed us dinner. Then we went to the summit, where, perched on the edge of the cliff, sat the Abraerica Hotel.
If you are ever in Ghana, GO THERE.
The view is astounding, the rooms are comfortably modern, and the food is delicious. And because John's cousin owned it, he arranged for us to get free breakfast the next day and a room for ridiculously cheap. Then, without further ado, he and Patrick left.
Julia and I dropped our bags in our rooms, looked at each other and did a happy dance.
It's common to meet Ghanaians who will do nice things for you - hospitality is very highly valued here. However it is less common to meet Ghanaians (men) who will do those nice things without any romantic overtures or expectations.
Julia and I luxuriously laid in bed and watched CNN for a while (TV that isn't in French! Woohoo!) before forcing ourselves to go back to the terrace and enjoy our surroundings. It was too dark to see much, but we happened to meet two Americans. They were NYU students doing a semester abroad in Accra and invited us to see the waterfall with them the next morning.
That night I took an actual shower and had access to the third functional flush toilet I've had in two months. We watched more CNN- which incidentally ran a feature about one of the Detroit Lions. Now the Lions are nothing to get excited about...unless you're in a hotel on some remote mountain in Africa and Detroit happens to be your 'hood :) - and had the best sleep! Cool mountain air made a fan unnecssary and it was SO QUIET! Aflao wakes up before 5 am, but there- no roosters, no gospel music, no screaming children, no Keta whining for breakfast. I slept straight through to 6:45...which is impressive. I haven't slept that long without waking up since August 30.
The next morning we met up with the Americans for breakfast and went to the Amedzofe Waterfall. The hike to this waterfall is significantly shorter than that to Wli, but in its own way much more treacherous if you can believe. It's lined with ropes that you have to use to lower yourself down or pull yourself up the trail because it's so steep and slippery. I'm pretty sure I almost died at least seven times, which makes it that much more impressive that Julia made the climb in flip-flops. Thatta girl, way to be Ghanaian. The watefall was worth the near-death experiences. (Everything in Ghana so far has been worth the near-death experiences......not that there have been a lot of those, Mom...)
We waded around in the water and climbed over the slippery rocks to stand directly under the spray. The thrill of it made us all euphoric. We were just laughing and prancing around like little kids.
Thoroughly soaked, we hauled ourselves back up the ropes. At the top we split off from our new friends and Julia and I hiked to signature cross at the top of Mt. Gemi. It was an easy 20-30 minutes hike from Vane, and well worth it!
We stood at the top in awe for a long time.
It seemed like the entirety of Ghana was spread out below us. Lake Volta sparkled in the distance. Vane could've passed for a painting if it weren't for the sound of drum music floating up to us from the church. Biakpa sat nestled in a valley lower down. Beyond the lush foothills clustered below us, rust-colored dirt roads threaded through a gorgeous patchwork of farmland and scrubby African bush.
My only regret is that there aren't adequate words to convey the beauty of Ghana.
Hunger finally drove us back to the hotel. I HAD FRENCH FRIES! Legitimate french fries, salted and everything. With ketchup no less! Talk about not having adequate words, heehee. I love, love, love Ghanaian food (too much), but I enjoy the chance to eat some American food occasionally.
Almost as soon as we were done eating, a man said he would take us to Ho in his private car because he was going to pick up his sisters and didn't feel like driving alone. So for the second time in one weekend, a man did something nice for us without expecting anything in return. Forget good luck - that is nothing short of miraculous.
I wore a seatbelt for the first time since I've got here. Blech. A road accident truly is the most likely way I will get injured or killed in Ghana, but I have to admit I hate how restrictive a seatbelt is. Then again I'm also very used to riding motorbikes without a helmet now too. (Pfft, they can't be more than 250 cc anyway...)
I get endless grief over the fact that my "pouffie" camera has a setting just for taking pictures of flowers. Which is admittedly a little stupid...then again I have some glorious photos. As Julia and I sat in the tro-tro on the way home, eating genuine chocolate chip cookies that we had found for unusually cheap, we agreed that if life has a flower mode- this was it.
The tro-tro dropped us in the little town of Fume at the base of the mountain. A sign at the junction informed us that Mountain Paradise was "4 km -- uphill." We briefly considered walking, then came to our senses and asked some locals to call us a couple of motorbikes. While we waited, a nice pick-up drove by. I happened to notice a hand emerge from the window and, with a subtle upward flick of the wrist, make the Ghanaian gesture for "where are you going?" I pointed up the mountain. The truck stopped and we got in.
Our good luck had begun!
The hand belonged to John, a high-ranking government official from Accra who had come for a friend's mother's funeral and was on his way to spend the night in his hometown. He was with Patrick, another government official, who I came to think of simply as John's sidekick.
The road up the mountain was steep, in bad condition and full of sharp curves; I can't imagine having ridden it on a motorbike...yikes.
I. LOVE. GHANAIAN. HOSPITALITY!
We spent the evening with John and Patrick. We stopped to see the tail end of the Rice Festival going on in Biakpa, one of the lower mountain villages where Mountain Paradise is. Then we stopped to check out the lodge itself. Julia said it wasn't so bad, but I was deeply disappointed with our anticipated...well, paradise. It was small, dark and only about halfway up the mountain. John must've seen my expression, and kept insisting we needed to see his cousin's hotel further up the mountain. We proceeded to John's hometown, the village of Vane. He took us to meet a bunch of relatives and friends, who fed us dinner. Then we went to the summit, where, perched on the edge of the cliff, sat the Abraerica Hotel.
If you are ever in Ghana, GO THERE.
The view is astounding, the rooms are comfortably modern, and the food is delicious. And because John's cousin owned it, he arranged for us to get free breakfast the next day and a room for ridiculously cheap. Then, without further ado, he and Patrick left.
Julia and I dropped our bags in our rooms, looked at each other and did a happy dance.
It's common to meet Ghanaians who will do nice things for you - hospitality is very highly valued here. However it is less common to meet Ghanaians (men) who will do those nice things without any romantic overtures or expectations.
Julia and I luxuriously laid in bed and watched CNN for a while (TV that isn't in French! Woohoo!) before forcing ourselves to go back to the terrace and enjoy our surroundings. It was too dark to see much, but we happened to meet two Americans. They were NYU students doing a semester abroad in Accra and invited us to see the waterfall with them the next morning.
That night I took an actual shower and had access to the third functional flush toilet I've had in two months. We watched more CNN- which incidentally ran a feature about one of the Detroit Lions. Now the Lions are nothing to get excited about...unless you're in a hotel on some remote mountain in Africa and Detroit happens to be your 'hood :) - and had the best sleep! Cool mountain air made a fan unnecssary and it was SO QUIET! Aflao wakes up before 5 am, but there- no roosters, no gospel music, no screaming children, no Keta whining for breakfast. I slept straight through to 6:45...which is impressive. I haven't slept that long without waking up since August 30.
The next morning we met up with the Americans for breakfast and went to the Amedzofe Waterfall. The hike to this waterfall is significantly shorter than that to Wli, but in its own way much more treacherous if you can believe. It's lined with ropes that you have to use to lower yourself down or pull yourself up the trail because it's so steep and slippery. I'm pretty sure I almost died at least seven times, which makes it that much more impressive that Julia made the climb in flip-flops. Thatta girl, way to be Ghanaian. The watefall was worth the near-death experiences. (Everything in Ghana so far has been worth the near-death experiences......not that there have been a lot of those, Mom...)
We waded around in the water and climbed over the slippery rocks to stand directly under the spray. The thrill of it made us all euphoric. We were just laughing and prancing around like little kids.
Thoroughly soaked, we hauled ourselves back up the ropes. At the top we split off from our new friends and Julia and I hiked to signature cross at the top of Mt. Gemi. It was an easy 20-30 minutes hike from Vane, and well worth it!
We stood at the top in awe for a long time.
It seemed like the entirety of Ghana was spread out below us. Lake Volta sparkled in the distance. Vane could've passed for a painting if it weren't for the sound of drum music floating up to us from the church. Biakpa sat nestled in a valley lower down. Beyond the lush foothills clustered below us, rust-colored dirt roads threaded through a gorgeous patchwork of farmland and scrubby African bush.
My only regret is that there aren't adequate words to convey the beauty of Ghana.
Hunger finally drove us back to the hotel. I HAD FRENCH FRIES! Legitimate french fries, salted and everything. With ketchup no less! Talk about not having adequate words, heehee. I love, love, love Ghanaian food (too much), but I enjoy the chance to eat some American food occasionally.
Almost as soon as we were done eating, a man said he would take us to Ho in his private car because he was going to pick up his sisters and didn't feel like driving alone. So for the second time in one weekend, a man did something nice for us without expecting anything in return. Forget good luck - that is nothing short of miraculous.
I wore a seatbelt for the first time since I've got here. Blech. A road accident truly is the most likely way I will get injured or killed in Ghana, but I have to admit I hate how restrictive a seatbelt is. Then again I'm also very used to riding motorbikes without a helmet now too. (Pfft, they can't be more than 250 cc anyway...)
I get endless grief over the fact that my "pouffie" camera has a setting just for taking pictures of flowers. Which is admittedly a little stupid...then again I have some glorious photos. As Julia and I sat in the tro-tro on the way home, eating genuine chocolate chip cookies that we had found for unusually cheap, we agreed that if life has a flower mode- this was it.
Nyamekye
November 3, 2010
One of my students died suddenly yesterday morning, from sickle cell anemia complications.
I don't know how to describe death.
I don't have the right words to tell you how the grief has affected all of us.
We hear so much about orphans dying in Africa from AIDS, genocide, human trafficking - catastrophes that play on the world stage and kill by the thousands. We do what we can, but such problems are so far beyond our personal capabilities to fix that our pity remains abstract. More so than the victims, we can only grieve the concept.
But this isn't some fundraiser to support Darfur.
This isn't a campaign to stop AIDS.
This is a real little girl whose head I stroked and told to feel better soon just two days ago.
Her name was Nyamekye Hanna. It means "God's Gift."
She was nine years old. She couldn't have even been four feet tall. She struggled in school. She had adorable chubby cheeks. She wanted to be a police officer when she grew up. And she had a family waiting for her in America.
As I sat with Esther through that terrible first night, she looked at me and said everything that was on my heart in one simple sentence: "It is beyond my understanding."
One of my students died suddenly yesterday morning, from sickle cell anemia complications.
I don't know how to describe death.
I don't have the right words to tell you how the grief has affected all of us.
We hear so much about orphans dying in Africa from AIDS, genocide, human trafficking - catastrophes that play on the world stage and kill by the thousands. We do what we can, but such problems are so far beyond our personal capabilities to fix that our pity remains abstract. More so than the victims, we can only grieve the concept.
But this isn't some fundraiser to support Darfur.
This isn't a campaign to stop AIDS.
This is a real little girl whose head I stroked and told to feel better soon just two days ago.
Her name was Nyamekye Hanna. It means "God's Gift."
She was nine years old. She couldn't have even been four feet tall. She struggled in school. She had adorable chubby cheeks. She wanted to be a police officer when she grew up. And she had a family waiting for her in America.
As I sat with Esther through that terrible first night, she looked at me and said everything that was on my heart in one simple sentence: "It is beyond my understanding."
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