EDUCATION KEY TO MATERNAL HEALTH
By Ann Robinson
ACCRA, Ghana – Lining the paint-peeled walls in a stuffy hallway at the Police Hospital, dozens of pregnant women waited on rickety benches at the weekly antenatal clinic.
Since Ghana’s National Health Insurance Policy began offering free maternal healthcare in July, women have been pouring into clinics. On some days, more than 100 expectant mothers wait up to eleven hours for two minutes with the single obstetrician.
Most of them do not need a doctor, just reassurance. “They don’t know anything about themselves and their pregnancy,” sighs Florence Okra, a midwife and public health nurse.
Okra, also a childbirth educator, links the lack of basic knowledge about pregnancy and childbirth to persistent labor complications and maternal mortality.
According to the Population Reference Bureau, each year in Ghana an estimated 3,900 women and girls die from complications during pregnancy. Tens of thousands more are permanently disabled.
Believing education gives expectant mothers the tools they need to take care of themselves, Okra established Eve’s Foundation in 2000. The foundation offers pregnancy and childbirth classes.
Three years after it was launched, as many as 70 women attended the weekly classes held in Accra. Its tremendous success led Okra to register Eve’s Foundation in 2003 as a nongovernmental organization (NGO). She now hopes to expand the program throughout Ghana.
Okra identifies the main problem: “Women don’t have the skills to labor because they are not provided with the proper education, not supported and not given confidence.”
Hospital midwives and doctors, tending up to 100 women a day, can only offer limited antenatal counseling. Yet they are the only resource financially available to most women.
Even when offered education, some women “don’t want to rely on what we are teaching them. They want to take advice here, advice there, and then they get lost,” says midwife Alberta Markham-Segbafah.
Eight months into her first pregnancy, Katherine Adoctar, 29, often receives well intended but unhelpful advice. “People will tell you horrible things…things that are not true, so that you worry…Meanwhile, it’s normal!”
The common myth she has been told advises against eating eggs, believed to soften the baby’s skull and cause future headaches.
Adoctar is grateful for Okra’s pregnancy school. “If we have a problem we go to Madam.”
Another student in class, Lily Afeke, 31, attributes the pervasive cultural myths to ignorance. She also sees that many Ghanaians are skeptical about childbirth education.
“Most women think it’s a waste of time and money. It’s very difficult to convince them.”
Afeke recounts frequently rushing to the hospital during her first pregnancy convinced, but mistaken that, something was wrong. Her second time around she determined to better the experience. Due next month, she says, “From my first pregnancy to this one, I have seen a great difference.”
She attributes the improvement to Okra’s classes. “I was so happy to learn more about myself, how to take care of myself and…feel the joy that there’s a life inside of me; to be calm.”
Samuel Amo-Mensah, chief obstetrician and gynecologist at the Police Hospital, recognizes patients who have had childbirth education. “I can tell those who’ve been to [Okra’s] classes. They’re able to relax, and when they relax, they have a better labor and delivery, less complications,” he says.
Afeke identifies the adverse effects caused by the panic she felt during her first labor. “I was so scared, and when you’re scared, you become so rigid, so tense, so that makes the cervix not dilate.”
She now knows: “When you’re relaxed and calm, the labor comes more easily for you…it even helps minimize the pain, the joy you have knowing that you are bringing forth the baby. It can be a really nice experience.”
When women become more educated, they can take greater control of their health and their lives.
As Okra bolsters Eve’s Foundation with additional support, she is determined to help Ghanaian women exercise their right to accessible health education. “Eve’s Foundation wants to be a voice for these women, an advocate,” she proclaims.
Witnessing the hospital hallways crammed with worried women encourages Okra to keep fighting. She says, “We simply have to give women the confidence and trust that they were made to give birth.”
INITIATIVE COMBATING MATERNAL MORTALITY PRESENTS OBSTACLES
By Annie Robinson
ACCRA, Ghana – The nation-wide expansion last month of Ghana’s Health Insurance Policy, the government’s plan to help reduce maternal mortality, may increase risks to mothers’ health.
Since July, all Ghanaian women can access free maternal healthcare in government facilities from pregnancy through one-year post-partum.
Almost 51,000 women have already registered, according to the National Health Insurance Authority.
A 2007 Ghana Medical Journal report assesses the initial free maternal healthcare policy launched in 2003 in Ghana’s four poorest regions. It concludes: “Even if fee exemption leads to women with complications arriving in hospital earlier, the poor care they receive in hospital causes many avoidable deaths.”
The largest problem is a shortage of staff. There is just one trained midwife per 1,510 Ghanaians and one doctor per 17,733, according to the UN.
“What is the point of free services when there are not enough hospital attendants available? None!” says Florence Okra, a public health nurse and midwife.
Another problem is the government’s unwillingness to recognize the importance of midwives.
Although the Ghana Medical Journal “…assessed midwifery care as superior to that of doctors,” the insurance policy does not guarantee coverage of private midwifery services.
The Ghana Registered Midwives Association calculates 82% of midwives work in the private sector with just 18% positioned in public facilities.
Maternity homes, which offer women comprehensive, continual care from community midwives, initially lost clients.
“It looks like now…I have coverage. So some women are coming back,” says midwife Alberta Markham-Segbafah, who runs Amando Maternity Home in East Legon. “Nonetheless, our side of midwifery is not being encouraged.”
With the Health Ministry’s declaration in April that maternal mortality is a national emergency, midwives like Okra and Markham-Segbafah hold out hope that skilled help will eventually be available to all women in need.
A PORTRAIT OF FLORENCE OKRA
By Annie Robinson
ACCRA, Ghana - Propped up crookedly like a Raggedy Ann doll, Florence Okra gazes down at the IV threaded into her left arm. Usually an HIV counselor at Accra's Police Hospital, Okra seems out of place in its dingy female ward, where she is recovering from malaria.
Okra knows hardship well. A single mother of two sons, she never received a pesweh of support from her ex-husband who abandoned them during her second pregnancy. She earns just $300/month to support her boys, elderly father and two adopted orphans.
Her sparse one-bedroom apartment in the decrepit Police Barracks has not had running water for months. Every evening Okra unfurls a makeshift mattress for herself over a thin red rug on the living room floor.
Despite material impoverishment, Okra possesses fierce humanitarian commitment. "I don't have a car, nice clothes, I'm not called a successful woman – but I've helped a lot of people," Okra humbly acknowledges.
Foremost on her agenda: educating women and men about reproductive health, particularly pregnancy and childbirth. In 2000 her ambition engendered the NGO Eve’s Foundation. “I had the enthusiasm, so it began as a free service,” Okra recounts. She soon found herself broke from supporting the foundation alone, sleeping on an empty stomach.
Okra’s need to charge for the classes coupled with cultural resistance to health education means that now few women attend classes. “No one knows we need childbirth education, or that it exists,” notes Okra.
Yet Okra holds out hope for the foundation’s resurgence. She wants to leave her hospital job: “My interest is in the foundation; I’m being wasted.”
Trapped in her job, fatigued, broke, and now ill, she admits: “My heart bleeds; I feel sometimes like giving up.”
She wipes the tears from her round cheeks and releases a sigh. The doctor, hours delayed administering her meds, is missing. Though blisters inflame her upper lip, she breaks into a gap-toothed grin, and waits.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Prolonged Post...
It's been a while since my last post, reflecting the amped pace of my days and, admittedly, the pesky procrastination habits I picked up from my mother (I say that with affection, Mom). Additionally, my undeniably dour mood has discouraged me from churning out reflective renderings about a time and place I've been urging to escape. In part, I'm homesick - I miss my apartment, my city, my routines. Real coffee (as opposed to Nescafé), leisurely breakfasts reading the newspaper cover to cover, yoga at a studio, fresh vegetables, walking the bustling streets, parks, bookstores, Whole Foods, privacy, friends and family...This is what I did not want to blog about. Because I am grateful to be here, I am still gaining invaluable experiences, growing, exploring, etc. Despite the dreadful, lame, non-rigorous, wholly disappointing academic components, I have learned loads (independently). I am breathing deeply, channeling patience, and taking it one day at a time.
I have debated back and forth about posting the pathetic, meager pieces I've written for my journalism course, and have decided to do it even though I'm not very satisfied with them.
My main disclaimers:
1. The first does not pertain to anything I'm interested in (governmental policy is not my thing).
2. They are written in hard news style, which is not my preferred (or strongest) style of writing.
3. I wrote them while quite disgruntled with the course for which they were assigned.
That said, I feel the need to post them because they are written documentation of my time in Ghana, which is what I intended to compile on this blog. So here they are...
GHANA’S PRESIDENT DEPARTING ON HIGH NOTE:
Spokesman details to NYU the accomplishments of last 8 years.
By Ann Robinson
Accra, Ghana - As President John Agyekum Kufuor heads out of office this December after an eight-year stint, he’s leaving Ghana with an economy more stable than he found it, having erased $8 billion of the nation’s foreign debt.
That is among the greatest achievements of the Kufuor administration, according to his chief spokesman, Andrew Awuni, who held a rare hour-long sit-down with New York University Journalism students.
The talk took place just after 4 p.m. one afternoon inside the labyrinth 17th century slave fort, Christiansburg Castle, which currently serves as the seat of government in Ghana.
When Awuni strolled into a chilly cream-colored conference room, the 17 students fell silent, eager to hear the Castle press secretary share his perspective on the media, the upcoming elections and respond to their questions.
Awuni depicted Ghana’s evolution over the past eight years, referencing numerable initiatives from the building of roads to the administration efforts at piloting a nationwide health insurance scheme, the repeal of the criminal libel laws ensuring that reporters can no longer be thrown in jail, and a robust stock market buoyed by foreign investor confidence.
But many issues remain unresolved as Kufuor leaves office.
After a moment’s hesitation, Awuni explained that education remains the biggest challenge. “Education is the only way we can sustain the democracy we’ve accepted as a way of life in Ghana,” he said.
While 60% of the population is illiterate, the recent policy offering a free public education for all Ghanaian children reflects the government’s commitment to education. “People should be enlightened, to make enlightened choices.”
When asked what the president had done about the lack of gay rights here, Awuni said the culture was slowly changing.
“In 10 years, there won’t be a need to ask that question,” he predicted. Awuni called Ghana part of the global village, although many Ghanaians still don’t even engage in public displays of affection.
Awuni believes that independence in the media promotes transparency and democracy, but he openly favors the state-run media. Waving a copy of the government-funded Daily Graphic, he admitted: “I discriminate, like any PR man.” He explained his preferential treatment as a concern of circulation, and many private papers don’t have a nationwide reach.
International media distressed Awuni in their failure to highlight Kufuor bidding farewell to fellow African leaders at the recently concluded African Union Summit. Instead, they solely focused on the conflict surrounding Zimbabwean president, Robert Mugabe.
As this year’s monumental presidential election nears, Awuni predicted the media would grow increasingly louder and more polarized. The discussion wrapped up as it neared 5 p.m., with Awuni extending to the students a passionate call-to-arms in the fight for honorable international coverage of this continent.
“Africa is 54 countries. It’s not just Darfur and Zimbabwe. “It’s about time we give people a sense of Africa. That’s the opportunity you guys have now. You can make a difference.”
GIRLS PREDOMINATE MARKET SELLERS
By Annie Robinson
KUMASI, Ghana - Small clusters of adolescent girls, bright eyes already sparkling and alert at 9:30 a.m on a Sunday morning, scurry through the narrow lanes in Kumasi Market.
In West Africa’s largest open-air marketplace, trade begins early and includes everything from ruby red peppers to hair gel to caramel candies.
Nancy, 16, leans against the stonewall overlooking the wooden lean-tos composing the heart of the market. In front of a tarp strewn with Q-tips and flip-flops, her older brother plays with her 4-year-old sister, Blessing.
“I’ve worked here every day for three months,” Nancy states. “I started when I finished (primary) school.”
As a young girl working rather than continuing her education, Nancy represents an enormous population of children in Ghana’s major cities.
According to the Ghanaian Ministry of Women and Children’s Affairs, up to 40,000 children live in the streets of Accra and Kumasi.
Almost all (98%) are working and nearly half (46%) never attended school. Most are girls.
While education in Ghana has improved with most children completing primary school, a 2005 report by UNICEF found that fewer than half go on to attend secondary school. In particular, rural dwellers make girls quit school and go to work.
In rural areas, only 26.6% of girls attend secondary school, reports UNICEF. Often girls are pulled out of school and sent away from home to the cities to bring in an income.
Two tall girls with cheeks bearing the traditional marks given in Ghana’s northern regions stride through the Kumasi Market balancing bins of beads on their heads.
Kafui, 15, migrated to Kumasi with her 13-year-old sister from the North several months ago.
“We sell, everyday. No school now,” Kafui confirms, of herself and her sister.
Around every corner and at almost every stall, selling fish or purses or shoelaces, are girls carrying on business as usual.
Sources:
1. UNICEF, Education Statistics, Division of Policy and Practice, Statistics and Monitoring Section, www.childinfo.org, May 2008.
2. Ministry of Women and Children’s Affairs, Ghana, www.mowacghana.org.
I have debated back and forth about posting the pathetic, meager pieces I've written for my journalism course, and have decided to do it even though I'm not very satisfied with them.
My main disclaimers:
1. The first does not pertain to anything I'm interested in (governmental policy is not my thing).
2. They are written in hard news style, which is not my preferred (or strongest) style of writing.
3. I wrote them while quite disgruntled with the course for which they were assigned.
That said, I feel the need to post them because they are written documentation of my time in Ghana, which is what I intended to compile on this blog. So here they are...
GHANA’S PRESIDENT DEPARTING ON HIGH NOTE:
Spokesman details to NYU the accomplishments of last 8 years.
By Ann Robinson
Accra, Ghana - As President John Agyekum Kufuor heads out of office this December after an eight-year stint, he’s leaving Ghana with an economy more stable than he found it, having erased $8 billion of the nation’s foreign debt.
That is among the greatest achievements of the Kufuor administration, according to his chief spokesman, Andrew Awuni, who held a rare hour-long sit-down with New York University Journalism students.
The talk took place just after 4 p.m. one afternoon inside the labyrinth 17th century slave fort, Christiansburg Castle, which currently serves as the seat of government in Ghana.
When Awuni strolled into a chilly cream-colored conference room, the 17 students fell silent, eager to hear the Castle press secretary share his perspective on the media, the upcoming elections and respond to their questions.
Awuni depicted Ghana’s evolution over the past eight years, referencing numerable initiatives from the building of roads to the administration efforts at piloting a nationwide health insurance scheme, the repeal of the criminal libel laws ensuring that reporters can no longer be thrown in jail, and a robust stock market buoyed by foreign investor confidence.
But many issues remain unresolved as Kufuor leaves office.
After a moment’s hesitation, Awuni explained that education remains the biggest challenge. “Education is the only way we can sustain the democracy we’ve accepted as a way of life in Ghana,” he said.
While 60% of the population is illiterate, the recent policy offering a free public education for all Ghanaian children reflects the government’s commitment to education. “People should be enlightened, to make enlightened choices.”
When asked what the president had done about the lack of gay rights here, Awuni said the culture was slowly changing.
“In 10 years, there won’t be a need to ask that question,” he predicted. Awuni called Ghana part of the global village, although many Ghanaians still don’t even engage in public displays of affection.
Awuni believes that independence in the media promotes transparency and democracy, but he openly favors the state-run media. Waving a copy of the government-funded Daily Graphic, he admitted: “I discriminate, like any PR man.” He explained his preferential treatment as a concern of circulation, and many private papers don’t have a nationwide reach.
International media distressed Awuni in their failure to highlight Kufuor bidding farewell to fellow African leaders at the recently concluded African Union Summit. Instead, they solely focused on the conflict surrounding Zimbabwean president, Robert Mugabe.
As this year’s monumental presidential election nears, Awuni predicted the media would grow increasingly louder and more polarized. The discussion wrapped up as it neared 5 p.m., with Awuni extending to the students a passionate call-to-arms in the fight for honorable international coverage of this continent.
“Africa is 54 countries. It’s not just Darfur and Zimbabwe. “It’s about time we give people a sense of Africa. That’s the opportunity you guys have now. You can make a difference.”
GIRLS PREDOMINATE MARKET SELLERS
By Annie Robinson
KUMASI, Ghana - Small clusters of adolescent girls, bright eyes already sparkling and alert at 9:30 a.m on a Sunday morning, scurry through the narrow lanes in Kumasi Market.
In West Africa’s largest open-air marketplace, trade begins early and includes everything from ruby red peppers to hair gel to caramel candies.
Nancy, 16, leans against the stonewall overlooking the wooden lean-tos composing the heart of the market. In front of a tarp strewn with Q-tips and flip-flops, her older brother plays with her 4-year-old sister, Blessing.
“I’ve worked here every day for three months,” Nancy states. “I started when I finished (primary) school.”
As a young girl working rather than continuing her education, Nancy represents an enormous population of children in Ghana’s major cities.
According to the Ghanaian Ministry of Women and Children’s Affairs, up to 40,000 children live in the streets of Accra and Kumasi.
Almost all (98%) are working and nearly half (46%) never attended school. Most are girls.
While education in Ghana has improved with most children completing primary school, a 2005 report by UNICEF found that fewer than half go on to attend secondary school. In particular, rural dwellers make girls quit school and go to work.
In rural areas, only 26.6% of girls attend secondary school, reports UNICEF. Often girls are pulled out of school and sent away from home to the cities to bring in an income.
Two tall girls with cheeks bearing the traditional marks given in Ghana’s northern regions stride through the Kumasi Market balancing bins of beads on their heads.
Kafui, 15, migrated to Kumasi with her 13-year-old sister from the North several months ago.
“We sell, everyday. No school now,” Kafui confirms, of herself and her sister.
Around every corner and at almost every stall, selling fish or purses or shoelaces, are girls carrying on business as usual.
Sources:
1. UNICEF, Education Statistics, Division of Policy and Practice, Statistics and Monitoring Section, www.childinfo.org, May 2008.
2. Ministry of Women and Children’s Affairs, Ghana, www.mowacghana.org.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Jamestown
Because the wearing Buduburam outing slid from Friday afternoon into the evening, and additionally standing obligations mandated my presence in Accra on Sunday afternoon, the plan to tend to the Get-Me-The-Hell-Outta-Accra itch was a full-day trip to a distant (but reachable) body of water on Saturday. However, after oversleeping and indulging in a long, lazy morning, the plans were vetoed. In an attempt to find some purpose to the day, we decided to venture into what guidebooks classify as the historic area of Accra. This decision was despite discouragement from one of the Ghanaian NYU residence co-habitants, who said nothing of redeeming historic value or interest to tourists remained in the area - as I do not identify as a tourist, I felt encouraged to dismiss her warning. We hopped in a cab, vaguely asked to go to the district of Jamestown, and were off, without any sense of what we’d encounter.
Historically, Jamestown is where the 17th century colonial British James Fort stood, and is well known for its lighthouse post, where first stood the Jamesfort Light and now stands Accra Light. In the late 19th century the area underwent sufficient development, and over the course of the 20th century fell into shambles, despite supposed governmental commitment to improvements. It’s currently a heavily populated fishing port with serious health, sanitation, and poverty issues towards which little action has been taken.
Dropped off by the taxi outside the old fort, we stepped into a strange atmosphere that lingered throughout our time in the district. The intensely impoverished scene almost sparkled with a curious splendor in its decrepitude. We walked to the barred wall overlooking the ocean, and withdrew our cameras to capture the exquisite and unsettling panorama, only to be immediately assaulted by a few young men (everyone here considers physical contact between strangers acceptable – but I can’t accept it, not from strange men at least) condemning us for taking photographs. It was the first time I really encountered this adamant insistence to put away a camera; usually, people just seek to be paid something in exchange for a photo-op. A few other men came over, presumably coming to our defense, and after a heated discussion (incomprehensible, in a native dialect), we were given permission (rather, stern encouragement) to snap our shots. The fort housed a small museum, which we were ushered into by the same men who had originally protested our tourist-presence, but once inside we declined going further because of the ridiculous fees demanded. Instead we walked along the street spanning the coastline, packed with shops and vacant, deteriorated buildings in which scores of families set up living quarters. Though desperate to take pictures of our gritty discovery, we restrained ourselves.
At the now dysfunctional lighthouse, we also passed on an over-priced tour, making our way down to the beach. However, it was not the most inviting shore to stroll upon – first of all, it felt essentially like walking in someone’s backyard, for the make-shift homes butted right into the trash-strewn sand. A petrified puppy being pecked at by a cruel chicken proved unbearable to observe, and we high-tailed it out of there. But trying to avoid the less-than with-it, probably intoxicated, God-praising old man who seemed to have taken it upon himself to tour us around, we got trapped in the middle of a football game spanning the stone pathway back up to the main road. The teens were amiable, though, and after I promised to join in the match “next time”, a tomboyish girl called for us to be let through. Mostly everywhere in Ghana, children take to foreigners instantly, grinning and waving and goofing around, or at least can be coaxed to do so with a smile and hello. Women, though at first rough and harsh-eyed, sizing up my foreign-white-female-self, will warm up with a nod, smile, and greeting. One woman we passed carrying a stunning baby girl on her back (who I couldn’t help gaping at), spat at me: “Ehhh – Obruni – you like my baby?” to which I gushed back (much to her astonishment, as she burst into surprised laughter) “Yes, I think she’s just beautiful!”.
Back outside the fort, about to catch a cab home, my roommate urged us to come into the abandoned portion of the fort which the supposed grounds-watcher conceded to let us explore, in exchange for a coke or whatever donation we could make. Reluctant but persuaded, the four of us entered. It turned out to be the best decision of the day. Inside the formidable stonewalls, an overgrown courtyard opened before us, and the latticework foundation laid out one mysterious sight after another. Originally used as slave quarters, the plot later functioned as a prison before being shut down in the early 90s when the area was proclaimed of historical significance with intentions (but never executions) to restore it as a landmark. Wandering in silence through the eerie, awesome, haunted labyrinth, I shivered – gratified and grateful to have stumbled into an afternoon riddled with rich cultural relevance.
Historically, Jamestown is where the 17th century colonial British James Fort stood, and is well known for its lighthouse post, where first stood the Jamesfort Light and now stands Accra Light. In the late 19th century the area underwent sufficient development, and over the course of the 20th century fell into shambles, despite supposed governmental commitment to improvements. It’s currently a heavily populated fishing port with serious health, sanitation, and poverty issues towards which little action has been taken.
Dropped off by the taxi outside the old fort, we stepped into a strange atmosphere that lingered throughout our time in the district. The intensely impoverished scene almost sparkled with a curious splendor in its decrepitude. We walked to the barred wall overlooking the ocean, and withdrew our cameras to capture the exquisite and unsettling panorama, only to be immediately assaulted by a few young men (everyone here considers physical contact between strangers acceptable – but I can’t accept it, not from strange men at least) condemning us for taking photographs. It was the first time I really encountered this adamant insistence to put away a camera; usually, people just seek to be paid something in exchange for a photo-op. A few other men came over, presumably coming to our defense, and after a heated discussion (incomprehensible, in a native dialect), we were given permission (rather, stern encouragement) to snap our shots. The fort housed a small museum, which we were ushered into by the same men who had originally protested our tourist-presence, but once inside we declined going further because of the ridiculous fees demanded. Instead we walked along the street spanning the coastline, packed with shops and vacant, deteriorated buildings in which scores of families set up living quarters. Though desperate to take pictures of our gritty discovery, we restrained ourselves.
At the now dysfunctional lighthouse, we also passed on an over-priced tour, making our way down to the beach. However, it was not the most inviting shore to stroll upon – first of all, it felt essentially like walking in someone’s backyard, for the make-shift homes butted right into the trash-strewn sand. A petrified puppy being pecked at by a cruel chicken proved unbearable to observe, and we high-tailed it out of there. But trying to avoid the less-than with-it, probably intoxicated, God-praising old man who seemed to have taken it upon himself to tour us around, we got trapped in the middle of a football game spanning the stone pathway back up to the main road. The teens were amiable, though, and after I promised to join in the match “next time”, a tomboyish girl called for us to be let through. Mostly everywhere in Ghana, children take to foreigners instantly, grinning and waving and goofing around, or at least can be coaxed to do so with a smile and hello. Women, though at first rough and harsh-eyed, sizing up my foreign-white-female-self, will warm up with a nod, smile, and greeting. One woman we passed carrying a stunning baby girl on her back (who I couldn’t help gaping at), spat at me: “Ehhh – Obruni – you like my baby?” to which I gushed back (much to her astonishment, as she burst into surprised laughter) “Yes, I think she’s just beautiful!”.
Back outside the fort, about to catch a cab home, my roommate urged us to come into the abandoned portion of the fort which the supposed grounds-watcher conceded to let us explore, in exchange for a coke or whatever donation we could make. Reluctant but persuaded, the four of us entered. It turned out to be the best decision of the day. Inside the formidable stonewalls, an overgrown courtyard opened before us, and the latticework foundation laid out one mysterious sight after another. Originally used as slave quarters, the plot later functioned as a prison before being shut down in the early 90s when the area was proclaimed of historical significance with intentions (but never executions) to restore it as a landmark. Wandering in silence through the eerie, awesome, haunted labyrinth, I shivered – gratified and grateful to have stumbled into an afternoon riddled with rich cultural relevance.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Buduburam
On the cloudy afternoon of Friday July 17th, I spent four hours in a pocket of the world most people will never experience first-hand. But it’s not quite right to say I feel “lucky”…grateful? moved? touched? Once more, I’m stumbling over words, which I frequently find insufficient to describe my recent experiences. Or maybe I just worry (over-anxious creature that I am) about misusing them, unintentionally miscommunicating, or god forbid accidentally offending someone or being guilty of cultural ignorance.
Okay, back to Friday afternoon. After a bit of a tumultuous and time-consuming trek from tro-tro to dying taxi to traffic, three of us (with two more trailing far behind) arrived on the side of a dusty highway. It was my first time, though fortunately my companions had visited two days before and knew the ropes. A small man wearing a small black backpack, a tight yellow tee shirt, and grinning ear to ear waved his hand wildly as he came bopping over to greet us. Houston, a former child soldier in the Liberian Civil War, now runs an afterschool program for about 50 children at the Buduburam Refugee Camp 27 miles west of Accra. Toting enough peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to fee the kids, we trooped into the densely constructed camp, heading for the schoolhouse. Chickens and goats meandered along the liter-strewn lanes, the stench of sewage and swarms of gnats infused the air, and deep, questioning eyes lapped up our glaringly white skin. But with a nod, smile, and “how are you” the inhabitants clustered around teal, pink, and sunny yellow huts, jamming to “hi-life” (the popular local reggae/pop/rap fusions) stations on the radios, beamed and offered us welcome.
A little background: The refugee camps were opened by the UNHCR in 1990, but with the end of and supposed stabilization after Liberia’s two Civil Wars, in April 2007 all administered services were withdrawn. Many refugees returned to Liberia, but many stayed, and do not want to go back to their country of origin. I can’t imagine what it must feel like, how disempowering, fragile, and infuriating to be moved around at other’s discretion, your own will hardly considered. Ghanaians do not feel kindly towards the Liberian refugees, and the Government of Ghana has told those still living in the camps to “go home”, warned them against protest demonstrations (which caused quite an uproar earlier in March and April this year – see: http://allafrica.com/stories/200804080259.html), or assimilate in a relatively hostile Ghanaian society. 40,000 Liberians have lived there, and currently around 26,000 remain.
On our walk through the camp, Houston told a few children we came across to send word and begin gathering the others in the group to begin “Fun Day” (the agenda every Friday). We stopped by a supply shack, and bought enough bagged water for at least 60 people for just $1.60 – bagged water being the drastically cheaper alternative to bottled water, yet still a luxury for the refugees. It was at first jarring how the girls and boys, strangers to all of us and visa versa, leapt upon us in ecstatic welcome. Grabbing, clinging, rubbing, stroking, pinching…they were all over us, from hellos to goodbyes. Some of the sunniest – and grubbiest – children I’ve seen in a long time, that’s for sure. I was a magnet for the adolescent and pre-adolescent girls, who swarmed around me, admiring (with touch and words) my hair, my fingernails, my face, my clothes. At an early point in the afternoon, while I engaging in some silly dance, the sweet things started chanting “Oh Annie, Oh Annie, Oh Annie” – a complimentary and cute cheer sung ad nauseam for the remainder of our stay. Mostly, the kids were female. First, a few of them sung solos for “the guests”. Then we walked (well, I stumbled, with six girls hanging on to some portion of my body) to a dusty open clearing, where a few potato sack races were followed by a kickball game with the soccer ball we brought them. Simultaneously they posed for and eagerly took photographs with our cameras, giggled and gossiped, and – though it took a few tries – taught me their favorite clapping games. It was the most delightful day I’ve had in ages. I already relish spending time with kids, and the immediate attraction, the instant and uninterrupted bond and fascination between both them and myself was really spectacular. I can’t wait for next Friday: Fun Day, Round II. As worn out as I was by sunset, when we began our journey back into the city, it was that utterly enriching exhaustion that actually sustains me through the drudgery of the week ahead.
Okay, back to Friday afternoon. After a bit of a tumultuous and time-consuming trek from tro-tro to dying taxi to traffic, three of us (with two more trailing far behind) arrived on the side of a dusty highway. It was my first time, though fortunately my companions had visited two days before and knew the ropes. A small man wearing a small black backpack, a tight yellow tee shirt, and grinning ear to ear waved his hand wildly as he came bopping over to greet us. Houston, a former child soldier in the Liberian Civil War, now runs an afterschool program for about 50 children at the Buduburam Refugee Camp 27 miles west of Accra. Toting enough peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to fee the kids, we trooped into the densely constructed camp, heading for the schoolhouse. Chickens and goats meandered along the liter-strewn lanes, the stench of sewage and swarms of gnats infused the air, and deep, questioning eyes lapped up our glaringly white skin. But with a nod, smile, and “how are you” the inhabitants clustered around teal, pink, and sunny yellow huts, jamming to “hi-life” (the popular local reggae/pop/rap fusions) stations on the radios, beamed and offered us welcome.
A little background: The refugee camps were opened by the UNHCR in 1990, but with the end of and supposed stabilization after Liberia’s two Civil Wars, in April 2007 all administered services were withdrawn. Many refugees returned to Liberia, but many stayed, and do not want to go back to their country of origin. I can’t imagine what it must feel like, how disempowering, fragile, and infuriating to be moved around at other’s discretion, your own will hardly considered. Ghanaians do not feel kindly towards the Liberian refugees, and the Government of Ghana has told those still living in the camps to “go home”, warned them against protest demonstrations (which caused quite an uproar earlier in March and April this year – see: http://allafrica.com/stories/200804080259.html), or assimilate in a relatively hostile Ghanaian society. 40,000 Liberians have lived there, and currently around 26,000 remain.
On our walk through the camp, Houston told a few children we came across to send word and begin gathering the others in the group to begin “Fun Day” (the agenda every Friday). We stopped by a supply shack, and bought enough bagged water for at least 60 people for just $1.60 – bagged water being the drastically cheaper alternative to bottled water, yet still a luxury for the refugees. It was at first jarring how the girls and boys, strangers to all of us and visa versa, leapt upon us in ecstatic welcome. Grabbing, clinging, rubbing, stroking, pinching…they were all over us, from hellos to goodbyes. Some of the sunniest – and grubbiest – children I’ve seen in a long time, that’s for sure. I was a magnet for the adolescent and pre-adolescent girls, who swarmed around me, admiring (with touch and words) my hair, my fingernails, my face, my clothes. At an early point in the afternoon, while I engaging in some silly dance, the sweet things started chanting “Oh Annie, Oh Annie, Oh Annie” – a complimentary and cute cheer sung ad nauseam for the remainder of our stay. Mostly, the kids were female. First, a few of them sung solos for “the guests”. Then we walked (well, I stumbled, with six girls hanging on to some portion of my body) to a dusty open clearing, where a few potato sack races were followed by a kickball game with the soccer ball we brought them. Simultaneously they posed for and eagerly took photographs with our cameras, giggled and gossiped, and – though it took a few tries – taught me their favorite clapping games. It was the most delightful day I’ve had in ages. I already relish spending time with kids, and the immediate attraction, the instant and uninterrupted bond and fascination between both them and myself was really spectacular. I can’t wait for next Friday: Fun Day, Round II. As worn out as I was by sunset, when we began our journey back into the city, it was that utterly enriching exhaustion that actually sustains me through the drudgery of the week ahead.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Weekend in Cape Coast/Elmina
Last weekend we took our first NYU group trip out of Accra. As you can ascertain, I'm sure, it wasn't my ideal scenario. Too touristy, too many people packed together, not the approach I wanted to take to experiencing Africa. Nonetheless, it was a valuable excursion.
We left at 6:15 Saturday morning, via a fairly atrocious van that resembled a party bus. Not quite the tro-tro trip we took last weekend…though the breathing room was appreciated. Three hours later we arrived at the luxury, 5-star Coconut Grove Beach Resort hotel for breakfast by the ocean. It was gorgeous, peaceful, relaxing…but beyond extravagant. $90/night - compared to last Saturday’s accommodations of $9/night. It certainly provoked discomfort, though it presented a challenge to articulate, as it simultaneously offered (albeit excessive) comfort. Just another way some people “do” Africa, I guess!
We spent the day stopping at various tourist attractions, all of which were fruitful, though I wished we could spend time exploring the fishing villages of Cape Coast and Elmina. Instead we just observed the devastated but vibrant towns from our towering bus windows. First we went to the Elmina Slave Castle, a UNESCO World Heritage site, and were given a not-great tour of the immense white spectacle where slaves (and previously gold – from which Ghana’s coast received the title “The Gold Coast”) were stored, traded, and departed from in the Atlantic Slave Trade. It was profound, chilling, and challenging to be there, and here too I felt marked uneasiness being A) white, B) a tourist, and C) part of a school “fieldtrip” of sorts.
For lunch we went to another hotel’s restaurant, a place called Hans Cottage, which was built over a crocodile pond. Really eerie, ugly creatures! Then we went to Kakum National Park, one of Ghana’s protected rainforests, which boasts the only canopy walk in the country. Though we saw no animals (and were given a disclaimer upon arrival that this would likely be the case), the park was massive, magical, a real sanctuary. Though unfortunately clogged up with tourists (ourselves and other groups), it felt great to be in the thick of the forest. And because I don’t have any qualms with height, I really enjoyed the canopy walk, a precarious-seeming structure constructed of two wooden planks (a width of maybe 8 inches) held in place and supported by webbed rope sides. And oh, the views across the treetops! Stunning.
The evening at the resort was serene, however strange it felt to luxuriate in such splendor when just meters down the beach the locals lived in abysmal poverty. Right before dinner, while sitting with a few other girls on chairs overlooking the beach, a bumbling drunken man clearly not staying at or associated with the resort meandered our way. Now, as many Ghanaians will flock to Obrunis, grabbing hands and launching into welcoming conversation, it seemed innocent as any interaction at first. But when it became clear that my inability to make sense of what he was saying was not a cultural snag but due to his alcoholic incognizance, I tried shrugging him off. But he was persistent, and would not leave until finally, prompted when he very inappropriately grabbed at me, a friend called hotel workers over to deal with the situation. I have no tolerance for such behavior, which is universal, and which I do attribute to problematic gendered proclivities. The better parts of the night included strolling on the beach just after sunset and dancing in the sand around a huge bonfire after dinner.
We left midday on Sunday (against many of our wishes, as it was a gorgeous day for beach-bumming), only to then stop for lunch at a seaside restaurant that in typical Ghanaian fashion did not bring out our food until over an hour after ordered. Not keen on spending the height of the lovely day indoors, several of us explored the rocky coast just outside. We befriended a few children, who became enraptured with our strange Obruni mannerisms, shared dancing moves with us, and delighted in photography – as both taker and poser. Although we left the area by 3 PM, we hit horrendous traffic due to a political rally for the main party (and the one currently in power) in Accra, stalling us for over 2 hours in an outright standstill.
We left at 6:15 Saturday morning, via a fairly atrocious van that resembled a party bus. Not quite the tro-tro trip we took last weekend…though the breathing room was appreciated. Three hours later we arrived at the luxury, 5-star Coconut Grove Beach Resort hotel for breakfast by the ocean. It was gorgeous, peaceful, relaxing…but beyond extravagant. $90/night - compared to last Saturday’s accommodations of $9/night. It certainly provoked discomfort, though it presented a challenge to articulate, as it simultaneously offered (albeit excessive) comfort. Just another way some people “do” Africa, I guess!
We spent the day stopping at various tourist attractions, all of which were fruitful, though I wished we could spend time exploring the fishing villages of Cape Coast and Elmina. Instead we just observed the devastated but vibrant towns from our towering bus windows. First we went to the Elmina Slave Castle, a UNESCO World Heritage site, and were given a not-great tour of the immense white spectacle where slaves (and previously gold – from which Ghana’s coast received the title “The Gold Coast”) were stored, traded, and departed from in the Atlantic Slave Trade. It was profound, chilling, and challenging to be there, and here too I felt marked uneasiness being A) white, B) a tourist, and C) part of a school “fieldtrip” of sorts.
For lunch we went to another hotel’s restaurant, a place called Hans Cottage, which was built over a crocodile pond. Really eerie, ugly creatures! Then we went to Kakum National Park, one of Ghana’s protected rainforests, which boasts the only canopy walk in the country. Though we saw no animals (and were given a disclaimer upon arrival that this would likely be the case), the park was massive, magical, a real sanctuary. Though unfortunately clogged up with tourists (ourselves and other groups), it felt great to be in the thick of the forest. And because I don’t have any qualms with height, I really enjoyed the canopy walk, a precarious-seeming structure constructed of two wooden planks (a width of maybe 8 inches) held in place and supported by webbed rope sides. And oh, the views across the treetops! Stunning.
The evening at the resort was serene, however strange it felt to luxuriate in such splendor when just meters down the beach the locals lived in abysmal poverty. Right before dinner, while sitting with a few other girls on chairs overlooking the beach, a bumbling drunken man clearly not staying at or associated with the resort meandered our way. Now, as many Ghanaians will flock to Obrunis, grabbing hands and launching into welcoming conversation, it seemed innocent as any interaction at first. But when it became clear that my inability to make sense of what he was saying was not a cultural snag but due to his alcoholic incognizance, I tried shrugging him off. But he was persistent, and would not leave until finally, prompted when he very inappropriately grabbed at me, a friend called hotel workers over to deal with the situation. I have no tolerance for such behavior, which is universal, and which I do attribute to problematic gendered proclivities. The better parts of the night included strolling on the beach just after sunset and dancing in the sand around a huge bonfire after dinner.
We left midday on Sunday (against many of our wishes, as it was a gorgeous day for beach-bumming), only to then stop for lunch at a seaside restaurant that in typical Ghanaian fashion did not bring out our food until over an hour after ordered. Not keen on spending the height of the lovely day indoors, several of us explored the rocky coast just outside. We befriended a few children, who became enraptured with our strange Obruni mannerisms, shared dancing moves with us, and delighted in photography – as both taker and poser. Although we left the area by 3 PM, we hit horrendous traffic due to a political rally for the main party (and the one currently in power) in Accra, stalling us for over 2 hours in an outright standstill.
Friday, July 11, 2008
At Last!
At last, two weeks into my time in Ghana, I have finally been ignited. I have found a purpose, a path, a cause. I am bubbling with excitement, determination, and inspiration. All of this occurred in response to a meeting Thursday afternoon at the Police Hospital not far from The Palace with a woman named Florence Okra. Though she works at the hospital in the HIV-testing department, her true work and interest has been single-handedly launching an NGO in Ghana called Eve's Foundation in 2000 (please visit her site: www.evesfoundation.org). I happened upon her name and the foundation in my pre-departure search for women's health, specifically maternal health, resources in Accra. My interest in participating in this field was inspired by my recent completion of an official doula training course. Upon my return to the States, I will begin working as a freelance doula - defined as a woman who provides "emotional support, encouragement, and wisdom throughout labor and birth" (more information on this brilliant concept at www.dona.org).
Unfortunately, I discovered yesterday that Eve's Foundation is in a dire state at present, with a total lack of resources, financial or otherwise. But she is an impassioned visionary, and I see much of her in myself. I believe we both are coming from a similar place in our driving desire to guide women towards self-empowerment through knowledge of and trust in their bodies, specifically through pregnancy, birth, and motherhood. Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks as she described how "my heart bleeds" for the women of Ghana, who she compares to "blind people - they don't know anything about themselves and their pregnancy". She has devoted herself to spreading the message that “you know more than the doctor, it is your body!”, for “in the hands of the doctors, women no longer trust themselves to give birth." This is a devastating reality not only in Ghana but in the States (though here it is maternal and infant mortality at stake, which is not so in the US, though we have other dire issues to be concerned about). She has given her all, sacrificed her time and money, and I can only hope to one day be as accomplished as she is, while retaining such vigor for the cause she has dedicated herself to wholly...I am in awe. I too came near to tears, listening to her recount not only the “huge ignorance about health issues in this part of the world”. But her relentless commitment was what fired up my own investment.
I hope to focus my main project in the journalism program on the state of maternal health in Ghana, in addition to working on an entirely independent level with Florence (far after my time here ends) and her foundation. I have, as does she, so much to say about this issue...but I'll save it for my article, and future writing. I do hope everyone reading this will educate themselves about it by visiting the sites, asking me questions, and continuing to check for updates on my work. It is crucial, for everyone on this planet.
So much good is going to come from this connection, I just know it. I feel it stirring in my toes to the tips of my fingers...
Stay tuned...
Unfortunately, I discovered yesterday that Eve's Foundation is in a dire state at present, with a total lack of resources, financial or otherwise. But she is an impassioned visionary, and I see much of her in myself. I believe we both are coming from a similar place in our driving desire to guide women towards self-empowerment through knowledge of and trust in their bodies, specifically through pregnancy, birth, and motherhood. Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks as she described how "my heart bleeds" for the women of Ghana, who she compares to "blind people - they don't know anything about themselves and their pregnancy". She has devoted herself to spreading the message that “you know more than the doctor, it is your body!”, for “in the hands of the doctors, women no longer trust themselves to give birth." This is a devastating reality not only in Ghana but in the States (though here it is maternal and infant mortality at stake, which is not so in the US, though we have other dire issues to be concerned about). She has given her all, sacrificed her time and money, and I can only hope to one day be as accomplished as she is, while retaining such vigor for the cause she has dedicated herself to wholly...I am in awe. I too came near to tears, listening to her recount not only the “huge ignorance about health issues in this part of the world”. But her relentless commitment was what fired up my own investment.
I hope to focus my main project in the journalism program on the state of maternal health in Ghana, in addition to working on an entirely independent level with Florence (far after my time here ends) and her foundation. I have, as does she, so much to say about this issue...but I'll save it for my article, and future writing. I do hope everyone reading this will educate themselves about it by visiting the sites, asking me questions, and continuing to check for updates on my work. It is crucial, for everyone on this planet.
So much good is going to come from this connection, I just know it. I feel it stirring in my toes to the tips of my fingers...
Stay tuned...
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Weekend Away
This past Saturday morning, at 7:00 AM, four other students and I took off for a weekend out of the city. We have three open weekends, during which we can do what we desire, and this was the first one. Surprisingly, we were the only ones who went away. Personally, I was dying for both the break from “The Palace", the large group, the programming, and the city, as well as to absorb more of all this country and culture has to offer. And it turned out to be the best experience here yet. Though it didn’t start off so well. The five of us split into two cabs and didn’t think ahead of time to divide according to which ones of us had cells phones, or to tell the cab drivers to follow one another. So we ended up getting separated before even arriving at Temi Station, the huge bus boarding area. But really in Ghana there aren’t many buses, as we know them in the States, but instead are vehicles called “tro-tros” which resemble vans, and can stuff up to 14 passengers (literally stuff, like anchovies). Anyway, my roommate JD had a cell phone that sometimes worked calling local numbers, but did not have the numbers of our co-travelers. So we literally ended up calling our professor who called the group organizer who called the other three, and meanwhile trekked around the grounds desperately searching for them. After an agonizing hour, we finally reconnected. I screamed when I first glimpsed them, and ran like a fool shrieking in relief and excitement, drawing even more attention than I already do as a white woman in a sea of Ghanaians.
After reuniting, we needed to figure out how to get to the eastern Volta region. A host of Ghanaian men assisted us on this search for the correct transport. However, once settled onto a bus – after buying the tickets – we were informed by the driver that it would not be leaving until 12:30 PM, which presented a bit of an issue, as it was only 8:30 AM! A few of us were able to sell our tickets to other riders before finding the right tro-tro, boarding, and waiting just an hour and a half in the stifling van until taking off. It was a cramped ride, to say the least, but the three hours were bearable. A delightful four year old girl sat on her father’s lap next to me, which helped the time pass. It was somewhat precarious figuring out where we wanted to be let off, and we kept questioning ‘are we there? is it further?’ but finally arrived where we wanted to be: in Logba Alakpeti, the junction town in the Tafi region. We were wished a safe stay, offered safe travels and many thanks to our helpful tro-tro cohorts, and jumped out, gasping for air and aching to stretch.
We were welcomed immediately to the town by a man named Lawrence, who assisted us throughout our 24-hour stay. He led us to the Adzotor Hotel, where we obtained two doubles and a single (only one other room occupied, the place appeared barren, but not too spooky in the daylight). We unloaded, replenished ourselves, and took to the town where at every turn grinning Ghanaians assured us “You are welcome”, the typical greeting phrase to foreigners throughout Ghana. Our first stop was the market, a bustling array of open straw-covered stands, brightly colored goods, and an almost entirely female and children crowd. I have found that the blatant cultural/racial barrier between locals and foreigners typically dissolves when the foreigner initiates a greeting or conversation with the local. This proved to be the case once more.
We had a surprisingly unsuccessful search for something to drink, ending up with bottles of coke (unable to find bottled water!), and then arranged to take a taxi the 5km down a dirt road to Tafi Atone, the nearby town known for its Peace Corps-maintained Monkey Sanctuary. A cost miscommunication with the cabbie hindered our arrival in the serene village, but we resolved it and allowed the remarkable scene to absorb us. Chickens and goats pattered around the town, which consisted of small shacks and straw huts, a few stores (with bottled water, of which we almost bought them out!) directed at tourists, a quaint blue church with a water pump in front. Our tour guide, a young boy about our age, was sweet and very patient with our slow meandering through the village towards the forest, and our frequent stops to photograph the beautiful children who were as drawn to and fascinated by us as we were to and by them. Eventually we made it down the road to where the monkeys hung out, and we fed them bananas we had picked up at one of the huts we’d stopped by to say hello. After hanging with the cute things for a bit, we continued on a guided walk through the magical-seeming forest encircling the village. Just as we came out on the other end of the trail, the pitter-patter of rain launched into a downpour. We took shelter on the porch of one of the sanctuary’s small wooden houses, and stayed there throughout the almost 40 minute rainstorm. It was the most peaceful part of my time in Ghana yet.
Told there would not be a taxi to drive us the 5 km back to our town, JD and I hopped onto the back of a motorcycle. This turned out to be the most fun ride, and our driver was very skilled, considering the sloppy, muddied roads remaining after the rain. We didn’t get off as skillfully as he drove, however, and both of us burned our calves on the metal out of which came the exhaust!
Evening was descending, and we strolled around the village some more, returning to the market as it was being closed down. The liveliness largely lost, we felt less comfortable and welcomed this time around town. It may have just been the wearied mood that comes with the end of a working day. We took a break at the hotel before heading out in search of dinner, though a few (including myself) had already decided to pass on whatever local cuisine we came across.
We walked ½ km at sunset to the town’s “Chop Shop” which was more like a family’s front porch area, and after being served drinks – Maltas, which are a barley based fizzy drink that taste like carbonated Grapenuts, and which none of us took more than one or two sips of – were never asked about ordering food. Turns out they were not serving food anymore (6:30 pm)! However, my roommate JD was determined to get something to put in her grumbling stomach, and after some desperation pleading the woman produced a hot meal for her. It consisted of a ball of “porridge” and barley and goat stew, in which lay a goat’s hoof. Yes, its hoof. And yes, JD ate what she could of it, nibbling around the nail for the meaty bits. It was an utterly memorable meal. The others of us ate pre-packed energy bars, nuts, dried fruit, and a few loaves of bread they also had at the Chop Shop.
The evening was lovely, candlelit and infused with African music played on various stereos in the huts throughout town. We chatted and read in candlelight before turning in. Not the best sleep, I’ll admit. Really hot, stuffy, no sheets, no toilet paper (we brought our own, as this is true most places, even in Accra). We roughed it, to put it lightly.
Sunday is not a day of lazing in bed in the village, and we woke pretty early to the sounds of motors and music and churchgoers. First on the day’s agenda was trying to find the barber so JD could shave her head, as she has in the past, because her hair has been bothering her in the heat. Across from our hotel, Uncle Maxi’s Hair Do shack said it was open but was empty. The family gathered on the porch next door approached us, but they only spoke French, so I was designated translator. However, it was not the French I’m familiar with, as it was heavily accented by an African dialect spoken in conjunction. But we were led around the village in search of the barber, and though we found him, he was off to church and the loose agreement to reconvene later in the morning did not ultimately pan out.
We decided to head next to Tafi Abeupe, the center of traditional Kente weaving in the area. We battled with a taxi driver who was asking for way more than was reasonable, though we ended up forfeiting the argument in the service of getting on with the day. The weaving village was another beautiful sight, the handmade houses of straw and clay, the livestock scattered throughout the compounds, the people going about their various tasks and trades. In the central part of the village stood two large sheds – open air but with aluminum ceilings – built by the government to provide rain-durable shelter for the weavers. We also learned a Peace Corps volunteer was currently living there. The weaving itself involves an impressive set-up, with colorful threads spread the length of the room to facilitate rapid production. Boys are seven when they begin learning the craft, and interestingly primarily men engage in the “hard work” of weaving, though several women know how too. I bought a piece of finished cloth (two yards in length, considered a “woman’s piece”, as opposed to four yard long men’s pieces) with the symbol meaning “Hunter’s Path” woven in repetition. We once again got caught in a rain shower, and waited for its dissipation inside one of the sheds, getting lost in the rhythmic motions of the weaver’s skilled hands shuttling the spools of thread in repeated patterns.
Upon our return to the junction, we waited about thirty minutes for a tro-tro headed to Accra with enough room for five additional passengers. Another cramped and over-heated ride, but okay for its familiarity. Immediately I showered –never before only realizing how dirty I had been while trying to scrub myself clean – and then threw my clothes in the laundry. But what a remarkable trip, and despite the welcomed luxuries of a shower and AC, the return brought with it a certain sense of let-down at being back in our palace, in the semi-urban atmosphere, far from the authentic naturalism we’d found in the Volta.
After reuniting, we needed to figure out how to get to the eastern Volta region. A host of Ghanaian men assisted us on this search for the correct transport. However, once settled onto a bus – after buying the tickets – we were informed by the driver that it would not be leaving until 12:30 PM, which presented a bit of an issue, as it was only 8:30 AM! A few of us were able to sell our tickets to other riders before finding the right tro-tro, boarding, and waiting just an hour and a half in the stifling van until taking off. It was a cramped ride, to say the least, but the three hours were bearable. A delightful four year old girl sat on her father’s lap next to me, which helped the time pass. It was somewhat precarious figuring out where we wanted to be let off, and we kept questioning ‘are we there? is it further?’ but finally arrived where we wanted to be: in Logba Alakpeti, the junction town in the Tafi region. We were wished a safe stay, offered safe travels and many thanks to our helpful tro-tro cohorts, and jumped out, gasping for air and aching to stretch.
We were welcomed immediately to the town by a man named Lawrence, who assisted us throughout our 24-hour stay. He led us to the Adzotor Hotel, where we obtained two doubles and a single (only one other room occupied, the place appeared barren, but not too spooky in the daylight). We unloaded, replenished ourselves, and took to the town where at every turn grinning Ghanaians assured us “You are welcome”, the typical greeting phrase to foreigners throughout Ghana. Our first stop was the market, a bustling array of open straw-covered stands, brightly colored goods, and an almost entirely female and children crowd. I have found that the blatant cultural/racial barrier between locals and foreigners typically dissolves when the foreigner initiates a greeting or conversation with the local. This proved to be the case once more.
We had a surprisingly unsuccessful search for something to drink, ending up with bottles of coke (unable to find bottled water!), and then arranged to take a taxi the 5km down a dirt road to Tafi Atone, the nearby town known for its Peace Corps-maintained Monkey Sanctuary. A cost miscommunication with the cabbie hindered our arrival in the serene village, but we resolved it and allowed the remarkable scene to absorb us. Chickens and goats pattered around the town, which consisted of small shacks and straw huts, a few stores (with bottled water, of which we almost bought them out!) directed at tourists, a quaint blue church with a water pump in front. Our tour guide, a young boy about our age, was sweet and very patient with our slow meandering through the village towards the forest, and our frequent stops to photograph the beautiful children who were as drawn to and fascinated by us as we were to and by them. Eventually we made it down the road to where the monkeys hung out, and we fed them bananas we had picked up at one of the huts we’d stopped by to say hello. After hanging with the cute things for a bit, we continued on a guided walk through the magical-seeming forest encircling the village. Just as we came out on the other end of the trail, the pitter-patter of rain launched into a downpour. We took shelter on the porch of one of the sanctuary’s small wooden houses, and stayed there throughout the almost 40 minute rainstorm. It was the most peaceful part of my time in Ghana yet.
Told there would not be a taxi to drive us the 5 km back to our town, JD and I hopped onto the back of a motorcycle. This turned out to be the most fun ride, and our driver was very skilled, considering the sloppy, muddied roads remaining after the rain. We didn’t get off as skillfully as he drove, however, and both of us burned our calves on the metal out of which came the exhaust!
Evening was descending, and we strolled around the village some more, returning to the market as it was being closed down. The liveliness largely lost, we felt less comfortable and welcomed this time around town. It may have just been the wearied mood that comes with the end of a working day. We took a break at the hotel before heading out in search of dinner, though a few (including myself) had already decided to pass on whatever local cuisine we came across.
We walked ½ km at sunset to the town’s “Chop Shop” which was more like a family’s front porch area, and after being served drinks – Maltas, which are a barley based fizzy drink that taste like carbonated Grapenuts, and which none of us took more than one or two sips of – were never asked about ordering food. Turns out they were not serving food anymore (6:30 pm)! However, my roommate JD was determined to get something to put in her grumbling stomach, and after some desperation pleading the woman produced a hot meal for her. It consisted of a ball of “porridge” and barley and goat stew, in which lay a goat’s hoof. Yes, its hoof. And yes, JD ate what she could of it, nibbling around the nail for the meaty bits. It was an utterly memorable meal. The others of us ate pre-packed energy bars, nuts, dried fruit, and a few loaves of bread they also had at the Chop Shop.
The evening was lovely, candlelit and infused with African music played on various stereos in the huts throughout town. We chatted and read in candlelight before turning in. Not the best sleep, I’ll admit. Really hot, stuffy, no sheets, no toilet paper (we brought our own, as this is true most places, even in Accra). We roughed it, to put it lightly.
Sunday is not a day of lazing in bed in the village, and we woke pretty early to the sounds of motors and music and churchgoers. First on the day’s agenda was trying to find the barber so JD could shave her head, as she has in the past, because her hair has been bothering her in the heat. Across from our hotel, Uncle Maxi’s Hair Do shack said it was open but was empty. The family gathered on the porch next door approached us, but they only spoke French, so I was designated translator. However, it was not the French I’m familiar with, as it was heavily accented by an African dialect spoken in conjunction. But we were led around the village in search of the barber, and though we found him, he was off to church and the loose agreement to reconvene later in the morning did not ultimately pan out.
We decided to head next to Tafi Abeupe, the center of traditional Kente weaving in the area. We battled with a taxi driver who was asking for way more than was reasonable, though we ended up forfeiting the argument in the service of getting on with the day. The weaving village was another beautiful sight, the handmade houses of straw and clay, the livestock scattered throughout the compounds, the people going about their various tasks and trades. In the central part of the village stood two large sheds – open air but with aluminum ceilings – built by the government to provide rain-durable shelter for the weavers. We also learned a Peace Corps volunteer was currently living there. The weaving itself involves an impressive set-up, with colorful threads spread the length of the room to facilitate rapid production. Boys are seven when they begin learning the craft, and interestingly primarily men engage in the “hard work” of weaving, though several women know how too. I bought a piece of finished cloth (two yards in length, considered a “woman’s piece”, as opposed to four yard long men’s pieces) with the symbol meaning “Hunter’s Path” woven in repetition. We once again got caught in a rain shower, and waited for its dissipation inside one of the sheds, getting lost in the rhythmic motions of the weaver’s skilled hands shuttling the spools of thread in repeated patterns.
Upon our return to the junction, we waited about thirty minutes for a tro-tro headed to Accra with enough room for five additional passengers. Another cramped and over-heated ride, but okay for its familiarity. Immediately I showered –never before only realizing how dirty I had been while trying to scrub myself clean – and then threw my clothes in the laundry. But what a remarkable trip, and despite the welcomed luxuries of a shower and AC, the return brought with it a certain sense of let-down at being back in our palace, in the semi-urban atmosphere, far from the authentic naturalism we’d found in the Volta.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
A sidenote...
Goats wander the streets, sniffing and munching on trash, everywhere. They are the most adorable creatures. Children just beat them as the most delightful sights in Ghana. I cannot get enough of either little darlings!
Best Experiences from Journalism Tours
The state-sponsored Ghana Radio, a division of the Ghana Broadcasting Corporation (GBC), began on a dull note (it was the second radio station we'd visited, and worked pretty much the same way!) but developed into a rewarding trip. Mainly it was luck. We finally were broken into small groups of 5 or 6 (as opposed to the whole lot of 18) for our tour of the station. My group finished first, and were lounging outside getting some air and started chatting with a man who we learned worked as a show host. A few minutes into the chit-chat, he grabbed the guy of the group and whisked him inside to use his voice to record a piece. Us gals were kind of jealous! But he returned shortly and decided to come up with a jingle for us to do, swept us inside, and recorded it! The three of us who partook first said our names, "JD, Aysha, Annie" and then in unison said "And you're listening to...Passing Time with Greg". For fun, he asked if someone would wrap up that segment with the line "Oooo, I love it". Of course, I jumped at the chance, turned on my most sexy, sensuous voice, and let it ooooze. It was great, so much fun. He told us to listen for it when he planned on playing the clip, this morning, but unfortunately we were out of town in a very remote area and couldn’t…Still, it was thrilling.
Another great visit was to Public Agenda, a newspaper sponsored by an NGO in Ghana called ISODEC (Integrated Social Development Centre) “to promote sustainable development through working for good governance and giving a voice to the disadvantaged”. Finally, I felt pulled in and invigorated by one of our many visits and presentations! The adorable and articulate editor Amos Safo spoke with incredible passion, and was the first person this entire week to discuss why they did the work they do, what intention the newspaper is driven by (to influence government policy), and its core values. Unfortunately, but predictably, it’s struggling financially. They don’t have a printing press at their office, and actually just had to move to another office because their last one hiked up the rent. If anyone needs a new cause, or knows of some organization or committee looking to donate money (or a press!), send them here! And it’s worth checking out, at http://www.ghanaweb.com/public_agenda/. Even better is the NGO’s website, which is http://www.isodec.org.gh/. I am really hoping to write some stories for them during my time here over the next five weeks.
Another great visit was to Public Agenda, a newspaper sponsored by an NGO in Ghana called ISODEC (Integrated Social Development Centre) “to promote sustainable development through working for good governance and giving a voice to the disadvantaged”. Finally, I felt pulled in and invigorated by one of our many visits and presentations! The adorable and articulate editor Amos Safo spoke with incredible passion, and was the first person this entire week to discuss why they did the work they do, what intention the newspaper is driven by (to influence government policy), and its core values. Unfortunately, but predictably, it’s struggling financially. They don’t have a printing press at their office, and actually just had to move to another office because their last one hiked up the rent. If anyone needs a new cause, or knows of some organization or committee looking to donate money (or a press!), send them here! And it’s worth checking out, at http://www.ghanaweb.com/public_agenda/. Even better is the NGO’s website, which is http://www.isodec.org.gh/. I am really hoping to write some stories for them during my time here over the next five weeks.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Academia in Accra
For our first week of “school”, lecturers speak on different topics each morning and we visit various key journalistic locations during the afternoons. On Monday, a vibrant professor from the University of Ghana shared an overview of Ghana’s history with us. Everyone really enjoyed her, she was very dynamic and fun, and spoke eloquently on her specialties: Slavery in Africa, African Diasporas, and Women in African History. She arrived an hour late, modeling typical Ghanaian timing! In her defense, the traffic has been particularly bad on Monday, as Tuesday was a national holiday so people were getting supplies or going out of town. It’s called Republic Day, the 1st of July, which is a sort of 4th of July (though their actual Independence Day is March 6th, 51 years ago this year). It marks the day they officially launched the republic state, entirely independent of British authority.
Other guests were less engaging, the professor who spoke about politics in Ghana especially. It didn’t help that we were crammed in a tiny room with no AC, which combined with the lack of coffee put me right back to sleep! Most depressing (but of most interest to me) was the presentation on arts and entertainment in Ghana, which, in effect, barely exist. Apparently, the mission to ‘Africanize’ Ghana after it gained independence in the late 50s was executed smoothly for a few decades but as technology developed and globalization exploded, the cultural currents dried up. Films/videos are a bust and broke industry in Ghana, theater and poetry relatively dead, and of course the government doesn’t care about the arts and the “Ministry of Culture” is considered totally inefficient. As is the case in the States, it all comes down to money. Ghana, too, is a “money-minded country” in which artists who cannot ignore their creative fervor struggle to survive. What entertainment does prosper? Imported music. Reggae, funk, and rap (primarily) are synthesized with Ghanaian elements, primarily just the lyrics. And thus, a huge absence of authentic Ghanaian culture, a loss of African roots. Its just foreigners like ourselves who seek the traditional arts! I was severely disappointed to hear this. But I took what little hints he gave to any lingering culture (which remains more in tact, I must add, in the most rural – and accordingly most destitute – regions) and re-manifested my distress in determination to discover genuine Ghanaian arts.
Our afternoons have been unfortunately chock-full of visits to what seems like every existing media group in the city. Many of us are pretty disillusioned by the situation. We went to: TV Africa, a private television station; the Daily Graphic, the primary state-owned newspaper in Ghana; JOY FM, a private radio station; the Daily Guide, a private newspaper; the Ghana Broadcasting Corporation, both its radio and television divisions, which are owned by the state; and Public Agenda, another newspaper. We missed one, too, which is rescheduled for Monday (at the Ghana News Agency). Overkill, much? It was pretty painful at times, this endless, over-heated, exhausting trek from one bland building to another of relatively similar nature. However, we happened upon a few gems, or at least note-worthy moments…Stay tuned.
Other guests were less engaging, the professor who spoke about politics in Ghana especially. It didn’t help that we were crammed in a tiny room with no AC, which combined with the lack of coffee put me right back to sleep! Most depressing (but of most interest to me) was the presentation on arts and entertainment in Ghana, which, in effect, barely exist. Apparently, the mission to ‘Africanize’ Ghana after it gained independence in the late 50s was executed smoothly for a few decades but as technology developed and globalization exploded, the cultural currents dried up. Films/videos are a bust and broke industry in Ghana, theater and poetry relatively dead, and of course the government doesn’t care about the arts and the “Ministry of Culture” is considered totally inefficient. As is the case in the States, it all comes down to money. Ghana, too, is a “money-minded country” in which artists who cannot ignore their creative fervor struggle to survive. What entertainment does prosper? Imported music. Reggae, funk, and rap (primarily) are synthesized with Ghanaian elements, primarily just the lyrics. And thus, a huge absence of authentic Ghanaian culture, a loss of African roots. Its just foreigners like ourselves who seek the traditional arts! I was severely disappointed to hear this. But I took what little hints he gave to any lingering culture (which remains more in tact, I must add, in the most rural – and accordingly most destitute – regions) and re-manifested my distress in determination to discover genuine Ghanaian arts.
Our afternoons have been unfortunately chock-full of visits to what seems like every existing media group in the city. Many of us are pretty disillusioned by the situation. We went to: TV Africa, a private television station; the Daily Graphic, the primary state-owned newspaper in Ghana; JOY FM, a private radio station; the Daily Guide, a private newspaper; the Ghana Broadcasting Corporation, both its radio and television divisions, which are owned by the state; and Public Agenda, another newspaper. We missed one, too, which is rescheduled for Monday (at the Ghana News Agency). Overkill, much? It was pretty painful at times, this endless, over-heated, exhausting trek from one bland building to another of relatively similar nature. However, we happened upon a few gems, or at least note-worthy moments…Stay tuned.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Republic Day
ASANTÉ KATOKO!!! FABÚ!!! Happy (belated) Republic Day. We celebrated July 1 with the locals here in Accra on their holiday. About ten of us went to the brand-new football (soccer) stadium to watch two Ghanaian teams play for the President’s Cup. Initially it freaked me out, to be honest. While trying to obtain tickets, most of us felt people grabbing at our bags. Even though I clutched mine tightly to my torso, I later discovered someone had unzipped the side pocket. They didn’t take the Band-Aids or lip-gloss it contained, though. Probably not what they’d expected.
Once we got inside the arena, everything went uphill. Well, except for the rain that started falling as soon as we situated ourselves in pretty awesome seats, near center field. The game didn’t start for almost an hour and a half after we arrived, but it was actually kind of fun to get soaking wet (really refreshing after all the sweaty, muggy humidity!) and pal around with our neighbors. It was such a fun afternoon, in large part based on the encounters with Ghanaians out celebrating their day off and cheering on their team. And man, did they represent! We’d bought a few souvenirs outside that designated us Katoko fans, which turned out to be the right affiliation. Not only were they the best, but they seemed to have the largest fan base by far. Katoko means “porcupine” in Akan, and they were from the Asanté region of Ghana; their opponents were the Lions from Volta, the lake region. It was the first time we were totally immersed in the culture for a stretch of time, and it was exhilarating. Best of all, we were embraced wholeheartedly by the (mainly male) crowd. They had a ball with us, teaching us cheers, telling us about themselves, and bonding with us over “our” team’s small victories.
Before the game started (only ten minutes late, which is great timing for Ghana, where the frequent tardiness is referred to as being “on Africa/Ghana time”), the Vice President of Ghana received recognition and a marching band played. The game was engaging, both the action on and off the field. Katoko fans burst into cheers and songs frequently, all in Akan (one of the primary local dialects) but which we were told mostly praised God and asked for his grace. Everyone here is incredibly religious, and God has a hand in every matter and aspect of society.
Ultimately, our team won! The game was 0-0 through half time, then each team scored a goal in rapid succession at the start of the second half, and again towards the end. But the Katoko team showed their superiority, and the Lions their shortcoming, in the round of 5 penalty kicks. After declared the victors, Katoko fans went nuts celebrating. For some reason, we Americans received a huge amount of attention at this point, probably because we were so excited for their team too and it reinforced the magnificence of the occasion. The ride home offered just as much excitement, as our cabbie pressed his horn in celebration almost continuously. We waved our Katoko flags out the windows and hollered Katoko cheers as the people we drove by stared at us. Though their faces reflected shock at the sight of such strange wild white people, most broke out into amused and delighted smiles, recognizing our appreciation for and immersion in their country.
Once we got inside the arena, everything went uphill. Well, except for the rain that started falling as soon as we situated ourselves in pretty awesome seats, near center field. The game didn’t start for almost an hour and a half after we arrived, but it was actually kind of fun to get soaking wet (really refreshing after all the sweaty, muggy humidity!) and pal around with our neighbors. It was such a fun afternoon, in large part based on the encounters with Ghanaians out celebrating their day off and cheering on their team. And man, did they represent! We’d bought a few souvenirs outside that designated us Katoko fans, which turned out to be the right affiliation. Not only were they the best, but they seemed to have the largest fan base by far. Katoko means “porcupine” in Akan, and they were from the Asanté region of Ghana; their opponents were the Lions from Volta, the lake region. It was the first time we were totally immersed in the culture for a stretch of time, and it was exhilarating. Best of all, we were embraced wholeheartedly by the (mainly male) crowd. They had a ball with us, teaching us cheers, telling us about themselves, and bonding with us over “our” team’s small victories.
Before the game started (only ten minutes late, which is great timing for Ghana, where the frequent tardiness is referred to as being “on Africa/Ghana time”), the Vice President of Ghana received recognition and a marching band played. The game was engaging, both the action on and off the field. Katoko fans burst into cheers and songs frequently, all in Akan (one of the primary local dialects) but which we were told mostly praised God and asked for his grace. Everyone here is incredibly religious, and God has a hand in every matter and aspect of society.
Ultimately, our team won! The game was 0-0 through half time, then each team scored a goal in rapid succession at the start of the second half, and again towards the end. But the Katoko team showed their superiority, and the Lions their shortcoming, in the round of 5 penalty kicks. After declared the victors, Katoko fans went nuts celebrating. For some reason, we Americans received a huge amount of attention at this point, probably because we were so excited for their team too and it reinforced the magnificence of the occasion. The ride home offered just as much excitement, as our cabbie pressed his horn in celebration almost continuously. We waved our Katoko flags out the windows and hollered Katoko cheers as the people we drove by stared at us. Though their faces reflected shock at the sight of such strange wild white people, most broke out into amused and delighted smiles, recognizing our appreciation for and immersion in their country.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday Soccer
On Sunday evening, some boys from the neighborhood came by our residence to play soccer with us in the courtyard. I think they were brothers, the eldest – Elvis – maybe 15 or 16, the middle 13 or 14, and the youngest 10 (I can’t recall the other two boys’ names). Soccer, or “football” to be locally accurate, is huge here. I totally fell for these boys, who were really good, and so polite and sweet – apologizing whenever they got the ball away from me, or accidentally kicked at me or stepped on my (bare) feet. I adored the feeling of kicking around a soccer ball again, which I haven’t done since probably high school. Squatting down, squaring off, getting my aggressive defensive on. It was exhilarating. And came back to me really naturally. However, the humidity here lessens the appeal of playing too frequently. A shower really must follow a scrimmage…
The soccer theme continued into the night with the final Euro championship game between Spain and Germany on the television. A few of us went to a local coffee shop (which is more like a café/bar, that actually only serves $3 cups of instant coffee – a serious letdown) where a small crowd of Germans were screeching at the screen while we huddled in a corner having dinner. Pretty intense. I do love watching soccer though – it’s one of the few sports I enjoy following. We didn’t stay ‘til the end though, which was wise, as Spain won and the Germans probably freaked out!
The soccer theme continued into the night with the final Euro championship game between Spain and Germany on the television. A few of us went to a local coffee shop (which is more like a café/bar, that actually only serves $3 cups of instant coffee – a serious letdown) where a small crowd of Germans were screeching at the screen while we huddled in a corner having dinner. Pretty intense. I do love watching soccer though – it’s one of the few sports I enjoy following. We didn’t stay ‘til the end though, which was wise, as Spain won and the Germans probably freaked out!
First Days
After an introduction to the NYU academic center, which is a few “blocks” (unlabeled dirt roads) from our residence, a local restaurant hosted a private luncheon where we sampled a range of local Ghanaian foods. Goat stew, chicken and rice, fried plantains…I ate these sour cornmeal balls (a spongy form of bread) and spicy mushroom and eggplant stew. It’s not the most vegetarian-friendly country, but I’ll get by. The afternoon entailed a trip to the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum, the burial ground of Ghana’s first president and also the location where he declared Ghana an independent country in 1957. It was a strange outing, very touristy and not particularly interesting (though he was a pretty amazing guy). It just didn’t really orient us to Accra or Ghana at all.
However, the following trip to the Makola Market was a total immergence into the bustling African city scene. The streets composing the “market” were littered with trash, the sidewalks cracked open to reveal streams of filthy water below, scrawny chickens darted around hoping not to have their necks broken. Most bizarre were the goods for sale – Tupperware, pots and pans, jeans, shoes, rope, diapers, fabrics – a wide range, but mostly household items that looked like they were made in the 80s. I did buy some extra hangers though (for 4 Cedis, which is comparable to 4 Dollars). The children in Accra are the most beautiful babes I have seen in any country. They LOVE “Obranis” (“foreigners”), and wave and dance for us, giggling in delight when we interact with them. Mothers wrap babies in fabric swaths tied so the baby straddles her lower back. At first, I reacted with sadness that the babies weren’t held close to their mother’s chest, but the style has grown on me as I’ve seen more delicious dozing babes peaceful as can be as mom can easily go about her work. The women are also striking here, in their beauty, poise, and vigorous role in trade. Girls and boys fill the streets, selling items like pouches of water, fried plantains, fresh fruit slices, smoked fish, maps, jewelry, DVDs, and so forth. But the girls, they carry their loads on their heads in enormous tin bowls. Women everywhere use their heads as shelves to transport all sorts of things, in quantities that seem impossible to balance, but they do.
We began our second full day (Sunday, June 29) with a brief tour (via the van) of the University of Ghana, located in the Northern area of Accra. The architecture was beautiful, though the maintenance of certain buildings clearly suffered. And its physical expanse was also impressive, the number of departments, etc. Looked like a lovely place to attend college! Afterwards we headed to "La Pleasure Beach" for our first day under the African sun. It was a gritty scene, as most beaches located near a main urban center are everywhere in the world, with lots of people and trash. Although I passed on swimming, most people went in and said the water was pretty warm and extremely salty (??). Some of the guys befriended Ghanaian soccer players and kicked the ball around for most of the afternoon. Just a typical beach day - napping, lounging, reading...not as typical to my experience were the consistent and insistent people selling goods (fruit, fish, jewelry, wooden figurines, game boards) or services (nail painting). They literally come up in your face and on your towel. If you make eye contact, politely saying "No, Thanks" and smiling, they are only encouraged to push you harder. It was tiresome.
Perhaps the most obnoxious feature of the experience thus far has been the hagglers who flock to us obvious-out-of-towners, aggressively pushing their racks of sunglasses, hand-sewn name bracelets, necklaces, etc. They are aggressive to the degree of harassment, about which you can imagine I’m not very tolerant. These boys essentially climbed into our vans on the first afternoon, pressing their faces against and banging on the windows. One tactic they use is to ask for a first name, and then they quickly sew the name onto the bracelet and return to that person, who did not indicate wanting to purchase anything, and guilt them into buying it anyway. This exact scenario was played out after lunch on our first day in town and I wouldn’t stand for it, stepping into the situation and fiercely telling the boy, repeatedly, that SHE IS NOT INTERESTED. We got in the van, and through the windows could read one of the guy’s friend’s lips cursing at me. NOT okay! We were perfectly safe, with the Ghanaian NYU guides, our van drivers, and our large group but it just felt awful. They are so persistent, and we later heard from some grad students studying here in another program this summer that the street sellers on that particular strip of road are the worst we’ll encounter. I hope so!
However, the following trip to the Makola Market was a total immergence into the bustling African city scene. The streets composing the “market” were littered with trash, the sidewalks cracked open to reveal streams of filthy water below, scrawny chickens darted around hoping not to have their necks broken. Most bizarre were the goods for sale – Tupperware, pots and pans, jeans, shoes, rope, diapers, fabrics – a wide range, but mostly household items that looked like they were made in the 80s. I did buy some extra hangers though (for 4 Cedis, which is comparable to 4 Dollars). The children in Accra are the most beautiful babes I have seen in any country. They LOVE “Obranis” (“foreigners”), and wave and dance for us, giggling in delight when we interact with them. Mothers wrap babies in fabric swaths tied so the baby straddles her lower back. At first, I reacted with sadness that the babies weren’t held close to their mother’s chest, but the style has grown on me as I’ve seen more delicious dozing babes peaceful as can be as mom can easily go about her work. The women are also striking here, in their beauty, poise, and vigorous role in trade. Girls and boys fill the streets, selling items like pouches of water, fried plantains, fresh fruit slices, smoked fish, maps, jewelry, DVDs, and so forth. But the girls, they carry their loads on their heads in enormous tin bowls. Women everywhere use their heads as shelves to transport all sorts of things, in quantities that seem impossible to balance, but they do.
We began our second full day (Sunday, June 29) with a brief tour (via the van) of the University of Ghana, located in the Northern area of Accra. The architecture was beautiful, though the maintenance of certain buildings clearly suffered. And its physical expanse was also impressive, the number of departments, etc. Looked like a lovely place to attend college! Afterwards we headed to "La Pleasure Beach" for our first day under the African sun. It was a gritty scene, as most beaches located near a main urban center are everywhere in the world, with lots of people and trash. Although I passed on swimming, most people went in and said the water was pretty warm and extremely salty (??). Some of the guys befriended Ghanaian soccer players and kicked the ball around for most of the afternoon. Just a typical beach day - napping, lounging, reading...not as typical to my experience were the consistent and insistent people selling goods (fruit, fish, jewelry, wooden figurines, game boards) or services (nail painting). They literally come up in your face and on your towel. If you make eye contact, politely saying "No, Thanks" and smiling, they are only encouraged to push you harder. It was tiresome.
Perhaps the most obnoxious feature of the experience thus far has been the hagglers who flock to us obvious-out-of-towners, aggressively pushing their racks of sunglasses, hand-sewn name bracelets, necklaces, etc. They are aggressive to the degree of harassment, about which you can imagine I’m not very tolerant. These boys essentially climbed into our vans on the first afternoon, pressing their faces against and banging on the windows. One tactic they use is to ask for a first name, and then they quickly sew the name onto the bracelet and return to that person, who did not indicate wanting to purchase anything, and guilt them into buying it anyway. This exact scenario was played out after lunch on our first day in town and I wouldn’t stand for it, stepping into the situation and fiercely telling the boy, repeatedly, that SHE IS NOT INTERESTED. We got in the van, and through the windows could read one of the guy’s friend’s lips cursing at me. NOT okay! We were perfectly safe, with the Ghanaian NYU guides, our van drivers, and our large group but it just felt awful. They are so persistent, and we later heard from some grad students studying here in another program this summer that the street sellers on that particular strip of road are the worst we’ll encounter. I hope so!
Arrival!
We arrived on Friday morning, at 8:30 (3:30 NYC time!), and got to the NYU residence about two hours later. It is, as I had been forewarned, rather extravagant. Security guards posted at the entry to the gated residence let the buses (available to us from 8am-9pm) in and out. It consists of four connected houses, each of which has an enormous common room, dining room, full kitchen, downstairs bedrooms and two more upstairs. My roommate and I share a huge room with more closet space than we have stuff for, a bathroom almost half the size of the bedroom, and a balcony! I’ve already (as I even anticipated) found myself struggling with the incongruities of the NYU privilege and separatism from the local culture. For example, our first meal was at an American restaurant called Frankie’s, air-conditioned and ultra-modern, a huge TV playing music videos, and filled mostly with European and Asian tourists. I am at the same time grateful to feel secure in our accommodations and the precision taken in orienting us to what is indeed quite a different culture than what we’re used to.
Although I’m thrilled to be here and eager to really launch into exploration of the neighborhood (we are in an area just east of Accra), city, and country, I also have to admit that I am somewhat frustrated with the agenda thus far. “Orientation weekend” sends me back to the painful planned socialization I could barely endure in high school, freshman year of college, and now in the last year of my undergrad experience it’s really too much. I’m not big on group activity, preferring independence at every point, and to couple this disinclination with our privileged American NYU status I feel rather uncomfortable. But nonetheless, it is just the first weekend, now technically the third day in Africa, I have absorbed a lot already and there is so much ahead. Once the rhythm of our weeks picks up I believe my discomfort will pass.
Although I’m thrilled to be here and eager to really launch into exploration of the neighborhood (we are in an area just east of Accra), city, and country, I also have to admit that I am somewhat frustrated with the agenda thus far. “Orientation weekend” sends me back to the painful planned socialization I could barely endure in high school, freshman year of college, and now in the last year of my undergrad experience it’s really too much. I’m not big on group activity, preferring independence at every point, and to couple this disinclination with our privileged American NYU status I feel rather uncomfortable. But nonetheless, it is just the first weekend, now technically the third day in Africa, I have absorbed a lot already and there is so much ahead. Once the rhythm of our weeks picks up I believe my discomfort will pass.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Blog Launch!
I take off tomorrow evening from JFK for Accra, Ghana, initiating my first (of hopefully many more to follow!) adventure in Africa. Excited, anxious, eager... I want to record my experiences here, to stay connected to everyone back in the States and as a consistent means to chart my own course. And now, I'm off to finish packing, and get some rest before the 11 hour and 15 minute flight across the Atlantic...
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