Causing a stir

A finger timidly reached out to poke my leg…. Another small hand stretched up to brush my own. Someone else gripped my wrist….. and then the swarm. Hands everywhere. As the crowd descended, I actually found myself having to pick some up off the ground - whether they were there intentionally or not (some opted to touch my feet), I'll never know, but it certainly wasn't an ideal hang out spot for them. Children back to back, jostling one another to get closer to the obroni, touch her to see if she was real. You’d think I was a unicorn.

When a coworker asked if I’d be interested in riding along on a trip to the Eastern Region (next over from Greater Accra), I was all for getting away from my laptop, out of the office, and taking a look at the country outside of the Accra region. I had no idea I was about to become a sensation.

Before this afternoon, of course, I’ve been gawked at, occasionally ogled… and I say “of course” not out of some delusion as to my own personal appeal, but merely due to my skin pigment (which I, of course, cannot take credit for); it makes you a creature of intrigue here in equatorial Africa. Something of an oddity…… which, when it comes to the blunt openness and thoughtlessness of children (a universally endearing trait, wouldn’t you say?), translates into something to be manhandled.

At our first stop, I regret to admit that virtually every child was reprimanded due to my presence, which inspired them to spread the news of an obroni like wildfire as they craned to get a good look at me through the classroom window. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, who waited innocently in the shade outside, the director was quizzing Franklin, my coworker, as to whether or not I was his wife. As I quickly learned, this was only the beginning…. Subsequent visits resulted in more craning and gawking (from children and adults alike), the aforementioned manhandling escapade, and several directors and principals requesting that Franklin leave “his obroni” there with them. The director of the manhandlers, for instance, picked his way through the outskirts of the crowd around me and, in his best ringmaster tone, asked “You like the obroni?!” receiving a unanimous and repeated “Yeeesss!” in response. Thus, as we left his office, he suavely followed up the now-typical “leave the obroni” comment by noting that both he and the children liked me, so I really ought to stay.

The fun continued from the car, as well, as stares, flirtatious smiles and waves, fruitless shouts, and one bold instance of picture taking continued the obroni fever. Indeed, it is true that Ghanaians are friendly…. And, if you’re a white woman in Ghana, you may come to the conclusion that Ghanaian men in particular come across as rather too friendly, all somehow without crossing from entertaining to just plain creepy (though it’s a thin line at times). My presence has been requested for tomorrow’s venture to the Western Region, and I’m sincerely intrigued… we shall see if I am to join or not.

In any case, all of the above has only enhanced something already brewing in my mind – I was torn between entertained/flattered and sincerely bothered… bothered not because I felt at all in danger (thank you, Franklin, for declining their half-joking requests), but by the very fact that I caused such a sensation.

As we waited in the lobby of one school, children giddily slipped through to sneak a look at the obroni – a fact that I was totally unaware of until Franklin called my attention to it. This, naturally, inspired a new conversation: would it be like that in the US, he asked? If, say, a black person were to walk into a school as I had just done? Try responding to that one.

I’m sure everyone would answer differently. My own answer, however, was along these lines: there are relatively few places in the United States that remain completely untouched by diversity of some sort, so it wouldn’t be quite so outlandish. In the most urban of areas, like DC, racial diversity was something I truly didn’t even note; it’s a fact of life. The general trend, however, seems to be this: Ghanaians are much, much more open about noting race than “politically correct” obsessed Americans; this noting of race, however, does not translate into racism. Rather, as I answered this afternoon, I can’t help but specify that, though Ghanaians may blatantly gawk and stare, it is not in an offensive way (“obroni” is, in fact, more of a term of endearment). In the US, however, quite honestly, a noting of race is usually done offensively – it is doubtful that it will be openly commented on or acknowledged, but that in no way certifies that all Americans are more pleasantly at home with racial diversity; for some, it merely entails a sort of festering racism, unfortunate as it is. Perhaps others see it differently…. From my own experience, however, that was the most logical and accurate response I could offer.

Racism, sadly, seems to be universal – there are pockets of it wherever you go. Open acknowledgement of the differences of race, however, must not be confused as racism. This obroni, at least, views the two as separate. If anything, my skin pigment has caused people to be more impressed with or interested in me than otherwise – another troublesome thought. While in the US one hears cries of “reverse racism” (a term which is innately impossible, as it implies that there is a correct direction for which racism to take, but for current purposes, you understand my meaning), as I stood in a Ghanaian primary school today, surrounded by awed children and overly friendly men with ulterior motives, another coworker, Evelyn, uttered one phrase in passing that nearly knocked me off my feet – “The black man looks up to the white man.” Did she really just…? Indeed.

While it was something she, of course, did not maintain, and did note merely in passing, it was a disturbingly true take on the perspectives with which some have viewed me since my arrival. Some may be interested but see no real difference (the ideal), others (though generally unconsciously done) have made me want to shrink into the shadows, and still others (and this group outweighs the previous) make me want to protest. Make me want to shake people into their senses and say “No! Why am I seeing colonial remnants?! You have and will see much more of life than myself; you have made your way through a harder existence than I’ve ever had to experience. You deserve to sit in the damn chair, not me! I should be making you dinner! Stop acting like I’m special or above you! It doesn’t matter that I’m a guest, and it doesn’t matter that my skin is lighter than your own – you deserve it more than I do. If we are not equals, it is because you are above me. Home court advantage.”

Children, of course, have generally shown this troubling sense of awed fascination more than adults, who are, quite logically, disillusioned by the fact that I am lighter skinned. On their part, however, the amount of humility and patience often displayed, frankly, is both awe-inspiring and sickening. Sickening to be on the receiving end of a hierarchical and somewhat servile culture, and sickening to note how much more they deserve and how little others appreciate what they already enjoy (or fail to enjoy) in life.

Of course there is plenty more to be said, but it’s rainy season and Ghanaian thunder and lightning truly beats all. I’ve also babbled/ranted long enough, I’m sure. Thus we have a blog post with one theme alone. Still, it’s a theme that has occupied innumerable minds, debates, books, conflicts, etc etc etc, so you’ll have to forgive me for devoting a moderately lengthy blog post to the matter. More to come, no doubt. This is one obroni who never stops thinking.

*As you may have guessed, photography was not exactly fitting for this afternoon, thus the continued lack of pictures. They will come. Patience, you know…. patience. Greater things to occupy our minds at the moment, no?

The Lizard on Papaya Close: the only one who didn't stop to stare

a. A servile and obligation-laden society is one that I will never condone nor be able to comfortably accept; that fact I have accepted.

b. Naming roadways after fruit is a universal mark of complete unoriginality, though, entertainingly enough, you may find new ones here and there due to climate difference. For instance, in Erie, PA, we have the likes of Peach and Cherry Streets. In this community alone, half a world away between Accra and Tema, I've strolled down Papaya, Orange, Strawberry, Cherry, and Raspberry Close/Lane/whathaveyou.

c. Lizards are easily frightened and, if startled into scuttling out of hiding, may surprise and frighten you, the passerby, as you just surprised and frightened it.

d. An unknown obroni woman walking down the streets of a suburban Ghanaian neighborhood in order to best appreciate the beautiful weather and colorful scenery will, in doing so, inevitably invite waves from fascinated children (some of whom will proceed to follow said female as she continues down the street, complete with enraptured smiles and excited waves, as though it were a parade), the occasional nod or word of friendly hello, and always a good number of stares... some less comfortable than others. Note to the starers, particularly the men (as you are the most guilty party): if you must stare, have the decency to verbalize something [ie "hello"] while you're at it; makes it less blatantly awkward.

An Obroni in Ghana

*Beware: lengthy, I know. Verbose, I know. If you are not inspired to read this beast of a post but, for whatever reason, would like more info than "hot, but excellent," by all means, just ask.

I've been asked more than once about my thoughts on Ghana thus far, and I've stuck to an expedient "hot, but excellent" for the most part.... to further break it down as logically as I can think to do so (precisely because there are too many thoughts in my mind):

Who: Ghanaians are known for their friendliness, and rightly so. The Agyares, whom I’m staying with for the duration of the internship (and heads of Smartline) are excellent, both as people and as hosts, of course. What’s more, I’ve already been dubbed with a Ghanaian (more specifically, Akan) name, Yaa, signifying that I was born on a Thursday… and this insisted upon by three of the fellows in sales on the very afternoon I’d met them.

As the company is small, I was quickly introduced to everyone in the office - “a boy’s club,” in the words of Mr. Agyare, as Mrs. Agyare and myself are accompanied by only 1 woman among a staff of about 15. Still, on the very first afternoon, soon after my computer was established in the general office, I was sporadically pulled from my reading to respond to the numerous friendly questions lobbed from across the room and, ultimately, talked into taking a stroll down the street with one of the guys in search of a calling card. Adventures expanded yesterday afternoon as I joined two of the guys on a book delivery to a store in Accra Mall, throwing in a stop for roasted plantains and peanuts and a drive through the market while we were at it. Enter part 2…

What: Culture shock, something I absolutely love. First trip to Africa and it’s bound to happen. As I walked down the street with my new coworker, Albert, on Monday, the people around us made no qualms about staring; I clearly am not Ghanaian. Surprising (at least to one coming from a nation much obsessed with the idea of political correctness, for better or for worse) as it was, Albert also had no qualms in noting this, but from his own perspective – according to him, it seems people would be inclined to look at him with intrigue as well, wondering what he was doing with a white woman. Indeed, I was the only one to be found in the area, at least at the time.

I’ve been in the minority before, yes. I’ve been the only Caucasian in the building on numerous occasions, etc etc… but this is the most I’ve been so blatantly in the minority; in fact, seemingly the only member of it, at times. I can honestly say that this never occurred to me prior to the onslaught of staring. Having spent the past semester in DC, I still held a mind set in which diversity was a given, and I failed to fully think that one through prior to arrival. While of course I knew I would inevitably stand out in that manner, I was not prepared for the reactions (not that any have been particularly negative; just intrigued, I suppose).

*The latest on that front, thrown in here before I post: this morning, one of the guys in the office approached me to introduce himself, ask how my trip has been going, and inform me that he would call me “obroni,” aka, “white person” or “foreigner” (for logical reasons, it seems the two have become nearly interchangeable). Before you Americans are too thrown off by this – and I can only imagine the reaction if such a thing happened in the US – Ghanaians are extremely easy going people… to the point that even race has become a light-hearted sort of thing, in a way (note Albert’s lack of issue commenting on it). After being dubbed “obroni,” for instance, I was informed that, if I liked, I could call him “bibini,” or “black man,” in return. Ahem…. I’m American, so that will not be happening – endearing terms though they may be in Ghana!

…ah, I also received an interesting assessment today as I stood chatting with Albert, who paused between sentences and mused “You’re tall… very tall.... Taller than Ghanaian girls. …brown hair…. And I haven’t checked out your eyes yet. What color are they? …Blue?” I always joked that I was far from exotic and had a moderately boring, everyday background in the States… now I’m apparently a creature of intrigue.

Second matter of culture shock, and one that must be equally frank: status. Every society has it’s hierarchy in some manner or another, though some less obvious than others, so of course this wasn’t surprising – especially in a developing country already prone to gross inequalities of wealth. The Agyares employ both a driver, Atta (who also works at Smartline), and a cook/maid, Sister Akua. Raised in a middle-class, blue-collar American family, I am not accustomed to being waited on; if I can do something myself, I will do it, and if I can help, I will. It is this mindset and general resulting habits that have inspired many an incredulous look, smile, or outright chuckle from virtually everyone present since I’ve been here.

This is not, of course, to say that they are usually treated poorly. Rather, it seems more to be the case that the Ghanaians see it as a fact of life, whereas I am hard-pressed limiting myself to putting together my own lunch and a mere “thank you” and helping to clear things away when we have finished a meal. I cannot gracefully sit by as people around me work, but especially so if they are working on my behalf. The one phrase I have learned in Twi, a common Akan language, has thus played an active role in my interactions with Ghanaians, and particularly Sister Akua, who speaks precious little English – “meda ase,” or “thank you.” I’ve been reminded, rightfully, that it is, of course, their job…. Still, I can’t help but note that it’s become more of their lives than their jobs. Relatively well though they may be treated, it’s not at all as equals, and it must be noted that when one is at the beck and call of another (and/or lives on the premises, as Sister Akua does), it is not merely a job.

When: Here until July 15... May-June are statistically the hottest, rainiest months of the year here in Ghana, which is just about the intersection of the Prime Meridian and the Equator. Legit, as we flew in over the coastline (which was, in the words of Jim Carey, b-e-a-utiful), I looked south into the Atlantic and half expected to see a long dashed line through the air labeled “Equator.”

Where: Oops, see above, I spoiled it. But once you have found Ghana, note Accra, the capital, and Tema, a town just to the east and along the coast. Place pin and label “Kate is/was here.” Looking forward to ventures out as the rest of my time here progresses, with the fellows from the office in the Accra area and outskirts and with Kofi, once he returns from PA.

The Agyares live in a neighborhood between Accra and Tema, where aside from birds and the wind blowing through the palm trees, the only sound you'll ever hear is honking when someone gets home, because Ghanaians dearly love to honk their horns: at other vehicles, at bicyclists, at roadside sellers, and at closed gates (which open soon after honking, thanks to the just-summoned person behind them).

Why: Take it from my raisin box: “Stay curious and you will travel to the ends of the earth.” Indeed. I was curious, so I traveled not quite to the end, but to a place most people (at least, most Americans – including myself, prior to meeting Kofi and playing Sporcle) probably could not locate on a map. Additional cause: internship, of course. I’ve been hard at work editing a Ghanaian social studies textbook, a second edition bound for local high schools… the brilliance of the project, of course (the brainchild of Mr. Agyare), being that I learn about Ghana along the way. The blend works out quite well, combining this academic learning in between outings and speaking with actual Ghanaians, of course.

Something the book probably will not tell you: the mangoes are small but delicious; fresh pineapple also pretty darn awesome. Americans won't find themselves lacking for music, though much of it is either somewhat dated (from "I Believe in Miracles" and "Gotham City" to Michael Jackson) or country, believe it or not. ...and Ghanaian women, by the way, may be relatively short (according to Albert) because they’ve been walking around with massive weights atop their heads. Seriously, it’s astonishing how much they’re able to manage – strong backs and superhuman balance, it seems. Eggs, peanuts, melons, water, sewing machine on lapdesk… you name it, and someone in Ghana has probably balanced it on their head while strolling down the street. Ah, and for the women, at least (because men also carry things atop their heads, though more cloth and suitcases than produce), extra weight added by the child often strapped on as well. Amazingly innovative idea, if you asked me, and much more transportable than ungainly strollers, as what appears to be a large, strong piece of cloth provides the infant with a nice little seat looking towards the mother’s back while she walks along, seemingly unhampered by the child strapped to her and the full tray of eggs balanced on her head. Now there’s some skill for you.

Pic.s coming.... been soaking it all in mentally, not so much with the photos yet. Have no fear; it will be done.

The trek... or rather, the long sit

The four exits nearest the Buffalo airport (two headed either direction) were blocked off by walls of orange cones. There were no detours in sight, only orange-vested men setting out additional cones with no apparent plans for roadwork, accompanied by numerous police cars... the po-po... the fuzz. As we created our own detour and approached the airport (at this point, roughly an hour before my flight to JFK was to take off), masses of people had gathered along the streets. Standing in the median, crowding the sidewalks, some atop roofs... most with umbrellas up and binoculars out, aimed at the airport. We had to know.

"The president's here today! His plane just landed- it's right there," exclaimed an oddly giddy man standing in the median as we stopped for a red light.

What are the odds of that, you ask? Of all days, how does Barack Obama opt to fly into Buffalo (really, Buffalo??) on the same day and at the same time that I must be there to fly out for the first leg of my journey to Accra? This is what happens when you travel with me. All sorts of crazy stuff. Also when travelling with me, you may find that the 'up' escalators are out of service, forcing the unfortunate traveler to haul the suitcase up a flight of stairs. Luckily, I packed relatively light (one suitcase for 2 months in Africa is not too shabby, no?) so the only difficult factor was my being bent over due to a.backpack, b.suitcase, and most of all c.uncontrollable laughter at the ridiculousness of my travel situation, as per the usual. It wouldn't be me if everything went as expected.

The woman at the Delta kiosk, of course, was rather thrown off by the fact that I was travelling to a country she'd never heard of, so after repeatedly asking where I was flying ("Accra, Ghana. ...Ghana. ...G-h-a-n-a. ...yes. ...West Africa. ...yes, it's in Africa."), she returned my passport and wished me safe travels with a lackluster expression of nonchalance. Just in time for me to get through security, make it to the gate, make a quick phone call to relate the absurd start to the trip (it had to be done.), and board.

To be fair, I didn't expect her to be familiar with Ghana. Probably shouldn't have been so blatantly obvious, though... she seemed a tad too confused.

Sit, JFK, food, sit, passport/visa check, more sitting, board, and 11 hours of sitting. Every seat in the flight was booked, so it was a bit of a madhouse - children and bags everywhere. Once settled in, though, the flight was a breeze. Dinner, snacks, and an in-flight movie made the flight a relatively pleasant experience, as did the kind but completely silent elderly Ghanaian woman sitting next to me (who was sure to poke me to get my attention and wave goodbye before deboarding). Best part of the flight, though, had to be waking up mid-nap, sneaking a look out the window, and being confronted with an amazing display of stars. Anyone who has seen me outside after dark is aware of this weakness; I have a tendency to walk with my eyes to the sky rather than in front of me. Much easier when already in the sky, though perhaps not as comfortable as when viewed from a comfortable patch of grass.

...aaaaand arrival. Akwaaba! The partially groaned reactions were widely audible as we all took our first real steps and stretches and walked straight into a wall of heat and humidity. Welcome to Ghana! Quick run through customs and long wait at baggage, through which another solo American girl and I stuck together, chatting about the States and what on earth brought us to Ghana for the summer. Through the nonsense, and Mr. Agyare was pretty much the first person I saw, there to welcome me with a smile and sympathy for my risk of melting. Quick drive to the house with some info re. Accra on the way, and it was time to settle in and adjust to the time change (which is still in the process).

That said, I've certainly talked enough for the moment... hasta luego!

Akwaaba... aka, welcome to Accra!

Arrived, napped, fed. :) ...given remote control for air conditioner in the room, have better cell signal here than I did at home, and more reliable wireless internet (that is, when the power is on... ha). more later on my nearly missing the first flight out of Buffalo thanks to Barack Obama, some confusion once in the airport, and, ultimately, the 11hr flight which has landed me on the sun, complete with girls standing in the middle of the road balancing baskets of food for sale on their heads [quite impressive.].

Thus far, safe to say that Ghana is standing up to its reputation as a.an ideal introduction to Africa, and b.a wonderfully friendly place.

Next up: West Africa

After a semester in DC, I am officially home in small town PA for a grand total of 4 full days before catching a flight out of Buffalo, NY, to Accra, Ghana, via JFK. Just enough time to see the fam., unpack, repack, and write a 20 page research paper on education, literacy, and democracy in developing countries.

I'm a wanderer by nature.... though I grew up in a small town outside of Erie, PA - or perhaps, at least partially, because I grew up in a small town outside of Erie (let's be honest) - I've always had an undeniable itch to travel. Anywhere. Thus you find me packing for the equator in the middle of the summer, pumped full of vaccines and sunblock, bug spray, and Paul Theroux books in hand. Thursday's the big day: it's time for a new adventure.

This particular trip is thanks to the Agyare family, with whom I will be staying from mid-May to mid-July while I intern with Mr. Agyare at Smartline Limited, a publishing company in the coastal capital of Accra. How does one land a summer internship with a Ghanaian publishing company? To use the DC catchword: networking. In this case, via the one Ghanaian I know, Kofi, fellow Dickinsonian and good friend. It was one of those rare but wonderful instances in which the "what if" conversations of the wee hours turn into reality.

Kofi and I, as he fittingly displays his Ghanaian pride (and the renowned Ghanaian tendency towards friendliness... ha)

My passport is officially host of a shiny new visa, the first of what I hope will be many. I am in possession of a ticket to Accra, a return ticket two months later, and a place to stay in between. All else will fall into place.... here's looking forward to what that will be.