Capping it off

My apologies for the horrendous length at which it has taken me to return to this blog – the town of North East, Pennsylvania, is a virtual black hole, the fates conspiring against my attempts to connect to the outside world.

In any case, as the above statement implied, I am, in fact, back in the US and back in my hometown… for the moment. The return trip included 24 hours without sleep due to energetic small children on planes, an emergency landing in Dakar to see to a sick passenger, delays in and out of JFK, and overly talkative women chatting about bad relationships and cat urinary tract infections at midnight en route to Buffalo, NY. Still, safely returned I am. (Truth be told, I think the 24 hour lack of sleep saved me from a more painful jet lag transition.)

While I am, of course, happy to be back in the US, as with everything, there are pros and cons. For instance, while I am overjoyed to be back in a culture and society that enables me to walk into public without being gawked at, hit on, and/or proposed to, my visit to Washington, DC, in the past week was a stark reminder that this also meant I had to retrain myself to walk quickly, limit eye contact, and limit smiling needlessly. Then, though happy to be back in a land of sour gummy worms and sipping chai latte in a café (as you now find me), using my layover in JFK to seek out dinner was a harsh return to US prices – everything is so expensive in this country!

More seriously, though, I have now experienced firsthand that which they (that ambiguous “they” which seems to rule the world) call “reverse culture shock.” I’ve dropped from the capitol of Ghana, West Africa, to a stereotypically small, conservative agricultural town in suburban Pennsylvania. A week’s escape to visit friends and bum around in DC helped ease the transition but, for better or worse, only encouraged my ever-growing wanderlust. The author Paul Theroux once described travel as “intoxicating,” and I’d have to agree.

Now nearing a month since my return – as I know from the gradually depleting supply of anti-malarial medicine – I have consistently faced one particularly frustrating question: “So, how was Ghana? Tell us about it.” Here’s the thing, though: one can’t summarize a country in a few sentences worth of a narrative. I’ve fallen into the habit of commenting in heat level, validation of the stereotype of friendly Ghanaians, short explanation of how I ended up there, and a note that I explored a bit on the weekends. And voila, you have a summary of my two months in Ghana. Better yet, I’ll hand over my photo album and welcome questions as the audience flips through, lingering on some and merely glancing at others.

While I prefer a more Q&A, discussion based sort of conversation, I suppose some factors of the experience can be broken down. For instance, favorites: that stereotypical Ghanaian friendliness and welcoming atmosphere, the canopy walk at Kakum National Park, and chatting with locals. Most awkward: being the only one in a room not speaking Twi, and thereby going from unavoidably gawked at to virtually invisible, and being unaccustomed to the services of a live-in cook or a driver. Most frustrating: seeing issues – on both sides of the ocean – and knowing that there is little I can do to better the situation.

It is that last factor that, admittedly, struck me the most: gross disparities of wealth, natural disasters striking at the most vulnerable and impoverished, political corruption and unrest, mistrust of others and of one’s own abilities, and complacency on both sides of the Atlantic, particularly in regards to racism and racial profiling. As we drove to the office one morning, I stared out the window as per the usual, but couldn’t stop one question from coming to mind. How do you fix this? Or, more appropriately, how do we fix this?

Frankly, I don’t have the answer, but I can’t ignore the question. It’s maddening, really – but I’d rather be unspeakably frustrated in this way than be blissfully ignorant. Of course, I was well aware that such things presented massive problems before my trip to Ghana, but seeing them up close and personal raised the bar of irritation. It makes me want to shake people, crying “How do you not see it? How do you not care?” More than that, though, it makes me unbelievably grateful for having had the opportunity. May it be only the beginning of my intoxicating wanderlust, and here’s hoping my experiences and the sharing of them can bring some amount of learning or benefit to others, limited though it may be.

*Ah, and speaking of intoxication: for me, travel and writing go hand in hand… travel implies observations and thought, translating into words, etc etc. Now that I’ve completed both my DC blog and my Ghanaian experience, however, I’ve decided to see if I can’t start up something with a greater longevity and somewhat larger breadth (being fairly unrestricted). Thus the work in progress, http://theresgrassinmyloofah.blogspot.com. Feel free to take a gander.

The required and inevitable "Observation" entry

I’ve been meaning to update this blog for a little while now, and in fact uploaded photos last weekend, just haven’t actually managed to write out the thoughts that match them- attending a naming ceremony – also known as an “outdooring” – World Cup hype, the horror that was Suarez’s handball, and my sheer, uninhibited joy at finding myself the recipient of a tweet from Vivek Oberoi, an insanely popular Bollywood actor (and, if that means nothing to you, boyfriend of Aishwarya Rai before she married the amazing Abhishek Bachchan… look them up. You’ll recognize her, if nothing else).

…but none of this is going to happen at the moment, so I apologize for the continued delay. At the moment, you can chalk this up to the fact that it’s half time of the final World Cup gaming, and, more realistically, you can chalk it up to the fact that I’ve been rather busy and quite distracted…. Partially by the subject of the below. Explanation: this blog partially owes its existence to a requirement for a grant I’ve garnered from Dickinson to wend my way here, and another aspect of this grant includes reflecting on the experience… ie through considering an “ethical issue” that’s presented itself in the workplace. Verbose, I know… blame the topic.

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In the first week of my internship, one of my coworkers approached my desk, asked how I was enjoying my stay in Ghana thus far, and informed me, smiling good naturedly, that he was going to call me “obroni,” or “white person/foreigner” in the local language of Twi. Less than a week later, as I visited schools in the area with some of the company’s sales team, children crowded around me in awe and pushed one another aside to get closer to me, touching me as if to be sure I was real, while their principals and school directors joked with my coworker that he should leave “his obroni” there with them.

Unlike the “politically correct” culture of the United States, in Ghana, race is acknowledged openly, and “obroni” has become my second name…. well, third, after my acquired Ghanaian name, Yaa (of Ashanti origin, meaning I was born on a Thursday). I have, in this light, become accustomed to it as such, knowing that it is meant more endearingly than otherwise, this labeling of me by my skin color in a country where foreigners such as myself are a rarity and a novelty. Ogling, compliments, flirtation, winks, air-blown kisses, declarations of love, and marriage proposals are to be expected pretty much any time I’m in a public setting.

This is, of course, something I’ve had no choice but to attempt to become accustomed to over my nearly two month stay here thus far; it began as surprising, steadily became more entertaining than surprising, with a twinge of annoyance, which ultimately grew to outweigh the “entertaining” factor, and has at this point become more exasperating than anything else. Here we have the constant pendulum between being ogled (by Ghanaians and other nationals alike it seems, unfortunately) and feeling invisible in a country that lists English as an official language more for administration purposes than as a matter of daily use. C’est la vie, the ups and downs of being a young, single white (American) woman in Ghana.

Thus, knowing that it is the norm, I didn’t allow myself to become truly upset until it became an unavoidable topic with one coworker in particular. With the permission of my supervisor and host, Mr. Agyare, this coworker, Franklin, one Saturday accompanied me on a trip four hours down the coast, being a native of that city; during that trip, we at one point came into conversation about inter-racial relationships and general racial outlook (after his having witnessed the unavoidable ogling and flirtation headed my direction). Looking upon us as friends more than coworkers, I thoughtlessly failed to anticipate the effect such a conversation could have down the road.

About a week later, he sent me an email – though purely intended to be friendly and complimentary, quite frankly, it frustrated me more than anything else. In this email, he expressed surprise and praise at my being both light skinned and “down to earth”… and, implied from our previous conversations and what he’d learned of me, this “down to earth” quality including the fact that I, though Caucasian, do not consider myself superior to others and act accordingly. This, apparently, made him so “humbled” that he had a hard time expressing it in person.

In Ghana, you see – as in much if not all of Africa – colonialism has left an indelible mark, and in more than the foreboding castles and former slave holds that still stand along the coast. More specifically and frankly, Ghanaians still see Caucasians – “obronis” – as superior to themselves, and they don’t pretend or act otherwise. Thus Franklin’s surprise to find me so frustrated by this mentality and so insistent that we are equals, and thus my coworkers and other Ghanaian acquaintances have been entertained, impressed, and slightly thrown off by my mode of partaking in everyday life, from street food to offering to help in a society that maintains class stratification in the form of hard laborers, street hawkers, drivers, cooks and maids, and general live-in house helps.

Though Franklin’s expression of praise and humility was meant to compliment, it frustrated me more than anything else. If a Ghanaian I’d truly spoken with and spent time with, had discussed this matter of racial outlook with, still viewed me first and foremost as a “light skinned lady” and humbled himself for any reason in connection to my skin tone, then who could I reach? Who in this country would see past color and realize that they are not inferior? After much agonizing, I carefully responded to his email, thanking him for the compliment but focusing my response on the fact that he had no reason to be humbled, repetition of the fact that we are equals and the insistence that, if I were to be complimented for anything, it should have nothing to do with my skin color. Still frustrated, I discussed the matter with the fellow Dickinsonian I am now staying with and discussed it with a couple of close friends at home (none of whom are Caucasian and all of whom have different backgrounds – both in terms of race and experience).

When I next saw Franklin in work, he warmly approached me, seemingly quite happy with the outcome. I, however, was, unfortunately, in a different mindset. Rather than feeling more comforted, as he seemed to, I was uncomfortable. I’d reached the tipping point. This pendulum between ogling and invisibility had hit home on too many fronts, and I was disappointed by the idea that even those who knew me (though to a limited extent, of course) still saw me through a painfully tainted light. What’s more, I was disappointed and frustrated by the idea that I was powerless to prevent it, as had been pointed out in the previous discussion with my close Ghanaian friend and fellow Dickinsonian.

At this point in time, I suppose the issue is as “resolved” as its going to be, but truly, it will never fully be resolved. How does one resolve such a thing? How can one beat into the minds of millions of people worldwide that we are equals – both for those who consider themselves inferior and for those who consider themselves superior? If only I knew the answer. Unlike some others, I cannot allow myself to become complacent in the matter; even knowing I can’t change the world, I can’t just “let it go,” though perhaps I should. Elie Wiesel once wrote “A mute conscience is a false conscience,” and I can’t help but note that if everyone were complacent, shaking our heads and saying “That’s just how things are,” nothing would ever change. No, I can’t change the world, but I can’t sit idly by as people wrongly belittle themselves, either.

Honestly, I have yet to regret my response to that particular situation with Franklin; I can’t think of anything I may have done differently. Knowing myself, I will continue discussing and thinking over the issue, and perhaps someday in the future, some time after my leaving Ghana, something else will occur to me, something I should have done or said instead. Perhaps, for instance, because he is a coworker, I should not have allowed for the opinion/ethics based conversation we engaged in regarding race. In this case, however, I still can’t help feeling that it was a matter of person-to-person, making the circumstances – work, friend, or family – more irrelevant than otherwise.

As for how I came to decide what constituted “ethical behavior,” in this case, I’d like to consider it common sense, though it flies in the face of what many still hold true (even in the US, a country that prides itself on the idea that all are equal). There is no question in my mind that skin color has (or rather, should have) no affect whatsoever on matters of “superiority” or “inferiority.” Even calling into the conversation the continued poverty of most Africans, and thus the difficulty in considering themselves equals with “obronis,” most of whom at least seem to be much better off than themselves, I must assert that we are, at root, equals – born into drastically different circumstances and opportunities, for better or worse, but equals.

How should others come to this conclusion? Well, as I said, I consider it common sense. Also as previously noted, however, this is, unfortunately, not the case, and I, unfortunately, do not yet have the answer. Teachings from the earliest ages, observing progressively more tolerant elders (eventually), experience in the world and exposure to those of different backgrounds and races, together with an open mind and, ideally, a genuine interest in humanity for what it is and a will to see the fulfillment of others’ rights and potential…. All of this, and more, is necessary. As is, quite frankly, both noting the problem where it exists and refusing to fall into a mindset of complacency or resigned fatalism.

To borrow from a favorite author and an Auschwitz survivor, Elie Wiesel: “Be the conscience of your nation. And remember, a conscience that does not speak up when injustices are being committed is betraying itself. A mute conscience is a false conscience.”

The troubles of novelty

Earlier today, I went out for a short walk around the neighborhood to clear my head a bit and enjoy the weather. Halfway down the first street, I was stopped, given an overly-friendly spiel, complimented, and proposed to.

Giving up on the mind-clearing abilities of this particular walk, I returned to the Agyare's and accosted Kofi and his cousin Obed regarding the frustrating amorousness of their countrymen. Entertainment over, it was time to try again - this time heading for the opposite block of the neighborhood and donning ear phones, as per Kofi's suggestions.

After making it around the block undisturbed (smile, nod, smile, etc), I felt overly silly and anti-social with the ear phones, returning them to my pocket.

Then I met Felix and Melvin. According to Felix, I'm beautiful and should give him my phone number. According to Melvin, he (Melvin, that is) is "a bad guy"... *sneaky smile.*

Semi-exasperated, I returned once again to the Agyare's. Back to Kofi and Obed, introducing myself to the room with "Your countrymen have issues." "It happened again?!" Yes, yes, it did.

Moral of the story: it gets tiring to be a novelty.

more substantial communication on the way... and happy Independence Day! Sadly, no fireworks or hot dogs in Ghana.... 10 days, America. I'll see you then.

It's worth the trip

Before anything further is said, I must admit one thing: while, patriotically bound as I am, I was sad to see the US bid farewell to South Africa, I cannot help but be happy the Black Stars pulled off that last goal in extra time. I tell you what, nothing beats being in the busiest part of Accra when the Ghanaian team makes it to the World Cup quarter finals; “epic” does not even begin to describe it.

Every television in Ghana seemed to have been moved outside, now surrounded by a crowd of eager fans donned in red, yellow, and green, some with the Ghanaian flag draped over them like a cloak. When the final whistle blew, it was total insanity. Crowds – no, mobs – ran circles through the main station of Accra, waving flags, blowing vuvuzelas, and shouting and singing at the top of their lungs. Traffic was even worse than usual – which is saying something – as the roads were filled with people of all ages literally dancing in the streets. People who spend their every waking moment hawking on the streets or selling fried plantain by kerosene lamps and candles had something to celebrate, and celebrate they did. They had something to smile about; all of Africa had something to smile about. Frankly, they didn’t just want it more than we did – they needed it more than we did. And I couldn’t stop smiling.

Just for posterity- the bus station in Cape Coast, where we watched the first ten minutes or so before climbing into another death trap of a van.

That said, I was not able to actually watch the game past the first goal, as I was sitting in a death trap of a van with my co-worker, Franklin, as we made the trip back to Accra from our day’s outing in Cape Coast, a few hours west of the home base. Franklin being a Cape Coast native, we navigated our way around quite comfortably (well, not always literally, as tro-tros are meant to transport as many people as will fit in the van, not comfort them), making it back to our respective homes just after midnight. Sites on the agenda: Kakum National Park and Cape Coast Castle, a colonial fort and former slave hold.

As previously implied, the transportation involved was pretty much nightmare-ish, but I wouldn’t hesitate to relive it if it meant a return trip to Kakum. The height and general state of the canopy walk is apparently a source of fear from many… for those distracted by the sheer beauty of the park and a group of talkative university students from Accra, however, the only downside was the inability to capture it all in mere photos.

Opting out of joining me on the hike and the canopy walk, Franklin hung around the park entrance as I began the trek up the mountain, ultimately finding myself amidst a large group of university students from Accra. It’s already been widely noted that non-Ghanaians are somewhat of a rarity, particularly if that non-Ghanaian is a single young white woman such as myself; bring on the intrigue.

One of the girls stepped up and asked to take a picture with me, and, when they found me unopposed, I soon found myself a very popular figure, both for pictures and for questioning (mind you, this was the afternoon of Saturday’s Ghana-US game). Though English is an official language in Ghana, it is such only as a bridge between the various, more common, vernaculars, most common being Twi. This somewhat pseudo status of English, then, often makes a translator a helpful factor, and one of the older students quickly designated himself just that…. with the gradually added titles of occasional photographer, escort, and apparently fancying himself my protector of sorts.

Truth be told, he was one of the three fellows in the group bold enough to verbalize any romantic advances, but major props to him for being the most sound-minded of them all. Bachelor 1 declared love shortly after spotting me; bachelor 2 proclaimed me “very beautiful” and asked for my phone number, ironically enough through my translator, bachelor 3, who stuck with me throughout the trip to engage in friendly small talk, question what brought me to Ghana and how long I’d be in the country, fend off teasing from others in the group (who had noted his rather focused attention to the obroni), and ultimately ask if I could love a black man.

The declarations of love, compliments, and various other matters of flirtation are not new; on the contrary, they’ve been freakishly common factors of my time here [while I’m fairly positive it is solely thanks to my semi-reflective skin tone, Kofi and Franklin have chivalrously insisted that they’ve compared and contrasted Ghanaian reactions to myself and to other “obronis,” and for whatever reason I attract the most interest and attention]…. But I digress. Somewhat.

This new question posed by my self-designated translator highlights what had recently become a common topic of conversation, forming another branch of the race factor that has been discussed in previous blogs: inter-racial relationships. If it weren’t for my fear of boring/babbling you to death, I’d be terribly inclined to continue the discussion here, as it’s been so well-covered of late in my current corner of the world, but it is probably for the best that we set it aside for the moment.

Instead, we’ll transition with this: as previously noted, race continues to be a very blatant factor here (and in most places), but more so, unfortunately, as an obvious remnant of colonialism. The rarity of my white skin not only sets me apart, but sets me above, in the traditional Ghanaian mindset, regardless of my repeated protestations. True, obronis are rare. Honestly, we’re even surprised to see one another, wondering what everyone else is – namely, “What on earth are you doing here?” Case in point: I found myself the second obroni on a particularly packed trotro on Saturday, and the young man reached over to tap me on the shoulder, saying “Hello, my white sister! Where are you from?” in a friendly British accent. It’s a tearing sort of experience; while people seem drawn to one another in such ways, it also seemed to encourage the mentality of separation and differentiation. A mentality which, at one time, resulted in the likes of the former slave hold we visited next.

Cape Coast, the former capital of Ghana, was thus also a stronghold during the colonial times of “the Gold Coast,” and a chief port for the transportation of goods, resources unceremoniously stolen from the rich African lands, and, miserably, captured Africans turned slaves. As I cannot do the matter justice, I will not try. Instead, I’ll leave you to Huxley’s Roots, your own reflections, and a few photos, internet allowing. Down side: Franklin and I arrived after the castle had closed, meaning we nearly couldn’t get in and we lacked a guide. Up side: the fact that it was both deserted and getting a bit dark made the experience all the more heartfelt, I think, and silent but for the sound of the ocean just over the fortress wall.

Getting up to speed...

I fear this may be my last blog from Ghana; at this moment, I stand a very real risk of returning from Cape Coast late this Saturday night to find my belongings packed and awaiting me on the curb, pending the outcome of the Ghana-USA game.

No, no, of course not, but there are at least three truths in that statement:

a.Ghanaians are obsessed with “football,” especially with a World Cup on African soil;

b.as I have been reminded numerous times, the Yanks and the Black Stars are facing off on Saturday, and for that period of time, the entire country will stop and gather around the nearest tvs; and

c.I am unsure if I will be among that number, as I will, in fact, be in Cape Coast, joined in that venture by one of the fellows from the office, Franklin, who reportedly knows the area like the back of his hand. The trip will, somewhat unfortunately, be shortened to one very, very long day rather than two, so as not to scandalize the entire nation with the thought of a single Ghanaian man escorting a single obroni woman on an overnight trip; still, the company will be worth it, and I’m confident in our abilities to makes the rounds as best we can in what time we’ll have.

Before this weekend, however, it is only right that I update you as to what I’ve been up to. Short answer: reading day in and day out, with a smattering of adventuring on the weekends. I am on the verge of finishing editing for the second edition of the secondary school social studies textbook, and can honestly say it was quite the read – everything from Ghanaian politics and culture to finding myself much maligned as a youth, a foreigner, and the product of a now separated or “broken” family; according to the textbook writers, it seems this makes me quite the dysfunctional delinquent, heavily involved in drinking, hard drugs, petty crime, and general disturbances of the peaceful, traditional society. This particular delinquent, however, is the one who was editing the text…. Life is funny that way, isn’t it?

Next up in the world of editing is a continuation of the Sweet Valley High style text, with the new additions of a book on reducing poverty in Ghana and an art textbook, as I’m so ahead of schedule (the social studies text was to be finished by the end of my time here, and I have several weeks to go). Darn work ethic; the minute people realize you can do more, they excitedly give you more to do.

We have, however, missed out on relating my last two weekend adventures, namely a day in Aburi and an outing with the Danes. Though I am not known for consolidating my use of words (I love them too much), I can easily describe both as fantastic opportunities to see more of the Ghanaian countryside outside of Accra - wandering around the small mountaintop village of Aburi one weekend and checking out the Shai Hills Reserve and the Akosombo Dam in the Volta Region the next – and taking a look back at the US from the eyes of non-Americans.

Two weekends ago, Mr. and Mrs. Agyare and I set out for the village of Aburi, about two hour’s drive north of the center of Accra (and I specify “center” because it takes at least an hour, minimum, to get out of Accra). Aburi is Mr. Agyare’s hometown, the home of Aburi Botanical Gardens, and, that day, the site of a funeral for a distance relative; I was invited along to do some exploring during the day and come back from the end-of-the-ceremony type celebrations, which featured much chatting, singing, and dancing (live band, of course), and an insane amount of people, though I was informed it was considered a relatively small affair.

The traditional Ghanaian funeral lasts the entire day, starting bright and early with the ceremony most akin to those held in the US, though including some singing, followed by the entire party’s proceeding to the burial grounds, then back afterwards for a massive gathering of sharing condolences with the family, chatting with one another, and traditional singing and dancing – a celebration of life, it seems. (For those of you wondering: while I did not work up the courage to join the center dance area, Mr. Agyare’s elderly mother did sucker me in to dancing along with her as we gradually left our seats and the funeral grounds.)

The majority of my day, however, was spent at the Gardens, checking out the local crafts market and stand upon stand of fantastic woodcarvers, and wandering around the village with my escort for the day, Dotse, a fellow roughly my own age and rather eager to introduce me to all of his friends, in and out of local shops, businesses, and the Presbyterian missionary (where he worked) to do just that.

Perhaps just as interesting as exploring the village (with an excellent guide, as he’d lived there for the whole of his 20 years), however, was the conversation we ultimately struck up about the United States, Dotse’s perceptions of the country, and his ardent wish to go there for college and, ultimately, to settle. In short - truly, I could write chapters about the subject, but I’ll spare you the misery – while the world as a whole has been rather disillusioned from the “roads pave with gold” image of the US during the immigration boom in the early 20^th century, the fact remains that the very name America seems to hold its power to some extent, particularly in developing countries such as Ghana. They’ve seen documentaries about gang violence and urban crime, they’ve seen the international community rage against us and our hegemonic tendencies, but still they look longingly across the ocean, hoping to get a glimpse of what it’s like in this freakishly notorious yet idolized country. Fascinating stuff, let me tell you.

So as not to evoke bloodshot eyes as I continue babbling, however, that will have to be set aside for the moment as we continue to Danes, dubbed by Mrs. Agyare as Lars 1 and Lars 2. In Accra on work (chiefly including meetings with Mr. Agyare), they invited me to join them for a day of exploring the Volta Region, and I, of course, happily accepted. Had you asked me one year ago, I never would have guessed I’d find myself sitting in the back of a truck, squished between two older Danish men named Lars, as we listened to World Cup commentary and drove into the Shai Hills Wildlife Reserve.

Driven by the ever-talented Atta, we set out for the dam in Akosombo, the creator of what is currently the world’s largest manmade lake, the Volta, and supplier of hydroelectricity in Ghana and neighboring Togo and Benin – indeed, you’ll find some Ghanaians slightly ruffled by the fact that a country without enough electricity for the whole of its own population is exporting it to its neighbors. Had you joined us on the tour of the dam, however, you’d also have learned that this is partially because some of the water making this possible originated in Togo.

The somewhat lengthy drive back to Accra was then broken up with a fantastic little trek into Shai Hills, where we were greeted by a large group of baboons, lazily sitting along the roadside and watching the occasional car drive by. Once in the reserve, we spotted a heard of antelope en route to the bat cave, which was quite the climb, and not at all claustrophobia-friendly… or friendly to anyone who had been gorging themselves on the local breads and fried foods, quite frankly, considering a few uncomfortably tight squeezes between boulders.

At this point, however, I believe I will cease my babbling and leave you to the photos commemorating the ventures…. Here’s hoping my Ghanaian internet allows them to load.

Until next time, all the best…. And be sure to tune in to the epic World Cup battling this weekend; USA v Ghana on Saturday and England v Germany on Sunday. “Intense” does not even begin to describe it, so grab your vuvuzela and join the rest of the world in the “football” bonanza.

Dark Star Safari

If you'd asked me a year ago where I thought I'd be right now, I may have guessed shelving or working the circ. desk at McCord Memorial Library in North East, PA. There's no way I would have predicted trekking around the Shai Hills National Reserve in Ghana's Volta Region with two older men from Denmark. I also wouldn't have predicted avidly following www.fifa.com for the latest US World Cup news while editing a Ghanaian textbook in Accra.... but here I sit.

Now on a Paul Theroux kick (just finished the sequel to The Great Railway Bazaar, Ghost Train to the Eastern Star), I've just begun Dark Star Safari, his account of traveling across Africa by land, from Cairo to Cape Town. Judging from the first chapter, it'll be another good one: "Africa is one of the last great places on earth a person can vanish into. I wanted that. Let them wait. I have been kept waiting far too many times for far too long."

And with that, I'm going to have to request that you wait a tad bit more for me to catch up with the blogs.... plenty swirling around in this mind for blogging, I promise. Will be sure to update before catching a bus to Cape Coast for the weekend (as Theroux notes, safari translates as journey), Girl Scout's honor.

Bottom of Lake Volta, currently the largest man-made lake in the world, from the vantage point of Akosombo Dam.

Shai Hills... one of many, and sans the antelopes and baboons wandering around elsewhere.

Return of the Prodigal Son

Alas, I have now been in Ghana for over a month (hard to believe), and my blogging has faltered noticeably. I chalk this up to questionable internet connections, the continuing process of mulling over things in my mind and considering new ones rather than jotting down the thoughts immediately, and the odd fact that I actually go to sleep at a relatively normal hour now, thereby drastically cutting down on my work and writing time (which generally took place in the wee hours).

Tonight, however, is different. Tonight is Game 7 of the NBA playoffs, 9pm Eastern Standard Time… aka 1am in Ghana. Thus, Kofi and I are eagerly - though sleepily - awaiting the start of what ought to be an epic battle. While we wait, Kofi has opted to nap, and I have opted to fulfill my blogging duties and denote to any readers that I am, in fact, alive and well.

As you can see, yes, the prodigal son has returned to Accra – two weeks ago, really, I’m just slow in announcing the fact. Upon my greeting him at the airport, he looked at me with a vaguely surprised and bemused look, exclaiming “You look tan…! …and oddly accustomed to Ghana.” Tan I was not (though spending a day exploring the village of Aburi last weekend has helped bring out my farmers’ tan a bit), but how well accustomed I’ve become is up for debate.

If food is any sign of things, I’m proud to say I’ve relatively settled in. Rice porridge or koko for breakfast, banku or kenkey for lunch, jollof or stew or whatever of that sort for dinner (I have not yet tried my hand at fufu), maybe some kelewele for dessert. Bofrot, roasted plantains and kelewele, sugarbread, and fresh mango and pineapple have won me over, hands down - all of which, by the by, you could find pretty much anywhere, if you look hard enough and strike it at the right time (bofrot in the morning, kelewele in the evening, breads and fruits 24/7).

When not exploring Ghanaian culture via food, however, I’ve been busy at the office, editing away the days as I plow through the social studies textbook, childrens’ tales, and a Ghanaian version of a Sweet Valley High sort… or so I’ve been informed, never actually having read the series myself. Meanwhile, Ghanaians continue to stay true to their reputation for friendliness, both in and out of the office, and I’ve received permission to venture out with the sales guys for their next notable outing. Staring at my computer, editing Word documents for hours upon end, can, as one may expect, prove both boring and wearying (especially pending the quality of the writing, which at times ups the ante to a full-blown “horrifying”), but there is the occasional entertainment in the reading, from my coworkers, or in the form of a stroll around the neighborhood.

Meanwhile, the weekends have featured a bit more sight-seeing on the side, though much down-played due to Kofi’s old man hip and knees (thank you, athletic over-exertion via soccer and basketball). On the first weekend of his return, we headed out to the market in Tema, after which we strolled around the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum and Memorial Park in Accra and swung by Independence Square on the way home.

The drive to Tema was orchestrated for the very down-to-earth purpose of grocery shopping, centered around a trip to a wholesale store at which patrons leaned into a small window to recite a list of goods (and respective amounts), then stood off to the side awaiting their number, at which time the food had been gathered from the cramped shelves within the building and spontaneously delivered to the bustling larger window. While in the waiting stage, however, my inability to understand the conversation at hand (not being fluent in Twi) inspired a general observing of surroundings, which in turn yielded an intriguing sight of people filing into one mysteriously dark pathway, which sporadically spat people out, as well – some with bags in hand (universal here), some with trays atop their heads, some wielding ungainly wheelbarrows. What was this mysterious opening? The door to Narnia? I had to know.

Turns out it was the passageway to the market, not a magical land of C.S. Lewis creation.

Putting the question to Kofi and his cousin Obed, who joined us and the driver, Atta, on our day’s outing, my intrigue quickly escalated: it was the pathway into the market - and not just stands grouped along the road sides, or the lines of street hawkers temptingly lofting drinks, plantain chips, and phone credit packages into the air. No, this was a no-nonsense market, as was confirmed by the presence of a butcher hacking away at a large slab of meat just as you entered through the darkened pathway.

People, people, people… everywhere there were people. People and smells. The ubiquitous butchers making short work of goat or advertising pig’s feet, perhaps roasted fish, a bowl of live crabs, or shrimp – all of this was well offset by stall upon stall of fruits (the first time I saw agreen orange. Seriously, oranges here are green. Identity crisis.) or cassava and plantains, fabric dealers, trays loaded with candy or breads, a young woman making peanut butter (ground nuts = peanuts, but Ghanaian peanut butter ≠ American peanut butter).

Obed steered us around the market well, which is quite something, as one could easily become disoriented and wander in the cramped, heavily peopled alleyways for any period of time. ...And of course, you’ll have those various encounters of a different sort due to my obroni status, ranging from fascinated children persistently following us through the market to a declaration of undying love to various comments and compliments from any number of people we passed (staring and ogling always assumed part of my being in public).

The Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum and Park was quite the sight, well assisted by beautiful weather, little of which we’d caught while dodging through the darkened and bustling pathways of the market. A visit to the national park was 2 cedis ($1 = 1.4 cedis) for Ghanaian nationals and 6 for foreigners – after one look at me, the woman at the gate could not be convinced that I was Ghanaian, regardless of Kofi’s attempts – and was very much worth it. The setting was idyllic, the fountains calming, the statue fittingly triumphant, and the museum small but informative.

Brief history lesson: Ghana, previously ruled by chieftancies within tribes such as the Ashantis, was colonized by the British as the “Gold Coast” (a country high in natural resources), celebrated its independence on March 6, 1957, and appointed Dr. Kwame Nkrumah as its first president in 1960. Since then, the country has been swept up in various overthrows of government, particularly in the form of military coups, until the establishment of a democratic constitution in 1992. While there has been relative peace since that time, cries of corruption continue, as does the overbearance of military (which seem ubiquitous and outweigh even the police in terms of influence, able to dodge the law like nothing else) and a culture of bribing.

Still, it is a relatively peaceful and gradually progressing state of affairs, considering things in a comparative light. The people are hardworking and notably hospitable – and loud while they’re at it, in what seems to be a typically Ghanaian, fun-loving kind of way. They may never be on time, but never in a consciously rude manner.

On Sunday, however, Ghanaians threw habit to the wind and insisted upon observing one time: 2pm, kickoff of Ghana’s first match in the World Cup. Decked out in red, yellow, and green, the entire country was in an uproar, and with the first score of the match, I wouldn’t be surprised if the nation-wide cheering was heard all the way in South Africa; there’s no doubt it was by the end of the game as the Black Stars were declared triumphant over the Serbians. Note on the now-controversial vuvuzelas: one particularly excited young Ghanaian felt the need to utilize his as he ran by me in a celebratory lap, and I am convinced that the ulterior motive of those things is to rupture ear drums….. and make as much noise as humanly possible, so it is only fitting for a people that already revel in being loud.

Upcoming: last weekend, which was spent attending a traditional Ghanaian funeral and wandering about the village of Aburi and Aburi Botanical Gardens; once we’re caught up, will have to see how it is that I will be spending this Saturday exploring the Volta Region with two Danish men, both by the name of Lars.