It was almost a year ago now that I felt the first whisper. I sat in Triple A, trying to ignore the "Things I Get to Do List" on my desk that never fooled me despite the tricky title. I googled absent-mindedly.
Winter had come and left a shell of the person I wanted to be. The thought of continuing along this moving walkway- starting to hate the ride that was costing a small fortune- was more than I could bear. So I was up late on this January night, googling alternatives. I think around 3 am I actually typed in "abroad programs for students who need a break from their lives".
Somehow, several hundred clicks later, I stumbled on the CIEE website and a link to a video a previous student had made about her time in Ghana. Next thing I know I'm watching this video instead of getting my laundry out of the dryer or sending Big Love emails or preparing three moments for acting class. And I can't quite explain it. The video wasn't even that well done. But I knew, as I watched the women dancing in the streets, saw the little kids holding the hands of this student.... as I saw a country of vibrant and explosive color and heard the exuberant soundtrack of Accra.... I just knew. This is where I need to go.
Responding to that instinct Someone planted in my gut is probably what I'm most proud of. How many times have I stifled those gentle tugs that beckon me to deviate from my iCal? How many opportunities have I missed because I couldn't justify the detour at the time? Perhaps it was the promise of sun in the coldest of winters or the allure of a land so drastically different from my own or maybe the stress just had me extra vulnerable, but whatever the reason, I am so glad that I finally acknowledged and listened to that divine whisper.
Because this has been a full season, though not at all what I expected. I think I thought traveling would be like floating. But it isn't. Life in another country is sticky and loud and there's a great deal of walking involved. And, if you go somewhere that has only existed in your mind, there is the inevitable Great Collison; when beautiful illusions meet the reality that operates under a slightly different aesthetic. But we see ourselves in the clash. As I wonder why it is that I thought there'd be zebras...
I fear trying to stuff it all in my head without my fellow travelers to help bear the weight. So, I can't wait to tell you all about it. I'll talk your ear off about the food and my new friends and the monkeys and the parasite I may or may not have and it won't be long before Jo will want to strangle me every time I interject with, "This one time in Ghana..."
Yet, my words are hopelessly inadequate when it comes to the painful longing of September. My description of community won't capture the level of gratitude I felt when an old woman tied a skirt around me and invited me to dance. I can't describe sitting on a rooftop in Togo contemplating the 21st landmark. My pictures won't do justice to the view from Afadjato and I can't imitate the way Kwasi waddles when he walks. These will be my private souvenirs; stowed away for a nostalgic afternoon or a deep breath in the check-out line.
And I guess they're why we leap. Why we go away to college, engage a stranger, take a walk alone down a street we've never chanced; the ever-present opportunity to add to our personal storehouse of flashes and sound bytes- the fragile and fluid kaleidoscope through which we uniquely view the world.
So, 127 days, 62 mosquito bites, 3 journals, 1057 photos, and far too many Fan-Ices later, it is time to come home. It's time to hug Elphie. Time for a hot shower and a burrito and a 2011 planner. Time to pay more attention to the quiet leadings that may deter from my sensible sequence to success but will keep me on the path I'm meant to go down.
It will be strange to wake up in Chicago.
But, I will do so knowing that many others, far and near,
are also starting their daily grind.
There is a small town with muddy water in the Ada
province who must also face the day.
In Pentagon, Block B, Stacey is waking up and putting on
her bangles.
There's a woman with a scar on her chin waking up to sell
bananas on her head just like she did the day
before and the day before that and the-
Somewhere someone is turning on my laptop to check the
forecast.
Short Kofi's been up before all of us, scripting his radio
show for the non-English speakers.
44 children are up, wondering if this might be their
special day, or if it will look quite like all the
others.
Perhaps I made the trek just to expand my montage of faces
waking up to meet the same Thursday.
Perhaps I needed to be an outsider in order to be a more
loving insider.
Perhaps I traveled to the most different place I could
imagine to find something quite familiar.
Or maybe, if we're honest, we leave
so that someday, we can come home.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The Braidy Bunch
I'm just trying to remember when it sounded like a good idea. All I know is that there was a lot of peer pressure involved and it escalated into an "I will if you will" and the next thing you know, my roommate Liz and I have committed to getting braids. And we shook on it.
Over the course of the next few days, there was much talk about the hair (to the great consternation of our male friends). But there were a lot of questions.Would we get our real hair braided or would we go with extensions? What color? Straight or curly? Actual braids or twists? So many decisions to make in what was meant to be an impulsive choice.
The fateful day arrived and, petting our precious hair, we trudged towards the "salon". Stall, really. The stylist, Theresa, looked at us and tried not to laugh when we told her what we were there for. She went through the specs of what we wanted; braids vs. twists, how small, how long, etc. I just kept asking her which one would look better and she kept shrugging and laughing which was super encouraging. We were then directed to the wall of weaves. Oh boy. So many dark colors. So many shades of.... black. Okee then. Ooh I spy a red! Like Little Orphan Annie red. Hmmm. Oh, there's a very very dark brown over there. Just kidding, it's a light black. Then I see it; an auburn packet of synthetic hair hiding behind midnight's and ivory's whispering, "Hey Sam. Let's be real. None of these are going to look good on you or come anywhere close to your natural color. Your hair isn't even a real color. Choose me, and I'll be as least offensive as possible."
So, I put my trust in this little packet of fake hair. Of course, dark-haired Liz had quickly found a shade that matched her chocolate hair perfectly. That poop in the butt.
We took our seats in the plastic lawn chairs with an inscription that I'm told means "Accept God". An appropriate suggestion for young girls about to surrender any last vestiges of dignity regarding their outward aesthetic. Theresa rips open the new hair and we begin.
My only task throughout the process (aside from not weeping in pain) is to separate small braid-sized chunks from the mane of extensions in my hand. Why is it so difficult for me? Every time, Theresa goes to grab my offering, she sighs and must either add to or take away from the chunk I've prepared. Sawwy.
The mating of my sun-fried dishwater hair to its new bold lover is quite intimate. The strands dance together, weaving in and out until they stretch down my back in perfect unison. Theresa's hands are so nimble.She braids like 30 long strands in half the time it would take me to fumble out a Dorothy-do.
Every so often, I check in with Liz. We tell one another that we're lookin good, though we know that if the others progress is any indication of our own, the situation is quite dire.
For the record, "micro" braids means small braids. May seem obvious, but I had to have it explained to me. This is nice in theory, but in practice it means that only a few strands of hair with the diameter of a piece of yarn are included in each braid. So despite Theresa the Terminator's speedy fingers, it is a v e r y s l o w process. This also means there are about a million braids on my head. I'm exaggerating. There are actually 237.
Night falls. Friends stop by with nourishment. My tushie has fallen asleep. I am thinking about the time Kendra and I died our hair in eighth grade and the cornrows in Cabo and how it is that Aunt April's salon is so comfy and OW. Jamal estimates that I am only 60% done. Shoot me in the face.
Bush Canteen, the market in which we are being tortured, is shutting down for the day. Women carry pots of leftover soup out to the street. A man sweeps the hair remains away from the path. The seamstress closes her doors. We braid on.
I'm thinking about the tan American girls wearing their beads with their weaves and traditional cloth and the Ghanaians in their sweater vests and the Carotene commercials and how funny it is that we try so hard to look like each other. But that we seem to just miss one another en route. I always thought it was so silly. And now, here I am.
Suddenly, in my delirious, half-conscious trance, I hear a familiar voice cry, "Samantha, last one!" I come to and find that my head weighs a great deal more than my body. I start to leap up from the chair when, to my great dismay, I learn there is more still to be done.
First, braid by freaking braid, we must snip, snip, snip the little frayed pieces. 237 snips later, Theresa leaves and comes back with a candle. I figure it's dark, she just needs to see. Oh, nope. Nope, that's a hair product. She is now setting my hair on fire. As if the red color doesn't already conjure up enough inferno images, my braids are now actually ablaze. This cannot possibly be good for my real hair wherever it is now in this mass of garden snakes crawling down my neck. Eventually, she puts out the fire, there is some more snipping, some really hot water, and then, finally, SEVEN HOURS LATER, it is finished.
Theresa says I can go look in the mirror. As I stand, my pal Liz, ever-bright beacon of hope and encouragement, tells me that I look "special". I carry this confidence into the mirror room where-
Over the course of the next few days, there was much talk about the hair (to the great consternation of our male friends). But there were a lot of questions.Would we get our real hair braided or would we go with extensions? What color? Straight or curly? Actual braids or twists? So many decisions to make in what was meant to be an impulsive choice.
The fateful day arrived and, petting our precious hair, we trudged towards the "salon". Stall, really. The stylist, Theresa, looked at us and tried not to laugh when we told her what we were there for. She went through the specs of what we wanted; braids vs. twists, how small, how long, etc. I just kept asking her which one would look better and she kept shrugging and laughing which was super encouraging. We were then directed to the wall of weaves. Oh boy. So many dark colors. So many shades of.... black. Okee then. Ooh I spy a red! Like Little Orphan Annie red. Hmmm. Oh, there's a very very dark brown over there. Just kidding, it's a light black. Then I see it; an auburn packet of synthetic hair hiding behind midnight's and ivory's whispering, "Hey Sam. Let's be real. None of these are going to look good on you or come anywhere close to your natural color. Your hair isn't even a real color. Choose me, and I'll be as least offensive as possible."
So, I put my trust in this little packet of fake hair. Of course, dark-haired Liz had quickly found a shade that matched her chocolate hair perfectly. That poop in the butt.
We took our seats in the plastic lawn chairs with an inscription that I'm told means "Accept God". An appropriate suggestion for young girls about to surrender any last vestiges of dignity regarding their outward aesthetic. Theresa rips open the new hair and we begin.
My only task throughout the process (aside from not weeping in pain) is to separate small braid-sized chunks from the mane of extensions in my hand. Why is it so difficult for me? Every time, Theresa goes to grab my offering, she sighs and must either add to or take away from the chunk I've prepared. Sawwy.
The mating of my sun-fried dishwater hair to its new bold lover is quite intimate. The strands dance together, weaving in and out until they stretch down my back in perfect unison. Theresa's hands are so nimble.She braids like 30 long strands in half the time it would take me to fumble out a Dorothy-do.
Every so often, I check in with Liz. We tell one another that we're lookin good, though we know that if the others progress is any indication of our own, the situation is quite dire.
For the record, "micro" braids means small braids. May seem obvious, but I had to have it explained to me. This is nice in theory, but in practice it means that only a few strands of hair with the diameter of a piece of yarn are included in each braid. So despite Theresa the Terminator's speedy fingers, it is a v e r y s l o w process. This also means there are about a million braids on my head. I'm exaggerating. There are actually 237.
Night falls. Friends stop by with nourishment. My tushie has fallen asleep. I am thinking about the time Kendra and I died our hair in eighth grade and the cornrows in Cabo and how it is that Aunt April's salon is so comfy and OW. Jamal estimates that I am only 60% done. Shoot me in the face.
Bush Canteen, the market in which we are being tortured, is shutting down for the day. Women carry pots of leftover soup out to the street. A man sweeps the hair remains away from the path. The seamstress closes her doors. We braid on.
I'm thinking about the tan American girls wearing their beads with their weaves and traditional cloth and the Ghanaians in their sweater vests and the Carotene commercials and how funny it is that we try so hard to look like each other. But that we seem to just miss one another en route. I always thought it was so silly. And now, here I am.
Suddenly, in my delirious, half-conscious trance, I hear a familiar voice cry, "Samantha, last one!" I come to and find that my head weighs a great deal more than my body. I start to leap up from the chair when, to my great dismay, I learn there is more still to be done.
First, braid by freaking braid, we must snip, snip, snip the little frayed pieces. 237 snips later, Theresa leaves and comes back with a candle. I figure it's dark, she just needs to see. Oh, nope. Nope, that's a hair product. She is now setting my hair on fire. As if the red color doesn't already conjure up enough inferno images, my braids are now actually ablaze. This cannot possibly be good for my real hair wherever it is now in this mass of garden snakes crawling down my neck. Eventually, she puts out the fire, there is some more snipping, some really hot water, and then, finally, SEVEN HOURS LATER, it is finished.
Theresa says I can go look in the mirror. As I stand, my pal Liz, ever-bright beacon of hope and encouragement, tells me that I look "special". I carry this confidence into the mirror room where-
wow.
WOW.
I look like the love child of E.T. and Moesha. Oh boy. Upon closer examination, I realize how much I underestimated the whiteness of my scalp. That glowing orb pierces through with an unfortunate intensity. Okay, I can't look at this any longer. I pop back outside and while waiting for Liz, ask some seemingly simple hair-care questions.
"So, how do I wash this?"
"No."
"Um, I mean, like when I shower do I shampoo in between the braids or..."
"You don't shower."
"Mmkay."
Liz's braids go up in flames.
"One more question. So, if it rains, I just..."
"It can't get wet. It will mildew."
So my hair is now capable of growing fungus. Liz finishes. I tell her she's special (hers, of course, looks far better with a really uncanny resemblance to Cleopatra that she refuses to acknowledge). We walk back in stunned silence, trying to build each other up before we face our friends.
Our spirits lifted of course when we whipped our hair to Willow Smith's song on repeat and started to discover the many different configurations into which we could mold our new do's. I found out that a headband really helps my scalp problem!
It was not long after before the itching began. It has been incessant ever since, but I am trying to look at like a character study. You know, in case, a director ever actually follows through with color-blind casting or if I'm ever called upon to play a small child with chicken pox on her head.
Liz and I are adjusting to this new way of life. Today's task was learning to go for a run without toppling over. Perhaps tomorrow I will attempt a pony-tail that doesn't break my rubber bands. Baby steps. Do I feel a bit gross without shampooing? Totally. Do I have to study lying down because I can't hold my head up? Yep. Am I torn between sprinting to and from buildings for fear my hair will mold and walking as slowly as possible in order to tan my pasty scalp? Definitely. Do I look a little bit like a Klingon? Yeah. I really do. But I feel like a new person. I really enjoy whipping my hair and having a hair color that needn't be prefaced with sandy, dirty or dishwater. In fact, I'm afraid braids might be a bit of a gateway. Perhaps tomorrow I'll get a tat on my face.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
my family: the pilgrims
The architecture was frustrating. The arrivals terminal consists of a long hallway blocked off from view by two thick partitions. There is a bit of horizontal space in between the walls, so from where I stood, I could see only the torsos of those coming through customs. My eyes would follow their belly buttons until the rest of their bodies were revealed in the opening at the end where they would emerge into the aisle along which we were waiting. Me and other hotel staff, chauffeurs; holding up signs for their unknown guests. How ridiculous that I must stand behind these impersonal interactions when I know exactly who I'm waiting for and have been doing so for quite a long time. I'm not sure if it was the extra three suitcases they had brought to cart my souvenirs home, or my dad's careful counting and re-counting his transaction at the Forex Bureau, or maybe my mom had to pee a lot but for whatever reason, I was kept waiting, tracking abdomens, for an eternity. But finally, I saw it. Jo's torso.
I watched it float along until she rounded the corner and I bumped past the short man with the "Mr. Buckingham" sign as, in front of our little Ghanaian audience, we ran towards each other, in slow motion. Mom and Dad's torsos soon followed and we were a family once again.
The week unfolded as I had hoped it would; the central tension, of course, being my desire to force their understanding of the realities in which I'd been living and also my first opportunity in some time to ride in taxis and eat at nice restaurants. I'd say we balanced it pretty well, perhaps with a slight nod to the latter temptations.
We spent the first part of the week getting settled in, entertaining my friends at our hotel (where we gorged ourselves on grilled vegetables, cheesy potatoes, rolls, steak, and chocolate cake), Jo catching me up on the latest songs (I really like the one about whipping your hair), a trip downtown where we climbed a janky lighthouse in which my parents proved they still got it, and a visit to the major market where I took over the bargaining for a soccer jersey for Jo who was a little too expressive when she saw something she liked. It was neat to be reminded of what is new and different about this country I've grown so used to. Mom and Jo's exclamations over the animals wandering around the sides of the road reminded me that there aren't stray goats in Chicago and Jo's obsession with the babies secured onto backs brought a faint memory of strollers to mind. Being their tour guide helped me to feel tangibly how at home I have come to feel in a place which used to constantly shock and surprise me.
Mid-week we left for Cape Coast where we visited the old slave castles along the water. I had made the same trip back in September, but it was much more meaningful to me this time around; perhaps, due to a more filled-out context, or maybe, just in the company of my family.
Back at our hotel, it was time to order from the "indigenous fare" section of the menu. I got us a small sampling including red-red, jollof rice, waakye and groundnut soup with rice balls for us all to share. Now, let's be real. That is a pre-school, negative 100 level, infant's introduction to Ghanaian cuisine. The waakye didn't even come with pepper sauce! A far cry from the fiery fodder and scalding snacks I have grown so accustomed to. But, I just wasn't sure the Beaches could handle the spicier elements with the same level of maturity and adaptability with which I had so gracefully indulged earlier this semester. And I was right. While my mother complained of the jollof aftertaste, my father refused to eat the soup with his hands, as is traditionally practiced. And my sister? Well, she carefully tore off a chunk of rice ball and slowly, fearfully lowered it towards the soup, allowing only the very bottom tip (about half a grain of rice) to skim the surface before delicately putting it in her mouth. A really noble effort.
Perhaps the highlight of the week came Thursday morning when we visited the orphanage where I've been volunteering with chalk, bubbles, play-doh and other small gifts in tow. Of course, the kids were off of their usually fighting-crying-peeing rotation, and were angels to my parents. My friend Amber and I kept trying to tell them it's never like this, they're never this well-behaved, but I'm not sure they got it. Maybe the toys had something to do with it. What is it about kids and bubbles? Something in the way they expand, drift, and float away, making the earth a little bit wetter than it was before. Or it could just be that they taste good. Because Joshua, in particular, really seems to think so.
We had lots of fun reading to them, drawing, letting them take a whirl with our cameras- all the while Jo and I hinting to my parents about a baby brother for Christmas. It is always neat to see my parents interact with children and remember the shape our relationship once was. A lot of the little ones gravitated towards Dad; older men, like him, being conspicuously absent from the only world they've ever known.
Yes, it wasn't until that evening, Thanksgiving night, that the Beaches really held true to form; unable, as we are, to have a normal trip anywhere. The night began at a dinner hosted by our program where we had a Rorschach sketch of Thanksgiving food. Mom wasn't feeling well and left early with Dad. Jo and I stayed for awhile before going back to my room to pack up all that I was to send home with them. We got back to the hotel and heard that mom was pretty sick. We went to bed in hopes that she'd feel better in the morning.
In the middle of some intense REM, I was awoken by the loudest sound I've ever heard. It was the sound of stone crumbling, of a massive earthquake, of a cheetah stampede. First, I thought the roof was caving in. Then, I thought it was more likely an intruder. My fight/flight response was to roll over and drift back asleep.
The next morning I got up early because I had a class to go to. I stumble into our bathroom and find myself in the middle of a war zone. Toothbrushes, napkins, soap are among the casualties displaced around the room. Towels are not the color they once were. And most noticeably, THE STONE SINK IS IN PIECES ON THE FLOOR. Entirely pulled out from the wall, the marble remains lay at my feet. My family is asleep and no one can explain this to me.
Later on, I would receive the graphic instant replay. The following is not for the faint of heart, if about to eat Chipotle or something, feel free to skip to the end: Apparently, in the middle of the night, Jo too had gotten sick. She leaned over the sink (interesting choice of vessel, sistah) in order to, you know, vom, and pulled the entire structure out of the wall and into the condition in which I found it. The cacophony awoke my still sick mother as it did me. Unlike me, she actually got out of bed. My father, having popped an Ambien or five, heard nothing. So, with the blind leading the blind, my sick mother helped my sick sister navigate the apparently fragile washroom as they alternated, you know, doing what you do when you're sick. All while Sam and Warren dreamt of turkey and mashed potatoes.
Thankfully, their flight was not until the following evening so the invalids had a day to recover. Dad and I, eager to escape the cesspool, attempted to explain the situation to the hotel staff. My Twi didn't go quite as far as I'd hoped it would. But, somehow we all agreed that "the sink was weak" and we were in the clear.
So, there was a lot more chicken than there was turkey. And yams boldly stepped in for my beloved mashed potatoes. We wore flip flops instead of boots. And spent the morning with kids who redefine family instead of our traditional gathering. There was a whole lot of soccer and they even call it football here, though I'm not sure that fooled my dad. Our Black Friday shopping consisted of a hunt for saltines and toast and I wasn't nearly as full as I usually am. But I tell you, the holiday was not lost on me. I have more to be thankful for this year than ever before. Actually, I'm just more aware this year. And, I'm discovering that when I'm counting, more and more blessings keep floating my way.
I said goodbye to Mom, Dad and to Jo's torso. This time our hugs weren't quite as heavy, knowing that it won't be long before I am back at Chipotle with Jo, watching Gilmore Girls with Mom and staying up late eating chocolate-covered raisins with Dad. So, the Beaches have left their mark in Ghana. They left a treasure trove of American snacks under my bed. They left the bubbles they brought to Beacon House and the kids they loved on for a day. And, in the bathroom of Chalet Four, they left a sink. In shambles.
I watched it float along until she rounded the corner and I bumped past the short man with the "Mr. Buckingham" sign as, in front of our little Ghanaian audience, we ran towards each other, in slow motion. Mom and Dad's torsos soon followed and we were a family once again.
The week unfolded as I had hoped it would; the central tension, of course, being my desire to force their understanding of the realities in which I'd been living and also my first opportunity in some time to ride in taxis and eat at nice restaurants. I'd say we balanced it pretty well, perhaps with a slight nod to the latter temptations.
We spent the first part of the week getting settled in, entertaining my friends at our hotel (where we gorged ourselves on grilled vegetables, cheesy potatoes, rolls, steak, and chocolate cake), Jo catching me up on the latest songs (I really like the one about whipping your hair), a trip downtown where we climbed a janky lighthouse in which my parents proved they still got it, and a visit to the major market where I took over the bargaining for a soccer jersey for Jo who was a little too expressive when she saw something she liked. It was neat to be reminded of what is new and different about this country I've grown so used to. Mom and Jo's exclamations over the animals wandering around the sides of the road reminded me that there aren't stray goats in Chicago and Jo's obsession with the babies secured onto backs brought a faint memory of strollers to mind. Being their tour guide helped me to feel tangibly how at home I have come to feel in a place which used to constantly shock and surprise me.
Mid-week we left for Cape Coast where we visited the old slave castles along the water. I had made the same trip back in September, but it was much more meaningful to me this time around; perhaps, due to a more filled-out context, or maybe, just in the company of my family.
Back at our hotel, it was time to order from the "indigenous fare" section of the menu. I got us a small sampling including red-red, jollof rice, waakye and groundnut soup with rice balls for us all to share. Now, let's be real. That is a pre-school, negative 100 level, infant's introduction to Ghanaian cuisine. The waakye didn't even come with pepper sauce! A far cry from the fiery fodder and scalding snacks I have grown so accustomed to. But, I just wasn't sure the Beaches could handle the spicier elements with the same level of maturity and adaptability with which I had so gracefully indulged earlier this semester. And I was right. While my mother complained of the jollof aftertaste, my father refused to eat the soup with his hands, as is traditionally practiced. And my sister? Well, she carefully tore off a chunk of rice ball and slowly, fearfully lowered it towards the soup, allowing only the very bottom tip (about half a grain of rice) to skim the surface before delicately putting it in her mouth. A really noble effort.
Perhaps the highlight of the week came Thursday morning when we visited the orphanage where I've been volunteering with chalk, bubbles, play-doh and other small gifts in tow. Of course, the kids were off of their usually fighting-crying-peeing rotation, and were angels to my parents. My friend Amber and I kept trying to tell them it's never like this, they're never this well-behaved, but I'm not sure they got it. Maybe the toys had something to do with it. What is it about kids and bubbles? Something in the way they expand, drift, and float away, making the earth a little bit wetter than it was before. Or it could just be that they taste good. Because Joshua, in particular, really seems to think so.
We had lots of fun reading to them, drawing, letting them take a whirl with our cameras- all the while Jo and I hinting to my parents about a baby brother for Christmas. It is always neat to see my parents interact with children and remember the shape our relationship once was. A lot of the little ones gravitated towards Dad; older men, like him, being conspicuously absent from the only world they've ever known.
Yes, it wasn't until that evening, Thanksgiving night, that the Beaches really held true to form; unable, as we are, to have a normal trip anywhere. The night began at a dinner hosted by our program where we had a Rorschach sketch of Thanksgiving food. Mom wasn't feeling well and left early with Dad. Jo and I stayed for awhile before going back to my room to pack up all that I was to send home with them. We got back to the hotel and heard that mom was pretty sick. We went to bed in hopes that she'd feel better in the morning.
In the middle of some intense REM, I was awoken by the loudest sound I've ever heard. It was the sound of stone crumbling, of a massive earthquake, of a cheetah stampede. First, I thought the roof was caving in. Then, I thought it was more likely an intruder. My fight/flight response was to roll over and drift back asleep.
The next morning I got up early because I had a class to go to. I stumble into our bathroom and find myself in the middle of a war zone. Toothbrushes, napkins, soap are among the casualties displaced around the room. Towels are not the color they once were. And most noticeably, THE STONE SINK IS IN PIECES ON THE FLOOR. Entirely pulled out from the wall, the marble remains lay at my feet. My family is asleep and no one can explain this to me.
Later on, I would receive the graphic instant replay. The following is not for the faint of heart, if about to eat Chipotle or something, feel free to skip to the end: Apparently, in the middle of the night, Jo too had gotten sick. She leaned over the sink (interesting choice of vessel, sistah) in order to, you know, vom, and pulled the entire structure out of the wall and into the condition in which I found it. The cacophony awoke my still sick mother as it did me. Unlike me, she actually got out of bed. My father, having popped an Ambien or five, heard nothing. So, with the blind leading the blind, my sick mother helped my sick sister navigate the apparently fragile washroom as they alternated, you know, doing what you do when you're sick. All while Sam and Warren dreamt of turkey and mashed potatoes.
Thankfully, their flight was not until the following evening so the invalids had a day to recover. Dad and I, eager to escape the cesspool, attempted to explain the situation to the hotel staff. My Twi didn't go quite as far as I'd hoped it would. But, somehow we all agreed that "the sink was weak" and we were in the clear.
So, there was a lot more chicken than there was turkey. And yams boldly stepped in for my beloved mashed potatoes. We wore flip flops instead of boots. And spent the morning with kids who redefine family instead of our traditional gathering. There was a whole lot of soccer and they even call it football here, though I'm not sure that fooled my dad. Our Black Friday shopping consisted of a hunt for saltines and toast and I wasn't nearly as full as I usually am. But I tell you, the holiday was not lost on me. I have more to be thankful for this year than ever before. Actually, I'm just more aware this year. And, I'm discovering that when I'm counting, more and more blessings keep floating my way.
I said goodbye to Mom, Dad and to Jo's torso. This time our hugs weren't quite as heavy, knowing that it won't be long before I am back at Chipotle with Jo, watching Gilmore Girls with Mom and staying up late eating chocolate-covered raisins with Dad. So, the Beaches have left their mark in Ghana. They left a treasure trove of American snacks under my bed. They left the bubbles they brought to Beacon House and the kids they loved on for a day. And, in the bathroom of Chalet Four, they left a sink. In shambles.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
In Defense of the Arts or Why I Sometimes Can't Sleep
This isn't the first time I've wrestled with this. And I'm certain it won't be the last. But, naturally, being face to face with the more noteworthy causes under whose shadow my guilt-laden feet creep in the opposite direction, the age-old question has been aggravated this fall. How do we reconcile the pursuit of the arts in a world of so much suffering? Is it possible for an artist, in her heart of hearts, to feel justified? Will I ever silence that little voice that whispers it isn't enough? Especially now, with what I've seen and heard and tasted this semester...
I try to remember how I got here, when I decided that theatre was the best way to leave my mark on the world. But nothing stands out. I never had the debates of my friends in high school about what to pursue, what they wanted to be. Never had the "aha!" moment in a lab or with a mentor when it all became clear what it was I did best. Mine was as organic a process as the one I observe now outside my window; a small trickle of rain down the side of the building joining a larger stream at its base.
So when it came time to begin the college search and declare a major, there was really nothing to declare. I would continue doing what I had always done.
But along with education comes awareness, and with that consciousness, self-examination in light of new information. As the global problems became larger and more lucid, the hours spent learning how to breathe on the floor of a dark classroom seemed more and more irrelevant. And I started to wonder if I really wanted to spend my one and only life on stage.
Today, I ask the same question. But over the past few months I've had time to really ask it, removed, as I am, from the fast track treadmill I was on where I could only doubt while I was still moving. I decided that this was the time to truly hold my passion for theatre loosely, and be open to whatever leadings I might experience during this brief sabbatical. So I have tried to delicately surrender my gifts, fearful of what I might find. But, to my great surprise and joy, here is what I've discovered:
In the third world, amidst a level of suffering most of us cannot fathom, I have found countless living testaments to the power of the arts unlike any I have seen before. Isn't it amazing that art persists around the world and throughout time? In this place, where everything operates differently- from authority to family to education to time.... In this place, surrounded by extreme poverty, disillusionment, unemployment....still, people dance. They sing. There are stories.
I have been reminded that we were created for an experience beyond the basics of survival. It is in our nature to seek after knowledge and beauty, whatever state we're in. A favorite professor has influenced a great deal of my perception of this issue; reminding me that culture will remain, no matter what. That has certainly proved true over time. We remember various eras or decades or places for the clothes they wear, the music they love and the movies they make, as much as we remember their leaders or the laws that were passed. It would seem then that culture, this expression of what we care about, is an inevitable out-pouring of the heartbeat of a people in a given place at a given time. Therefore, it must be intricately connected to the arenas of life my little voice would deem more "noble"- politics, foreign affairs, education, humanitarian causes. Culture is our means of response.
And if culture will persist, then we can either desert it to darken while we all run off to be more useful, or infuse it with some sort of light. Because just as we inform these stories, they too impact us. I have really noticed a difference in the words that come out of my mouth and the things I dwell on now that I have been removed from so long from mainstream music, movies and TV. I'm not advocating for their absence, but it has made me recognize their influence. The stories I surround myself with not only reflect my own experience but begin to narrate it, so that it becomes difficult to tell what is scripted and by whom.
Still, the relationship to the stories we grow up with is so difficult to define, intertwined as it is with our own narratives. I struggle to articulate the significance. There are people who are called to fields with a more quantifiable margin of change. How I envy the obvious and inherent significance of the work they do. I envy the peace which I mistakenly ascribe to teachers' or social workers' souls as they lay down at night and know that they're helping. I envy the admiration in the eyes of the stranger at the party who's just asked what they do for a living or what they're studying in school. And I envy their being suited for such noble professions. It's sick, but I do. I recognize it's not that easy. I'm sure they too second-guess, how do we not give ample thought to the cause to which we devote our one and only life? And is this really about helping or my own search for significance?
The same professor pointed me to C.S. Lewis' essay, "Learning in Wartime" which deals with this question. He offers an image of a soldier reading in his tent while battle rages on around him. How? Why? This semester I have witnessed moments and pictures that might be displayed in the same gallery. I was pulled away from building water purifiers to dance alongside the citizens of the village with dirty water. I met Kiriku who paints though he has little to eat and few customers. He paints on the back of old packaging paper and news articles. The kids at Beacon House look forward to drawing pictures in chalk of a world they've hardly seen. They giggle and fight over the pretty colors whether or not there was enough for snack time that day. And I found solace, in the darkest night of my own journey, in a movie theatre that let me escape for a bit and brought me home, just for a few hours. So, in this place, where art and suffering co-exist, it seems impossible to imagine one without the other.
I grew up in a house where my parents both worked hard. Their lives were never centered around what they did, but both were clearly passionate about their work. My mom, for the greater part of my childhood, oversaw the arts ministry at our church. And my dad, alongside his commodities trading, led the global compassion and justice efforts of the same organization. Never, for a moment, did one's work seem more important than the other. Never did I catch even a hint of scorn as we shared the details of our days around the dinner table. It is only now that I am starting to realize and appreciate the example they set; that we are all wired differently, and such molding is not an excuse to be ignorant nor to feel superior. My mom has taken many trips to visit global partners with my dad and gone to great lengths to raise us with a spirit of gratitude while my dad has never missed a show and often offers the best and most serious critique and encouragement, recognizing the potential impact of what's happening on stage.
So. How do the arts stand up to the realities of suffering in our world? I think they stand right next to them, just alongside war and poverty and unemployment and unequal education and racism and injustice. As these issues become bigger and smaller over time, quieting so they can resurface 10 years later, the arts will remain. To reflect, to distract, to inform, to inspire, to challenge, and even to anticipate the changing tide. And if the stories of our culture so intimately run alongside our own, and that culture will remain whether we deem it a worthwhile investment or not, a call to contribute to the aesthetic of our society should not be ignored. It should not be deemed irrelevant or inferior or insignificant or any of the other -ir's, -im's or -in's that make me feel less than. Artists have an opportunity to influence the waves of sharp notes, feather steps, images and words that suggest what we ought to care about. I know I will not drift into the kind of contribution I'm talking about. But, if I continue to stay informed, to give thanks and to be mindful of those who have less.... if I strive everyday to let go of the comparison game, the competition, the self-obsession that comes with the field... if I stay open, stay selective and only get behind stories that deserve to be told.... surely, the arts are as worthy a cause as any. Or at least, I can quiet that little voice. And fall asleep knowing I'm trying.
I try to remember how I got here, when I decided that theatre was the best way to leave my mark on the world. But nothing stands out. I never had the debates of my friends in high school about what to pursue, what they wanted to be. Never had the "aha!" moment in a lab or with a mentor when it all became clear what it was I did best. Mine was as organic a process as the one I observe now outside my window; a small trickle of rain down the side of the building joining a larger stream at its base.
So when it came time to begin the college search and declare a major, there was really nothing to declare. I would continue doing what I had always done.
But along with education comes awareness, and with that consciousness, self-examination in light of new information. As the global problems became larger and more lucid, the hours spent learning how to breathe on the floor of a dark classroom seemed more and more irrelevant. And I started to wonder if I really wanted to spend my one and only life on stage.
Today, I ask the same question. But over the past few months I've had time to really ask it, removed, as I am, from the fast track treadmill I was on where I could only doubt while I was still moving. I decided that this was the time to truly hold my passion for theatre loosely, and be open to whatever leadings I might experience during this brief sabbatical. So I have tried to delicately surrender my gifts, fearful of what I might find. But, to my great surprise and joy, here is what I've discovered:
In the third world, amidst a level of suffering most of us cannot fathom, I have found countless living testaments to the power of the arts unlike any I have seen before. Isn't it amazing that art persists around the world and throughout time? In this place, where everything operates differently- from authority to family to education to time.... In this place, surrounded by extreme poverty, disillusionment, unemployment....still, people dance. They sing. There are stories.
I have been reminded that we were created for an experience beyond the basics of survival. It is in our nature to seek after knowledge and beauty, whatever state we're in. A favorite professor has influenced a great deal of my perception of this issue; reminding me that culture will remain, no matter what. That has certainly proved true over time. We remember various eras or decades or places for the clothes they wear, the music they love and the movies they make, as much as we remember their leaders or the laws that were passed. It would seem then that culture, this expression of what we care about, is an inevitable out-pouring of the heartbeat of a people in a given place at a given time. Therefore, it must be intricately connected to the arenas of life my little voice would deem more "noble"- politics, foreign affairs, education, humanitarian causes. Culture is our means of response.
And if culture will persist, then we can either desert it to darken while we all run off to be more useful, or infuse it with some sort of light. Because just as we inform these stories, they too impact us. I have really noticed a difference in the words that come out of my mouth and the things I dwell on now that I have been removed from so long from mainstream music, movies and TV. I'm not advocating for their absence, but it has made me recognize their influence. The stories I surround myself with not only reflect my own experience but begin to narrate it, so that it becomes difficult to tell what is scripted and by whom.
Still, the relationship to the stories we grow up with is so difficult to define, intertwined as it is with our own narratives. I struggle to articulate the significance. There are people who are called to fields with a more quantifiable margin of change. How I envy the obvious and inherent significance of the work they do. I envy the peace which I mistakenly ascribe to teachers' or social workers' souls as they lay down at night and know that they're helping. I envy the admiration in the eyes of the stranger at the party who's just asked what they do for a living or what they're studying in school. And I envy their being suited for such noble professions. It's sick, but I do. I recognize it's not that easy. I'm sure they too second-guess, how do we not give ample thought to the cause to which we devote our one and only life? And is this really about helping or my own search for significance?
The same professor pointed me to C.S. Lewis' essay, "Learning in Wartime" which deals with this question. He offers an image of a soldier reading in his tent while battle rages on around him. How? Why? This semester I have witnessed moments and pictures that might be displayed in the same gallery. I was pulled away from building water purifiers to dance alongside the citizens of the village with dirty water. I met Kiriku who paints though he has little to eat and few customers. He paints on the back of old packaging paper and news articles. The kids at Beacon House look forward to drawing pictures in chalk of a world they've hardly seen. They giggle and fight over the pretty colors whether or not there was enough for snack time that day. And I found solace, in the darkest night of my own journey, in a movie theatre that let me escape for a bit and brought me home, just for a few hours. So, in this place, where art and suffering co-exist, it seems impossible to imagine one without the other.
I grew up in a house where my parents both worked hard. Their lives were never centered around what they did, but both were clearly passionate about their work. My mom, for the greater part of my childhood, oversaw the arts ministry at our church. And my dad, alongside his commodities trading, led the global compassion and justice efforts of the same organization. Never, for a moment, did one's work seem more important than the other. Never did I catch even a hint of scorn as we shared the details of our days around the dinner table. It is only now that I am starting to realize and appreciate the example they set; that we are all wired differently, and such molding is not an excuse to be ignorant nor to feel superior. My mom has taken many trips to visit global partners with my dad and gone to great lengths to raise us with a spirit of gratitude while my dad has never missed a show and often offers the best and most serious critique and encouragement, recognizing the potential impact of what's happening on stage.
So. How do the arts stand up to the realities of suffering in our world? I think they stand right next to them, just alongside war and poverty and unemployment and unequal education and racism and injustice. As these issues become bigger and smaller over time, quieting so they can resurface 10 years later, the arts will remain. To reflect, to distract, to inform, to inspire, to challenge, and even to anticipate the changing tide. And if the stories of our culture so intimately run alongside our own, and that culture will remain whether we deem it a worthwhile investment or not, a call to contribute to the aesthetic of our society should not be ignored. It should not be deemed irrelevant or inferior or insignificant or any of the other -ir's, -im's or -in's that make me feel less than. Artists have an opportunity to influence the waves of sharp notes, feather steps, images and words that suggest what we ought to care about. I know I will not drift into the kind of contribution I'm talking about. But, if I continue to stay informed, to give thanks and to be mindful of those who have less.... if I strive everyday to let go of the comparison game, the competition, the self-obsession that comes with the field... if I stay open, stay selective and only get behind stories that deserve to be told.... surely, the arts are as worthy a cause as any. Or at least, I can quiet that little voice. And fall asleep knowing I'm trying.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
spills, thrills and automobiles
actually, no automobiles. I just like how that sounds.
This weekend was the last of our sporadic program-planned and executed trips, which I always look forward to for their structure. And free food (that I guess we already paid for, but it feels free, you know?). So I am sad to see that era come to an end. But it sure was a grand finale.
Saturday began with a trip to Akosombo in Ghana's beautiful Volta Region whose namesake river flows straight through. The main attraction was a huge hydro-power dam that supplies the country with 65% of its electricity as well as sends power to the neighboring nations. The dam was constructed 45 years ago and it has not budged an inch. It blocks and channels water 270 feet deep. That's 27 stories! It was an impressive display of man's control and manipulation of nature, which often sounds like a bad thing, but in this case is quite important. I am still blown away by our ability to turn a river into something that will turn on a light or power a hot plate. . . a feat my right-brained formula-resistent mind will never comprehend. . .
Our daily rice and chicken was had at a beautiful spot right along the river. During lunch, I spotted a rope swing aways down the shore. Unable to resist the call, despite our lack of appropriate swimwear, a small group of us scampered over to the swing while the rest of our program finished eating. We excitedly unbuckled our weary sandals and removed trusty watches in preparation for the great plunge. One by one we started swinging off a high mound of rocks into the beautiful river at our feet. Gradually, the rest of our group and the restaurant drew their attention to the Tarzan-like display down the shore. Then it was my turn. I've learned from kamp that with things like this, you can't think about it- you just have to go for it. And go for it, I did.
Instead of lightly stepping off the platform, I jumped with the force of a mama hippo and was air-borne half a second before my little biceps betrayed me, unable to withstand the impact of my lunge and I slammed into the rocks in the shallow water below. With all 53 kids on my program watching. Underwater, I wonder if I can hold my breath long enough for people to forget what they'd just seen. But I remember my all too brief stint as a life guard and know this is not an option. I resurface and everyone of course wants to know if I'm okay. Am I okay? Actually, now that I think about it, ow. But I laugh and go back up to redeem myself.
I climb the rocks, grip onto the rope as fiercely as I had clung to my last Chipotle burrito, and, like a swan, I gracefully swing out and into the water with some added twirls and pirouettes for effect. Of course, no one is watching anymore. But I felt much better.
We swam for awhile, fighting hard against the strong-willed current. I accidentally drank some water but with delight remembered it is the purest water in Ghana, situated, as it is, at the foot of the dam. What us spontaneous bathers didn't know was that the next part of the day's itinerary involved a three and a half hour hike at a game reserve not far from the river. So, sopping wet, in a long skirt and the worst possible shoes, and with a new fall collection of earth-toned bruises and voluminous bumps from my little spill, I embarked. But I tried not to let my outer discomfort color the life-giving experience that such encounters with creation has become for me. I know I sound like my mother, but that's okay.
First, we had a chance to feed and play with the monkeys as they crawled out like sheepish children in the aftermath of a spank-worthy mistake. I tried appealing to them with the most welcoming look I could put on and I was taken aback by how human our interactions were. Actually feeding a monkey a banana is a delightful experience. I fattened one up quite a bit.
We were then led through miles of tall brush up to the highest point that could only be reached by scaling the outside of a cave which threatened to combust with every delicate step. The neat thing about these hikes is that all along, there is the sense that this experience has not been authorized, tested, or secured. You are often literally blazing your own trail and that is a cool feeling to have.
At the peak, I steadied myself against a branch and I couldn't believe the view that was presented to me on that triple digit degree day. It caught me off guard but not for its unimaginable majesty, though it was incredible. It surprised me because it was exactly what I had expected. Nothing but mountains and grasslands as far as I could see in every direction. There was even a herd of some type of large mammals dancing across this opening scene from Lion King. For the first time, I had a snapshot of this world as it had existed in my imagination long before I came. This vast, wild and organic expanse- the quintessential Africa we are taught to subscribe to. Of course, now that I've been here long enough just to sample the realities and complexities of the often misunderstood landscape- what an experience- to see something I actually expected to see.
I imagine days of wandering here, centuries ago.
I imagine a young girl poised where I was, looking out at green and more green stretching past the point of squinting, wondering if it goes on forever.
For a moment, it really seems to.
Yet, even there, on Pride Rock, I could hear the faint call of the world I belong to, beckoning me back to its own landscape of Starbucks and suburbs. That at one time also seemed to extend without end. But at least now I know better. That no pattern is forever. And no string of sameness goes unbroken, however our eyes might deceive us. Maybe we inhabit a planet of seemingly infinite landscapes, fading and overlapping as they gradually bleed into one another. . .
This weekend was the last of our sporadic program-planned and executed trips, which I always look forward to for their structure. And free food (that I guess we already paid for, but it feels free, you know?). So I am sad to see that era come to an end. But it sure was a grand finale.
Saturday began with a trip to Akosombo in Ghana's beautiful Volta Region whose namesake river flows straight through. The main attraction was a huge hydro-power dam that supplies the country with 65% of its electricity as well as sends power to the neighboring nations. The dam was constructed 45 years ago and it has not budged an inch. It blocks and channels water 270 feet deep. That's 27 stories! It was an impressive display of man's control and manipulation of nature, which often sounds like a bad thing, but in this case is quite important. I am still blown away by our ability to turn a river into something that will turn on a light or power a hot plate. . . a feat my right-brained formula-resistent mind will never comprehend. . .
Our daily rice and chicken was had at a beautiful spot right along the river. During lunch, I spotted a rope swing aways down the shore. Unable to resist the call, despite our lack of appropriate swimwear, a small group of us scampered over to the swing while the rest of our program finished eating. We excitedly unbuckled our weary sandals and removed trusty watches in preparation for the great plunge. One by one we started swinging off a high mound of rocks into the beautiful river at our feet. Gradually, the rest of our group and the restaurant drew their attention to the Tarzan-like display down the shore. Then it was my turn. I've learned from kamp that with things like this, you can't think about it- you just have to go for it. And go for it, I did.
Instead of lightly stepping off the platform, I jumped with the force of a mama hippo and was air-borne half a second before my little biceps betrayed me, unable to withstand the impact of my lunge and I slammed into the rocks in the shallow water below. With all 53 kids on my program watching. Underwater, I wonder if I can hold my breath long enough for people to forget what they'd just seen. But I remember my all too brief stint as a life guard and know this is not an option. I resurface and everyone of course wants to know if I'm okay. Am I okay? Actually, now that I think about it, ow. But I laugh and go back up to redeem myself.
I climb the rocks, grip onto the rope as fiercely as I had clung to my last Chipotle burrito, and, like a swan, I gracefully swing out and into the water with some added twirls and pirouettes for effect. Of course, no one is watching anymore. But I felt much better.
We swam for awhile, fighting hard against the strong-willed current. I accidentally drank some water but with delight remembered it is the purest water in Ghana, situated, as it is, at the foot of the dam. What us spontaneous bathers didn't know was that the next part of the day's itinerary involved a three and a half hour hike at a game reserve not far from the river. So, sopping wet, in a long skirt and the worst possible shoes, and with a new fall collection of earth-toned bruises and voluminous bumps from my little spill, I embarked. But I tried not to let my outer discomfort color the life-giving experience that such encounters with creation has become for me. I know I sound like my mother, but that's okay.
First, we had a chance to feed and play with the monkeys as they crawled out like sheepish children in the aftermath of a spank-worthy mistake. I tried appealing to them with the most welcoming look I could put on and I was taken aback by how human our interactions were. Actually feeding a monkey a banana is a delightful experience. I fattened one up quite a bit.
We were then led through miles of tall brush up to the highest point that could only be reached by scaling the outside of a cave which threatened to combust with every delicate step. The neat thing about these hikes is that all along, there is the sense that this experience has not been authorized, tested, or secured. You are often literally blazing your own trail and that is a cool feeling to have.
At the peak, I steadied myself against a branch and I couldn't believe the view that was presented to me on that triple digit degree day. It caught me off guard but not for its unimaginable majesty, though it was incredible. It surprised me because it was exactly what I had expected. Nothing but mountains and grasslands as far as I could see in every direction. There was even a herd of some type of large mammals dancing across this opening scene from Lion King. For the first time, I had a snapshot of this world as it had existed in my imagination long before I came. This vast, wild and organic expanse- the quintessential Africa we are taught to subscribe to. Of course, now that I've been here long enough just to sample the realities and complexities of the often misunderstood landscape- what an experience- to see something I actually expected to see.
I imagine days of wandering here, centuries ago.
I imagine a young girl poised where I was, looking out at green and more green stretching past the point of squinting, wondering if it goes on forever.
For a moment, it really seems to.
Yet, even there, on Pride Rock, I could hear the faint call of the world I belong to, beckoning me back to its own landscape of Starbucks and suburbs. That at one time also seemed to extend without end. But at least now I know better. That no pattern is forever. And no string of sameness goes unbroken, however our eyes might deceive us. Maybe we inhabit a planet of seemingly infinite landscapes, fading and overlapping as they gradually bleed into one another. . .
Friday, November 5, 2010
trashy bags
How many minutes I have wasted staring at a blank page. Countless hours locked up in Panera, in my basement, in my dorm room waiting for inspiration to strike. I remember the acute frustration from the days when I made time to create. How often we forget that possibility, ingenuity and brilliance dwell in the sidewalk cracks and open gutters of the world around us. This week I got a reminder that the first and foremost step to creativity is simply keeping our eyes open.
Yesterday, I visited a place called "Trashy Bags". This organization was started three years ago by some young people who saw an artistic solution to two of Ghana's major issues: land pollution and unemployment.
Since nearly everything here comes in bags, plastic sachets make up the majority of rubbish- whether casually tossed into a gutter, regretfully discarded as justified by the lack of trash receptacles in close proximity or dumped in the grass with nowhere else to dispose the rest of the wrappers and papers that build up over a week in the life. In Accra, waste produced from plastic packaging is estimated to be more than 60 tons per day. That number is up by 70% in the last ten years with only 2% of the plastic waste being recycled. The oft-ignored 98% colors the urban landscape with the white and pink FanIce wrappers, the warm yellow of Tampico sachets and the translucent blue of Voltic water bags. It is a major cause of the city's frequent floods and greatly increases the risk and spread of disease. Meanwhile, everyday in this developing country, many people shuffle along these littered streets in search of some way to earn a living.
So, a couple people were observant enough to link the issues and to imagine a creative solution. Trashy Bags pays anyone who is willing to pick up sachets off the streets. They are paid by the kilo of trash they bring in. The garbage is then recycled into marketable products including wallets, lunch boxes, and bags of all shapes and sizes.
The manager took us around their workshop as I marveled at the methodical brilliance of the operation. We saw where the sachets are dumped after they're brought in, looking just as crumpled and useless as they do on the side of the road. We saw how they are cleaned and sterilized and then laid out to dry in the sub-saharan sun. The tour concluded in a room full of women clicking away at sewing machines, fashioning the pieces of garbage into colorful, marketable works of art.
It isn't the first idea of its kind. But the humble white building where the assembly line chugs along emanates a messsage of profound simplicity. And it filled me with hope that day. This one small idea has provided 60 people with full-time jobs, hundreds more with compensation for cleaning their city, spread awareness regarding the dangers of land pollution and provided many lucky individuals, including me, with a really cute new purse! Trashy Bags reminds me what we are capable of. It reminds me that when the government elite ignores issues that matter to us, there is more to be done than sit back and complain. I am reminded of the inherent and potential links between seemingly disparate problems. And that beauty can be formed from the ugliest of landscapes. I am determined to keep my eyes pealed, receptive for when inspiration might strike from the lowliest of places. And I am grateful for the reminder of the power in one great idea.
Yesterday, I visited a place called "Trashy Bags". This organization was started three years ago by some young people who saw an artistic solution to two of Ghana's major issues: land pollution and unemployment.
Since nearly everything here comes in bags, plastic sachets make up the majority of rubbish- whether casually tossed into a gutter, regretfully discarded as justified by the lack of trash receptacles in close proximity or dumped in the grass with nowhere else to dispose the rest of the wrappers and papers that build up over a week in the life. In Accra, waste produced from plastic packaging is estimated to be more than 60 tons per day. That number is up by 70% in the last ten years with only 2% of the plastic waste being recycled. The oft-ignored 98% colors the urban landscape with the white and pink FanIce wrappers, the warm yellow of Tampico sachets and the translucent blue of Voltic water bags. It is a major cause of the city's frequent floods and greatly increases the risk and spread of disease. Meanwhile, everyday in this developing country, many people shuffle along these littered streets in search of some way to earn a living.
So, a couple people were observant enough to link the issues and to imagine a creative solution. Trashy Bags pays anyone who is willing to pick up sachets off the streets. They are paid by the kilo of trash they bring in. The garbage is then recycled into marketable products including wallets, lunch boxes, and bags of all shapes and sizes.
The manager took us around their workshop as I marveled at the methodical brilliance of the operation. We saw where the sachets are dumped after they're brought in, looking just as crumpled and useless as they do on the side of the road. We saw how they are cleaned and sterilized and then laid out to dry in the sub-saharan sun. The tour concluded in a room full of women clicking away at sewing machines, fashioning the pieces of garbage into colorful, marketable works of art.
It isn't the first idea of its kind. But the humble white building where the assembly line chugs along emanates a messsage of profound simplicity. And it filled me with hope that day. This one small idea has provided 60 people with full-time jobs, hundreds more with compensation for cleaning their city, spread awareness regarding the dangers of land pollution and provided many lucky individuals, including me, with a really cute new purse! Trashy Bags reminds me what we are capable of. It reminds me that when the government elite ignores issues that matter to us, there is more to be done than sit back and complain. I am reminded of the inherent and potential links between seemingly disparate problems. And that beauty can be formed from the ugliest of landscapes. I am determined to keep my eyes pealed, receptive for when inspiration might strike from the lowliest of places. And I am grateful for the reminder of the power in one great idea.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
ode to FanIce
Oh be still, be still my beating heart
When I hear the honk honk of the FanIce cart.
The melodious sound haunts me all through the day
Until I cave, dig around in my pockets and pay
the 40 pesuas that convert to roughly a quarter.
What a steal. For the best treat within Ghana's borders.
On the days when I'm mopping my sweat with a rag,
you are the only consolation, FanIce (ice cream in a bag).
It seems so simple, should be universal, for goodness sake
Not quite fro-yo, not quite soft serve, not quite a milkshake
Thou art the best of every world, full of mysteries
Like how the vendors keep you frozen on their heads when it's
100 degrees
And what ingredients you contain- 'cause I think they might
include crack
Or how the package can possibly claim to hold a "healthy snack"
No, you really can't be good for me, must be against all smart
eating rules
But I live in ignorant bliss because I can't convert kilojoules
to calories. And I wouldn't if I could.
Because, my dear Fanny, you are just that good.
I try to limit myself to just one a week
And when that day comes, I jump! I freak!
I tear off your top left corner with my pointy teeth
And slurp, while your residue encircles my lips like a wreath.
I am filled with the taste of all things right in this world:
Of puppies and cake batter and the tutus I used to wear when I
twirled
You taste like snowmen we jokingly made quite voluminous
Of Christmas and eggnog, of clouds that are cumulus
Of pillows and fog and kamp's blueberry fluff
Of marshmallows gently singed just enough
Promise me you'll never change, Fanny Fan, will ya?
For you have single-handedly restored my faith in vanilla
And now each time I indulge, you disappear way too fast
And I fear our relationship might not always last
So I'll try to enjoy and cherish you before I return home
And am left with your lame older brother. Who comes in a cone.
When I hear the honk honk of the FanIce cart.
The melodious sound haunts me all through the day
Until I cave, dig around in my pockets and pay
the 40 pesuas that convert to roughly a quarter.
What a steal. For the best treat within Ghana's borders.
On the days when I'm mopping my sweat with a rag,
you are the only consolation, FanIce (ice cream in a bag).
It seems so simple, should be universal, for goodness sake
Not quite fro-yo, not quite soft serve, not quite a milkshake
Thou art the best of every world, full of mysteries
Like how the vendors keep you frozen on their heads when it's
100 degrees
And what ingredients you contain- 'cause I think they might
include crack
Or how the package can possibly claim to hold a "healthy snack"
No, you really can't be good for me, must be against all smart
eating rules
But I live in ignorant bliss because I can't convert kilojoules
to calories. And I wouldn't if I could.
Because, my dear Fanny, you are just that good.
I try to limit myself to just one a week
And when that day comes, I jump! I freak!
I tear off your top left corner with my pointy teeth
And slurp, while your residue encircles my lips like a wreath.
I am filled with the taste of all things right in this world:
Of puppies and cake batter and the tutus I used to wear when I
twirled
You taste like snowmen we jokingly made quite voluminous
Of Christmas and eggnog, of clouds that are cumulus
Of pillows and fog and kamp's blueberry fluff
Of marshmallows gently singed just enough
Promise me you'll never change, Fanny Fan, will ya?
For you have single-handedly restored my faith in vanilla
And now each time I indulge, you disappear way too fast
And I fear our relationship might not always last
So I'll try to enjoy and cherish you before I return home
And am left with your lame older brother. Who comes in a cone.
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