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.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
portraits
Where I'm from, it's the old crossing guard from Hough, the Kooker's guy, and my mother's Pilates, I'm sorry, "Synergy" instructor. At school, it's the woman who used to own Wildflower Cafe and the crusty man I sometimes sit next to in church. In every corner of the world, we stumble upon a precious few hidden heroes.
Those whose very nature spur one towards a higher level of existence. Those rare souls whose generosity imbues us with courage and hope and mostly, joy. Of course, our close family and friends can do this, but sometimes, we find strength in the most unlikely of faces.
The first of this breed whom I encountered in Ghana was my Twi language professor, "short Kofi." You see, the other Twi teacher is also a Kofi, but he towers above his students while I have to peer down from my desk to watch our guy in action. In emails from our program director, on paperwork, everywhere- he is known as "short Kofi". I don't even know his last name.
Short Kofi loves what he does. You can see it in his sunken-in eyes and his pointy belly that greets you long before his face. But what a face. His wrinkly smile falls under the overhang of these massive nostrils that must have been part of the inspiration for the animators of Shrek. All of his endearing features work together to manifest the inner vitality and joy of a man who cares about his work.
We put hours every week into learning this language that we will have no use for come December, but for those sessions on Mondays and Tuesdays it seems to me the most important task there is. Short Kofi tells us that we are his "disciples spreading the message of Twi." Between guttural laughs we are instructed to "kill the teacher" when he misspells something, to "kill the student" for a wrong answer, or when a blonde girl spills her water bottle- "Your drink seems to be giving you trouble. Kill it and be free." He's full of encouragement (That deserves a four star hotel! followed by a series of handshakes) and advice (Never envy anybody with too many pens).
The other day the classroom dialogue flowed from a lecture on the various euphemisms for having to use the toilet (roughly translating to I'm going to greet the chief and I'm going to wash my gun) into our earnest questions about short Kofi's life outside of school. We learned that the man is up by 4:10 every morning for his radio show (the only radio program in Twi in all of Ghana) and then off to a long day of teaching after which he helps the student radio station with their programming before heading home late in the evening. At that point, he finishes other paperwork past midnight. "That's my life," he grins. I had thought that his level of positivity and energy were only available to those clocking in at least 7 or 8 hours of REM cycles. It is truly remarkable that this little man can so consistently deliver such great focus and enthusiasm to his intro level class of foreigners. I refuse to let exhaustion be an excuse any longer.
It was early morning and we were embarking on one in a varied series of weekend trips. I have forgotten where we were going and who I sat next to. All that remains of the ride through the rain is an image that grabbed me for a few moments at a stoplight. Many products are sold out of large baskets atop women's heads. The massive goods that they are able to balance with such grace and fluidity is truly amazing. I once saw a woman with six monster suitcases stacked atop her head floating lightly through rush hour traffic. But on this particular morning, I locked eyes with a small girl. Her body concealed the years conveyed in her stern eyes. She must have been about my age. Her bare feet pounded against the hot pavement. Just over her feet- a gray dress I think I saw at Forever 21 many years ago. Above the dress- tied to her back- a baby; his head rolling around, dipping in and out of the sweat on her back. Above the baby her eyes darted for the familiar hiss of a potential customer. Above the eyes, atop her head, a wide bowl big enough to bathe in. Towering over the bowl, at least 300 bananas, carefully stacked and arranged to appeal to those of us riding high above the black pavement. I watched her move towards a man in a taxi, dig for change in the pocket of the baby fabric, run as the traffic began to move, snatch a banana off the tower on her head, and deliver it while she calmed the wailing child on her back. In that moment, it seemed I would never work as hard in my life as this peer of mine. I doubt I will. I am trying to hold onto this image. Rather, it is holding onto me. I think about this girl now, and wonder where she gets her bananas from.
In Ghana, my fellow students get to postpone that dreaded first year out of college as they fulfill their mandatory year of national service. Young people are placed in large companies in the capital city, in obscure programs scattered across the rural villages to the north, and some are even teaching assistants at the university. For some it is a great experience that yields further career opportunities, for others it is a weary twelve month road block en route to their future plans. But, to be sure, the national service contingent provides the foot soldiers for the nation's developing infrastructure. Obviously, most of my contact has been with those stationed at the university and I have been so grateful for their presence on campus.
My dance class is taught by a somewhat abrasive woman. Try as we do to please her, the international faction of our class just can't quite move the way she wants us to. She yells and yells, demanding things my body is simply not capable of. But the heaven-sent national service TAs are full of encouragement. There are about seven of them for our medium-sized class who disperse themselves and dance alongside us. They are patient and understanding, though far superior in the art form. I know that teaching white kids to dance is not really the dream; most of their aspirations include professional dance troupes in Ghana and around the world. But they work to make us understand what they love about dance. My favorite, Shamu (yes), comes around after some harsh words from the teacher and repeats, "Smile. Enjoy what you are doing." Over and over. He must say that phrase over 100 times in a class. Yet over time, the words slip into my bones and I stomp and clap to the beat of his encouragement.
Those completing their National Service remind me what it is to be a servant. To give your all for something other than yourself. I look up to them a great deal as they remind me that no matter what the activity, it is possible to choose to enjoy what you are doing.
Volunteers come in and out of the orphanage on our own rather irregular rotation. When I leave after four short hours in the bustle of a normal day, I am exhausted. I typically collapse on my bed and escape into a book, gearing myself up for my next brief immersion in the ever-moving, ever-constant life of that house. Every week I am amazed that people actually do this 24-7. That it is someone's job to be here with these children all the time. In the past few weeks, I have been able to observe these unbelievable women up close. There are two that I have seen; the aunties. They could be sisters, both middle-aged strong women, the kind you would want on your team. For anything. The aunties move with a quiet grace that rises unexpectedly in moments of discipline or celebration. The children respond to them as they would a parent and their trust in these women is implicit. Their immature gratitude towards them evident in the collapse of a small body into auntie's arms or the tilt of a bald head up towards her smile.
Morning after morning after morning for who knows how many years the aunties dress their 44 children. And lunchtime after lunchtime they feed them. Until they pass them along into an adolescence and an adulthood that they will only be a part of in pictures and postcards. And new ones are welcomed. For who knows how many more lunches.
I give thanks for the chance to drink from the overflow of a generous soul's heart and to experience short Kofi's enthusiasm, the banana girl's perseverance, the joy of those in the national service, and the goodness of the Aunties. And I ask for the courage to express my gratitude to such heroes wherever I might find them.
Those whose very nature spur one towards a higher level of existence. Those rare souls whose generosity imbues us with courage and hope and mostly, joy. Of course, our close family and friends can do this, but sometimes, we find strength in the most unlikely of faces.
The first of this breed whom I encountered in Ghana was my Twi language professor, "short Kofi." You see, the other Twi teacher is also a Kofi, but he towers above his students while I have to peer down from my desk to watch our guy in action. In emails from our program director, on paperwork, everywhere- he is known as "short Kofi". I don't even know his last name.
Short Kofi loves what he does. You can see it in his sunken-in eyes and his pointy belly that greets you long before his face. But what a face. His wrinkly smile falls under the overhang of these massive nostrils that must have been part of the inspiration for the animators of Shrek. All of his endearing features work together to manifest the inner vitality and joy of a man who cares about his work.
We put hours every week into learning this language that we will have no use for come December, but for those sessions on Mondays and Tuesdays it seems to me the most important task there is. Short Kofi tells us that we are his "disciples spreading the message of Twi." Between guttural laughs we are instructed to "kill the teacher" when he misspells something, to "kill the student" for a wrong answer, or when a blonde girl spills her water bottle- "Your drink seems to be giving you trouble. Kill it and be free." He's full of encouragement (That deserves a four star hotel! followed by a series of handshakes) and advice (Never envy anybody with too many pens).
The other day the classroom dialogue flowed from a lecture on the various euphemisms for having to use the toilet (roughly translating to I'm going to greet the chief and I'm going to wash my gun) into our earnest questions about short Kofi's life outside of school. We learned that the man is up by 4:10 every morning for his radio show (the only radio program in Twi in all of Ghana) and then off to a long day of teaching after which he helps the student radio station with their programming before heading home late in the evening. At that point, he finishes other paperwork past midnight. "That's my life," he grins. I had thought that his level of positivity and energy were only available to those clocking in at least 7 or 8 hours of REM cycles. It is truly remarkable that this little man can so consistently deliver such great focus and enthusiasm to his intro level class of foreigners. I refuse to let exhaustion be an excuse any longer.
It was early morning and we were embarking on one in a varied series of weekend trips. I have forgotten where we were going and who I sat next to. All that remains of the ride through the rain is an image that grabbed me for a few moments at a stoplight. Many products are sold out of large baskets atop women's heads. The massive goods that they are able to balance with such grace and fluidity is truly amazing. I once saw a woman with six monster suitcases stacked atop her head floating lightly through rush hour traffic. But on this particular morning, I locked eyes with a small girl. Her body concealed the years conveyed in her stern eyes. She must have been about my age. Her bare feet pounded against the hot pavement. Just over her feet- a gray dress I think I saw at Forever 21 many years ago. Above the dress- tied to her back- a baby; his head rolling around, dipping in and out of the sweat on her back. Above the baby her eyes darted for the familiar hiss of a potential customer. Above the eyes, atop her head, a wide bowl big enough to bathe in. Towering over the bowl, at least 300 bananas, carefully stacked and arranged to appeal to those of us riding high above the black pavement. I watched her move towards a man in a taxi, dig for change in the pocket of the baby fabric, run as the traffic began to move, snatch a banana off the tower on her head, and deliver it while she calmed the wailing child on her back. In that moment, it seemed I would never work as hard in my life as this peer of mine. I doubt I will. I am trying to hold onto this image. Rather, it is holding onto me. I think about this girl now, and wonder where she gets her bananas from.
In Ghana, my fellow students get to postpone that dreaded first year out of college as they fulfill their mandatory year of national service. Young people are placed in large companies in the capital city, in obscure programs scattered across the rural villages to the north, and some are even teaching assistants at the university. For some it is a great experience that yields further career opportunities, for others it is a weary twelve month road block en route to their future plans. But, to be sure, the national service contingent provides the foot soldiers for the nation's developing infrastructure. Obviously, most of my contact has been with those stationed at the university and I have been so grateful for their presence on campus.
My dance class is taught by a somewhat abrasive woman. Try as we do to please her, the international faction of our class just can't quite move the way she wants us to. She yells and yells, demanding things my body is simply not capable of. But the heaven-sent national service TAs are full of encouragement. There are about seven of them for our medium-sized class who disperse themselves and dance alongside us. They are patient and understanding, though far superior in the art form. I know that teaching white kids to dance is not really the dream; most of their aspirations include professional dance troupes in Ghana and around the world. But they work to make us understand what they love about dance. My favorite, Shamu (yes), comes around after some harsh words from the teacher and repeats, "Smile. Enjoy what you are doing." Over and over. He must say that phrase over 100 times in a class. Yet over time, the words slip into my bones and I stomp and clap to the beat of his encouragement.
Those completing their National Service remind me what it is to be a servant. To give your all for something other than yourself. I look up to them a great deal as they remind me that no matter what the activity, it is possible to choose to enjoy what you are doing.
Volunteers come in and out of the orphanage on our own rather irregular rotation. When I leave after four short hours in the bustle of a normal day, I am exhausted. I typically collapse on my bed and escape into a book, gearing myself up for my next brief immersion in the ever-moving, ever-constant life of that house. Every week I am amazed that people actually do this 24-7. That it is someone's job to be here with these children all the time. In the past few weeks, I have been able to observe these unbelievable women up close. There are two that I have seen; the aunties. They could be sisters, both middle-aged strong women, the kind you would want on your team. For anything. The aunties move with a quiet grace that rises unexpectedly in moments of discipline or celebration. The children respond to them as they would a parent and their trust in these women is implicit. Their immature gratitude towards them evident in the collapse of a small body into auntie's arms or the tilt of a bald head up towards her smile.
Morning after morning after morning for who knows how many years the aunties dress their 44 children. And lunchtime after lunchtime they feed them. Until they pass them along into an adolescence and an adulthood that they will only be a part of in pictures and postcards. And new ones are welcomed. For who knows how many more lunches.
I give thanks for the chance to drink from the overflow of a generous soul's heart and to experience short Kofi's enthusiasm, the banana girl's perseverance, the joy of those in the national service, and the goodness of the Aunties. And I ask for the courage to express my gratitude to such heroes wherever I might find them.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
things i'll never blog about
My pooping patterns.
How little the men in this country are.
I won't post about on how badly I want to get my hair braided but how I'm not sure I can pull it off. Or what to do about my watch tan without risking not knowing what time it is.
How I sometimes miss Illinois with an intensity that physically pains me in my lower left abdomen.
That one fine day I thought about staying here for another semester.
The moments, when the unfinished buildings and shoeless children cloud my vision, that it really does seem hopeless. A project for another lifetime. I keep these private.
How I don't even necessarily miss the best parts of my country. I miss the way an American billboard is laid out and the melodic screeching of women talking over each other on The View.
My parents can't read a blog about how I secretly kind of want to get malaria just to say I had it.
How many things I do just to say I did them.
How "theatre" sometimes gets stuck in my throat when asked what I'm studying. Despite all of the intellectual twisting and sorting I've done crafting a fundamental justification for my major, it is still difficult to look the orphanage director in the eye and feel okay pursuing anything other than feeding the hungry. Of course, I know, I think, I tell myself- culture matters. But really, how do the arts stand up to the realities of suffering in our world? I'm working on it.
The game I've made of having to tell guys here that I'm married, as our program recommended we do when they get too pushy. Each time, I add to the myth of my pretend spouse. His name is Philippe. He's a doctor; part-time musician. Phillippe is 6'9" with dark wavy hair. He cooks and he cleans and he also wants to rhyme our children's names if we have quints. Phillippe loves basketball, Disney movies and playing Harry Potter Clue. He is great fun to brag about, but I imagine it will be disappointing to return home and remember that Phillipe is just a figment.
I won't blog about crying at the post office.
I won't blog about the strike because I don't know how I feel about it.
This is for the journal.
I'll never blog about blogging. About my earnest desire to look back on a collection of stories that are honest and candid. Words that capture the hard questions and serious doubts as well as the mountains and roses of this journey without filtering for anybody.
How glad I am to have Booey here with me.
How sometimes I meet ex-pats and I shake my head. I only ever want to be a pat.
How I try to compare what I'm missing to what I'm gaining, but I can't tell if I'm in the black. A quarter missed of the Greeks in my acting class; four months of the reading and writing I've been yearning for since high school. Falling behind in precious relationships; starting brand new ones. A little less college; a little more exploring. No autumn; extra summer. Apples and oranges, I suppose.
What if being here with so little just makes me even greedier when I get home?
How little I know about the world. About elections, predictions, findings, catastrophes and progress. I'm asking for a subscription to Time magazine for Christmas.
How when it's quiet, as it always is now without my ipod and my "ghana be epic" playlist, I'm surprised and disturbed by the distant destinations of my mind. I've never given it so much free time before.
What if I never come back here?
What if I do?
I won't blog about the surging frustration of not being able to fix things that are broken. Or not even knowing how. Or when it broke.
The difference between changing and growing up. Where I'm at on that spectrum.
Nor will I blog about how slow people walk here and how much it drives me crazy.
Or my weird existential questions about what scale we're supposed to live at. Like, how I can go home with Ghana in mind or if I'm supposed to go back to coffee and Greek life or what this thing has to do with anything.
Or how narcisstic narrating can feel.
Or how much the orphanage smells.
oops.
How little the men in this country are.
I won't post about on how badly I want to get my hair braided but how I'm not sure I can pull it off. Or what to do about my watch tan without risking not knowing what time it is.
How I sometimes miss Illinois with an intensity that physically pains me in my lower left abdomen.
That one fine day I thought about staying here for another semester.
The moments, when the unfinished buildings and shoeless children cloud my vision, that it really does seem hopeless. A project for another lifetime. I keep these private.
How I don't even necessarily miss the best parts of my country. I miss the way an American billboard is laid out and the melodic screeching of women talking over each other on The View.
My parents can't read a blog about how I secretly kind of want to get malaria just to say I had it.
How many things I do just to say I did them.
How "theatre" sometimes gets stuck in my throat when asked what I'm studying. Despite all of the intellectual twisting and sorting I've done crafting a fundamental justification for my major, it is still difficult to look the orphanage director in the eye and feel okay pursuing anything other than feeding the hungry. Of course, I know, I think, I tell myself- culture matters. But really, how do the arts stand up to the realities of suffering in our world? I'm working on it.
The game I've made of having to tell guys here that I'm married, as our program recommended we do when they get too pushy. Each time, I add to the myth of my pretend spouse. His name is Philippe. He's a doctor; part-time musician. Phillippe is 6'9" with dark wavy hair. He cooks and he cleans and he also wants to rhyme our children's names if we have quints. Phillippe loves basketball, Disney movies and playing Harry Potter Clue. He is great fun to brag about, but I imagine it will be disappointing to return home and remember that Phillipe is just a figment.
I won't blog about crying at the post office.
I won't blog about the strike because I don't know how I feel about it.
This is for the journal.
I'll never blog about blogging. About my earnest desire to look back on a collection of stories that are honest and candid. Words that capture the hard questions and serious doubts as well as the mountains and roses of this journey without filtering for anybody.
How glad I am to have Booey here with me.
How sometimes I meet ex-pats and I shake my head. I only ever want to be a pat.
How I try to compare what I'm missing to what I'm gaining, but I can't tell if I'm in the black. A quarter missed of the Greeks in my acting class; four months of the reading and writing I've been yearning for since high school. Falling behind in precious relationships; starting brand new ones. A little less college; a little more exploring. No autumn; extra summer. Apples and oranges, I suppose.
What if being here with so little just makes me even greedier when I get home?
How little I know about the world. About elections, predictions, findings, catastrophes and progress. I'm asking for a subscription to Time magazine for Christmas.
How when it's quiet, as it always is now without my ipod and my "ghana be epic" playlist, I'm surprised and disturbed by the distant destinations of my mind. I've never given it so much free time before.
What if I never come back here?
What if I do?
I won't blog about the surging frustration of not being able to fix things that are broken. Or not even knowing how. Or when it broke.
The difference between changing and growing up. Where I'm at on that spectrum.
Nor will I blog about how slow people walk here and how much it drives me crazy.
Or my weird existential questions about what scale we're supposed to live at. Like, how I can go home with Ghana in mind or if I'm supposed to go back to coffee and Greek life or what this thing has to do with anything.
Or how narcisstic narrating can feel.
Or how much the orphanage smells.
oops.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
10-10-10 in togo!
On September 9, 1999, Oprah had a little girl on her show because she was turning nine. That's it. Turning nine on 9/9/99 and you're on Oprah. I remember realizing that one day I would celebrate my birthday on 10-10-10, and even though I wouldn't exactly be turning ten, I figured that was still talk-show worthy. So all last week, I anxiously awaited Oprah's call. But, my phone stopped working in Togo so she wasn't able to reach me, I guess. I suppose I'll have to wait until the next 10-10-10 rolls around
Yes, I spent the weekend in Togo- the skinny little country that borders Ghana to the east. I wasn't sure what to expect there. I knew they spoke French, but beyond that- would it look pretty much the same? smell the same? sell the same food? Would people look the same? Would I hear different music? Honestly, I didn't anticipate it being too different from the world I've been living in for the last two months.
But the moment we crossed the border (only after waiting two hours for an expensive visa while we watched African after African bribe their way across the border), everything changed. There was a newer quality in the air- cleaner, fresher, calmer. The beach was all the colors that a beach is supposed to be, minus the black trash bags and bottles that sunbathe along Ghana's pasty shores. People milled about in flashy shirts and capris. Actually, everyone was wearing capris. Literally everyone. We exchanged our money from cedis to CFAS which was really just so troublesome. It's roughly 1,000 CFA to 3 cedis. Doesn't that just seem inherently wrong?
A loud roar and we were surrounded by the greatest invention there ever was: moto-taxis. The two among us with some remnants of high school French took the lead on bartering and we were off. As we zoomed down the coast, I realized I had never been on a motorcycle before. The sensation was probably akin to the look on my face my mom remembers when I tried ice cream for the first time: Why have you been hiding this from me? The thrill of cruising down that road with a whole new country on my left and the Atlantic on my right over-shadowed the small part of my Type A brain that was calculating the risk involved on such a vehicle, without a helmet, on a dirt road with 42 potholes for every stoplight. I didn't care. I was on a moto-taxi.
We arrived at our hotel, Le Galion. It is an adorable guesthouse owned by a French couple featuring an open-air cafe, a balcony, and high-ceilinged rooms that let me pretend, just for the weekend, that I had studied abroad in Europe. I was blown away by how different this country was; Ghana's next-door neighbor looks nothing like it! How is it that none of the influences have seeped across the border even a little? Not even any of the food...?
Oh, the food. That night my friends let me choose the restaurant from the recommended list in our guide book, and I'm not trying to brag or anything, but- I CHOSE WELL. Greenfield might be the best dining experience I have ever had and I fully realize the role that context plays in that superlative. We walk in and Jason Mraz is playing. For those who don't know, Jason is my all-time favorite. And he was playing that night in a restaurant in Togo. Thank you, universe. The outdoor seating area was lovely, covered in brightly colored lanterns and funky artwork.
I can't really describe the ecstasy of reading the menu, but I'll do my best. The suspense was heightened by having to wait for Liz's sloppy but fairly accurate translation of each item I pointed to. I grew more and more overwhelmed by the options before me until I flipped to the last page and saw a word I recognized all too well: guacamole. Yes friends, guacamole. So, one order of guac and chips, a huge plate of ravioli, two scoops of ice cream and one martini (!) later, I sat back, full. Full of food and full of gratitude. I looked around at the faces of those who had become such quick friends and marveled at their willingness to go to such great lengths to celebrate 21 years they had only been a part of for two months. I am blessed to add these six to my relational world and I was so lucky to have them with me this weekend.
Then we were off to Privilege- the largest night club in all of West Africa where we met the Tunisian soccer team coaches and learned of a big game the next day, lounged on the cheetah couches, made some Israeli friends, and danced to Shakira's "Waka Waka" which the DJ allowed us to request over and over and over.
Sunday morning was spent at the beautiful beach. Looking for every excuse to moto-taxi, I volunteered to go find food, run back to the hotel, find a spot farther down on the beach, etcetera, etcetera.
We decided to check out the Togo-Tunisia soccer game, especially now that we had an in with the coaches. It was unlike any professional sports experience I have ever been a part of. The game was free to get in and try as they might to maintain some kind of orderly entrance, the policemen (with beating sticks in hand) were outnumbered by the hundreds of people pushing against the gates, jumping over and under the fences (we went under- I had a dress on), and scrambling up, up and up to find a place to sit down. I legitimately think the whole country was in attendance. The game itself was very entertaining; fights periodically broke out around us over who knows what, and I came to the conclusion that those horns are only obnoxious if you don't have one yourself. Tunisia came out victorious and the cold rain at the end of the game echoed the nation's disappointment but we were happy for our buddies.
That night came and went with more new friends who we couldn't really communicate with, crepes, baguettes, and some reflection, perched, as we were, at the halfway point of our trip. Hard to believe.
Monday, we took a day trip to a small village called Togoville that can only be reached by canoe. Our bargaining efforts with the canoe man were pretty unsuccessful given that we really had no other way to get to the town. He could basically charge us whatever he wanted. And he did. He really did.
It was a pretty impoverished town but their claim to fame is a beautiful cathedral on the water with outdoor pews reminiscent of church at K-West. It is also the namesake of this deflated-balloon shaped country. It is believed that the virgin mary is in Lake Togo that surrounds the village and for this reason, Pope John Paul II and many others have made the trek out to this sacred place. There was a sign by the entrance that explained some of this and at the bottom in bold red ink, it read:
pray for us.
I don't know why that got to me, but I was struck by the simple profundity of that request. I sometimes feel so overcome by the problems and plagues of the poor that I forget the power of prayer. I am not as helpless as I fancy myself. If nothing else, if I never come back here, if I never send money or clothes to these people, I can at least pray for them. As they have asked me to.
I'm glad we saw Togoville. I think I would have left with a false impression of this country had we not. Overall, it was a wonderful getaway and an important reminder of what we all know but so often forget; that Africa is made up of many many different countries that happen to be close to one another. It is unfair and blatantly incorrect to clump these drastically different regions into one big blob of being as we so often do. Each country has their own unique challenges, histories, politics, traditions, and values and they ought to be thought of as such.
So, Lome, Togo has been added to my list of favorite places. And this birthday hs been added to the ranks of the pre-school castle party, the American Girl movie-star shindig, 8 for Dinner, and the sweet sixteen costume party. But be sure to tune into Oprah in 2110. You might just see a familiar face.
Friday, October 8, 2010
the big three-five
This weekend, my home church, Willow Creek celebrates thirty-five years of ministry. If there was one thing I could fly home for it would be a close tie between the services this weekend and Jo's play in November. Oh and the Northwestern/U of I game at Wrigley Field. I'd really like to be there for that, too. Anyways, even across the ocean, I will celebrate and reflect on all that this church has meant to me.
I can remember the twenty-fifth anniversary at the United Center and how exciting it was to feel a part of something so momentous. I remember getting to stay up late that night and having a sleepover with Elisa. I remember the feeling of pride and anticipation for what was to come and the thrilled disbelief that I might have a place in it.
Ten years later, the anniversary passes with a twinge of longing and nostalgia in my heart. Of course, I can still give thanks for all that has happened in the last decade and smile at dreams of what the next ten might hold, but I do so knowing that my involvement and presence has inevitably lessened and will continue to do so as I grow up and away. It is difficult to loosen my grip on a place that was so instrumental in my early years. In fact, I'm embarrassed to admit what an emotional experience it is for me now to attend different churches. I have yet to find another sanctuary that feels like home, but I suppose I should surrender that label to Willow and start looking for a church that feels like now.
Today, my heart is full as I reflect on the tunnel and the in-between-times before the 11:15 and after the 9 and the atrium and Chapter 2 and the Saturday nights and Harvest's slow but steady progression towards a really decent slice of pizza and Jairus and the Santa Day rap and Camp Paradise with the dads and Camp Paradise with Elevate and my first communion and the Sam and Jo in the Know Show and the day I went to the 9:00 and had to be in the white small group and Mom's old office and the time I got lost and that nice man went and found dad for me and Dudley DoRight and Let's Get it Started and my baptism with Kendra and that moment by myself in the balcony when I knew that it would be okay and He Reigns and He Lives and the many many memories that this church has given me over the years. I stand in awe of what God has done through a small group of high school students. I am so grateful to my parents for including me in this journey and I am proud of the roles they played. I can only hope that someday my own children will bear witness to kingdom work of that magnitude. What a privilege to have been a part of even a fraction of Willow's story! How right it is to celebrate. I wish I could be there.
But, I will be content for now to continue my days in Ghana, recognizing the role that Willow's compassion ministries and rice-and-beans-week played in spurring me to come here. I will prioritize community having learned it from the very best on the Promiseland Drama Team. I will continue pursuing my passion for the arts remembering the lakeside auditorium stage on which I first discovered that love. And I will continue seeking after the Lord; grateful to have first encountered Him at Willow Creek Community Church.
I can remember the twenty-fifth anniversary at the United Center and how exciting it was to feel a part of something so momentous. I remember getting to stay up late that night and having a sleepover with Elisa. I remember the feeling of pride and anticipation for what was to come and the thrilled disbelief that I might have a place in it.
Ten years later, the anniversary passes with a twinge of longing and nostalgia in my heart. Of course, I can still give thanks for all that has happened in the last decade and smile at dreams of what the next ten might hold, but I do so knowing that my involvement and presence has inevitably lessened and will continue to do so as I grow up and away. It is difficult to loosen my grip on a place that was so instrumental in my early years. In fact, I'm embarrassed to admit what an emotional experience it is for me now to attend different churches. I have yet to find another sanctuary that feels like home, but I suppose I should surrender that label to Willow and start looking for a church that feels like now.
Today, my heart is full as I reflect on the tunnel and the in-between-times before the 11:15 and after the 9 and the atrium and Chapter 2 and the Saturday nights and Harvest's slow but steady progression towards a really decent slice of pizza and Jairus and the Santa Day rap and Camp Paradise with the dads and Camp Paradise with Elevate and my first communion and the Sam and Jo in the Know Show and the day I went to the 9:00 and had to be in the white small group and Mom's old office and the time I got lost and that nice man went and found dad for me and Dudley DoRight and Let's Get it Started and my baptism with Kendra and that moment by myself in the balcony when I knew that it would be okay and He Reigns and He Lives and the many many memories that this church has given me over the years. I stand in awe of what God has done through a small group of high school students. I am so grateful to my parents for including me in this journey and I am proud of the roles they played. I can only hope that someday my own children will bear witness to kingdom work of that magnitude. What a privilege to have been a part of even a fraction of Willow's story! How right it is to celebrate. I wish I could be there.
But, I will be content for now to continue my days in Ghana, recognizing the role that Willow's compassion ministries and rice-and-beans-week played in spurring me to come here. I will prioritize community having learned it from the very best on the Promiseland Drama Team. I will continue pursuing my passion for the arts remembering the lakeside auditorium stage on which I first discovered that love. And I will continue seeking after the Lord; grateful to have first encountered Him at Willow Creek Community Church.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
an account of the palm tree festival in dzodze
This being a timeline of the events I experienced this weekend as a part of a drumming class field trip to a festival in the Volta Region of Ghana.
Friday, October 1st
12:30 pm So much to do before I leave. Still need to pack and I want to get there early to get a window seat on the bus.
1:30 I arrive at the meeting place half an hour before departure. I am alone.
2:00 Departure time. Still alone.
2:21 A few people have trickled in. No sign of leadership or a bus.
3:03 I need to pee but I am afraid the bus will get here while I'm gone.
3:28 Johnson, our teacher, appears with a sign-up sheet. Things are looking good.
4:19 I pee. Still no bus.
5:42 Doo doo doo doo doo.
6:17 There she is! Not what I would traditionally label a "bus", persay. But a vehicle, nonetheless!
6:59 Try to play the Alphabet Game with fellow travelers. Too dark. No signs. Language barrier.
7:51 The road moves from pavement to potholes. Bumpity bumpity. I need to get it out of my fourth grade mind that the back of the bus is the cool place to be. Not in Ghana.
8:02 I can see stars for the first time since being here. They do wonders for my soul. Bumpity, bumpity. I'm hungry.
9:24 We've arrived, hopefully, to the place where we'll be having dinner.
9:51 Banku. My favorite.
9:52 Mouth in flames.
10:00 I think this is also where we are staying. We are pointed to a small room which 12 of us will be sharing. Yoga mats made of foam are distributed and we fumble to form some sort of orderly figuration in the dark. I scramble for a spot in the middle; safe from things that creep and crawl.
10:11 Sweet dreams of that gymnastics gym where we used to jump into the huge pit of foam blocks.
Saturday, October 2nd
5:09 am Seriously?
5:10 Ow, my neck.
5:11 Who do these loud voices belong to and why could they possibly be awake?
7:37 I wonder where/what the toilet is.
7:41 Aha.
8:38 A walk outside and what was hidden in the dark of last night becomes clear. We are staying in a compound; a collection of huts and small stone structures that form a family's home. This is where Johnson, our teacher, grew up and where his extended family now lives. There are children busting out of every nook and cranny and it is impossible to begin to understand how the family tree fits together.
8:42 Johnson, age 71, is disappointed we won't take shots with him before breakfast. This is unlike any school trip I have ever been on.
9:02 We follow him to the street where the festivities are beginning. There are people everywhere; faces painted, making music. Everyone is lined up along the sides of the narrow dirt street. I wonder what we're waiting for.
9:23 A large procession rounds the corner. I first make out a small clan of boys painted blue. They lead the way. Behind them comes two Madeline-style lines of women decked out in traditional garb. They are beautiful. Next comes several pairs of strong young men with a platform and chair hoisted upon their shoulders, kind of like in Alladin. Atop the chair is an important man I presume to be the chief. Just over his head floats an tall ornate umbrella; shielding him from the merciless sun that has arrived, uninvited, to the party.
9:31 We are following the parade along with the rest of the village. Suddenly, the movement stops. Everyone turns to the chief with bated breath.
9:32 The chief is standing. He is STANDING UP.
9:33 UPROARIOUS APPLAUSE. Waving of handkerchiefs. Dancing. I try to understand. .
9:42 I'm starting to get into it; parading, pausing, cheering, dancing. P, P, C, D. The pattern continues until we round the corner to the durbar grounds.
9:50 A feast for the eyes. Narnia meets Alice in Wonderland meets the Gatorade Tournament at Beese. A huge open field of sand surrounded by various umbrellas with seating underneath. We are led to some nice courtside seats right by the stage.
10:20 It has to be 110 degrees. The drops of sweat speed down my arms and I am reminded of the raindrop races Jo and I used to have in the back of the car.
10:26 Johnson tells us the action will begin soon, but I am far from bored. There is plenty to look at. Hundreds and hundreds of people; old men and women for whom this must feel like old business, people with crowns and scepters that seem to have walked right out of the stories on my cherry-wood bookshelf, lots and lots of kids popping up between and under chairs and oozing out around the stage. The Ghana policemen are there; scawy, in their black military garb. There are all kinds of snacks atop heads; some delicious sort of fried bread, lots of plantains, and my personal favorite: FanIce- ice cream in a bag. The ground beneath my chair pulses to the beat of hundreds of drums, preparing us for what is to come.
11:11 The ceremony begins. Three prayers are said; one for African traditional religions, one for Islam and one for the Christians. I am struck by what an interesting alternative this is to deal with a diversely religious population. In most environments I know, we choose to ignore it altogether. Here, we simply account for everybody.
12:22 pm The festival is in honor of the palm tree which gives us palm nuts, palm oil, red-red (a great local dish), and palm wine among other things. As the host introduces the day, a procession of maybe 10 community members dances along the perimeter of the open area; each somehow representing the palm tree. One balances a branch on his head. One carries several jugs of palm wine. One small boy is covered in leaves.
I think it's really neat to set out a day of gratitude for one of God's natural gifts to us. For a tree. It seems so obvious when Johnson talks about. "The tree gives us so much," he explains. It reminds me of The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, one of my all-time favorite books. Perhaps a dramatic reading could be incorporated into next year's festivities.
1:19 The speeches continue in Ewe, a language I unfortunately do not speak.
1:46 I can't race my sweat drops any more. They have become a steady stream covering all of my exposed and gradually reddening skin.
2:13 Every so often there are musical interludes which I greatly enjoy. Now there are a group of older women breaking it down and cooking something right in front of us while they dance.
2:15 They are running around feeding lucky audience members from the magical pot.
2:16 They choose me! Yum, tastes like the love-child of baked potatoes and lasagna.
3:37 There are women dancing right now while other women follow them and keep fires going in their hair. Yes, their hair has been woven into some kind of bowl out of which flames are springing. Wow!
3:38 All for the palm tree. There are a lot of festivals in this part of the world. I consider what our Western equivalent might be. Or at least, the Barrington equivalent. Sidewalk sales? Farmer's Market? Not quite.
5:00 We return to the compound and Johnson offers to lead us around.
5:10 I am taking off our shoes so that I can enter the shrine...?
5:12 We follow Johnson through a gate and duck our heads to enter under a small area shaded by a thatched roof. I am face to back of a saggy woman with a tattoo of bullets in an upside down V.
5:14 She turns around and is introduced as the priestess. She plucks some fruit down that grows from the roof and offers it to me.
5:15 Mmmmm, it is passion fruit: the size of a lemon with gooey seeds inside. Delicious. Strange, how often I drink passion fruit flavored Gatorade or choose passion fruit Skittles without ever knowing what a real passion fruit even looks like.
6:02 Banku for dinner. It's growing on me...?
7:38 We follow the sound of music out to the streets where part two of the festival continues.
10:01 I watch a small baby bounce on the back of his dancing mother. I see an old woman and a teenage guy in a soccer jersey dancing together in the center of the drumming circle. A group of little boys look on in front of two cool older girls in matching metallic belts. I am struck by so many different ages celebrating together. It is a Saturday night and everyone is here under this big tree. No one is too cool. I love those all-too-rare moments during Easter at the Kasper's or at the Hoellerich's cabin where we can be with extended family or family friends and all just be together. Without making plans of where to go after or the little kids breaking off to go play while we text under the table. Those times when you know that no one in the room would rather be anywhere else.
I do wish we had more of these common gatherings across generations; that we were better at celebrating together.
Sunday, October 3rd
4:39 am I stare at the blue ceiling, surrounded by girls I've just met and have one of those where-am-I-and-how-did-I-get-here moments. I listen to the language being spoken quite loudly outside and I smile because even my wild imagination never pictured waking up here in 2010.
8:03 Discover about ten new mosquito bites. But they kind of form a heart shape on my thigh and I like that.
8:48 Just found out Johnson has TEN wives. That explains a lot.
9:42 The kids are way better drummers than us. They're trying to be patient.
11:09 We pull out of the town of Dzodze amidst screaming children and the ever-present drum beat suggesting a slow but steady pace for the road ahead.
12:37 pm I didn't get a window seat but it is hard to miss the palm trees as we drive through the rural landscape; glowing, as they are, from their weekend in the spotlight. I just hope it doesn't go to their heads.
Friday, October 1st
12:30 pm So much to do before I leave. Still need to pack and I want to get there early to get a window seat on the bus.
1:30 I arrive at the meeting place half an hour before departure. I am alone.
2:00 Departure time. Still alone.
2:21 A few people have trickled in. No sign of leadership or a bus.
3:03 I need to pee but I am afraid the bus will get here while I'm gone.
3:28 Johnson, our teacher, appears with a sign-up sheet. Things are looking good.
4:19 I pee. Still no bus.
5:42 Doo doo doo doo doo.
6:17 There she is! Not what I would traditionally label a "bus", persay. But a vehicle, nonetheless!
6:59 Try to play the Alphabet Game with fellow travelers. Too dark. No signs. Language barrier.
7:51 The road moves from pavement to potholes. Bumpity bumpity. I need to get it out of my fourth grade mind that the back of the bus is the cool place to be. Not in Ghana.
8:02 I can see stars for the first time since being here. They do wonders for my soul. Bumpity, bumpity. I'm hungry.
9:24 We've arrived, hopefully, to the place where we'll be having dinner.
9:51 Banku. My favorite.
9:52 Mouth in flames.
10:00 I think this is also where we are staying. We are pointed to a small room which 12 of us will be sharing. Yoga mats made of foam are distributed and we fumble to form some sort of orderly figuration in the dark. I scramble for a spot in the middle; safe from things that creep and crawl.
10:11 Sweet dreams of that gymnastics gym where we used to jump into the huge pit of foam blocks.
Saturday, October 2nd
5:09 am Seriously?
5:10 Ow, my neck.
5:11 Who do these loud voices belong to and why could they possibly be awake?
7:37 I wonder where/what the toilet is.
7:41 Aha.
8:38 A walk outside and what was hidden in the dark of last night becomes clear. We are staying in a compound; a collection of huts and small stone structures that form a family's home. This is where Johnson, our teacher, grew up and where his extended family now lives. There are children busting out of every nook and cranny and it is impossible to begin to understand how the family tree fits together.
8:42 Johnson, age 71, is disappointed we won't take shots with him before breakfast. This is unlike any school trip I have ever been on.
9:02 We follow him to the street where the festivities are beginning. There are people everywhere; faces painted, making music. Everyone is lined up along the sides of the narrow dirt street. I wonder what we're waiting for.
9:23 A large procession rounds the corner. I first make out a small clan of boys painted blue. They lead the way. Behind them comes two Madeline-style lines of women decked out in traditional garb. They are beautiful. Next comes several pairs of strong young men with a platform and chair hoisted upon their shoulders, kind of like in Alladin. Atop the chair is an important man I presume to be the chief. Just over his head floats an tall ornate umbrella; shielding him from the merciless sun that has arrived, uninvited, to the party.
9:31 We are following the parade along with the rest of the village. Suddenly, the movement stops. Everyone turns to the chief with bated breath.
9:32 The chief is standing. He is STANDING UP.
9:33 UPROARIOUS APPLAUSE. Waving of handkerchiefs. Dancing. I try to understand. .
9:42 I'm starting to get into it; parading, pausing, cheering, dancing. P, P, C, D. The pattern continues until we round the corner to the durbar grounds.
9:50 A feast for the eyes. Narnia meets Alice in Wonderland meets the Gatorade Tournament at Beese. A huge open field of sand surrounded by various umbrellas with seating underneath. We are led to some nice courtside seats right by the stage.
10:20 It has to be 110 degrees. The drops of sweat speed down my arms and I am reminded of the raindrop races Jo and I used to have in the back of the car.
10:26 Johnson tells us the action will begin soon, but I am far from bored. There is plenty to look at. Hundreds and hundreds of people; old men and women for whom this must feel like old business, people with crowns and scepters that seem to have walked right out of the stories on my cherry-wood bookshelf, lots and lots of kids popping up between and under chairs and oozing out around the stage. The Ghana policemen are there; scawy, in their black military garb. There are all kinds of snacks atop heads; some delicious sort of fried bread, lots of plantains, and my personal favorite: FanIce- ice cream in a bag. The ground beneath my chair pulses to the beat of hundreds of drums, preparing us for what is to come.
11:11 The ceremony begins. Three prayers are said; one for African traditional religions, one for Islam and one for the Christians. I am struck by what an interesting alternative this is to deal with a diversely religious population. In most environments I know, we choose to ignore it altogether. Here, we simply account for everybody.
12:22 pm The festival is in honor of the palm tree which gives us palm nuts, palm oil, red-red (a great local dish), and palm wine among other things. As the host introduces the day, a procession of maybe 10 community members dances along the perimeter of the open area; each somehow representing the palm tree. One balances a branch on his head. One carries several jugs of palm wine. One small boy is covered in leaves.
I think it's really neat to set out a day of gratitude for one of God's natural gifts to us. For a tree. It seems so obvious when Johnson talks about. "The tree gives us so much," he explains. It reminds me of The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, one of my all-time favorite books. Perhaps a dramatic reading could be incorporated into next year's festivities.
1:19 The speeches continue in Ewe, a language I unfortunately do not speak.
1:46 I can't race my sweat drops any more. They have become a steady stream covering all of my exposed and gradually reddening skin.
2:13 Every so often there are musical interludes which I greatly enjoy. Now there are a group of older women breaking it down and cooking something right in front of us while they dance.
2:15 They are running around feeding lucky audience members from the magical pot.
2:16 They choose me! Yum, tastes like the love-child of baked potatoes and lasagna.
3:37 There are women dancing right now while other women follow them and keep fires going in their hair. Yes, their hair has been woven into some kind of bowl out of which flames are springing. Wow!
3:38 All for the palm tree. There are a lot of festivals in this part of the world. I consider what our Western equivalent might be. Or at least, the Barrington equivalent. Sidewalk sales? Farmer's Market? Not quite.
5:00 We return to the compound and Johnson offers to lead us around.
5:10 I am taking off our shoes so that I can enter the shrine...?
5:12 We follow Johnson through a gate and duck our heads to enter under a small area shaded by a thatched roof. I am face to back of a saggy woman with a tattoo of bullets in an upside down V.
5:14 She turns around and is introduced as the priestess. She plucks some fruit down that grows from the roof and offers it to me.
5:15 Mmmmm, it is passion fruit: the size of a lemon with gooey seeds inside. Delicious. Strange, how often I drink passion fruit flavored Gatorade or choose passion fruit Skittles without ever knowing what a real passion fruit even looks like.
6:02 Banku for dinner. It's growing on me...?
7:38 We follow the sound of music out to the streets where part two of the festival continues.
10:01 I watch a small baby bounce on the back of his dancing mother. I see an old woman and a teenage guy in a soccer jersey dancing together in the center of the drumming circle. A group of little boys look on in front of two cool older girls in matching metallic belts. I am struck by so many different ages celebrating together. It is a Saturday night and everyone is here under this big tree. No one is too cool. I love those all-too-rare moments during Easter at the Kasper's or at the Hoellerich's cabin where we can be with extended family or family friends and all just be together. Without making plans of where to go after or the little kids breaking off to go play while we text under the table. Those times when you know that no one in the room would rather be anywhere else.
I do wish we had more of these common gatherings across generations; that we were better at celebrating together.
Sunday, October 3rd
4:39 am I stare at the blue ceiling, surrounded by girls I've just met and have one of those where-am-I-and-how-did-I-get-here moments. I listen to the language being spoken quite loudly outside and I smile because even my wild imagination never pictured waking up here in 2010.
8:03 Discover about ten new mosquito bites. But they kind of form a heart shape on my thigh and I like that.
8:48 Just found out Johnson has TEN wives. That explains a lot.
9:42 The kids are way better drummers than us. They're trying to be patient.
11:09 We pull out of the town of Dzodze amidst screaming children and the ever-present drum beat suggesting a slow but steady pace for the road ahead.
12:37 pm I didn't get a window seat but it is hard to miss the palm trees as we drive through the rural landscape; glowing, as they are, from their weekend in the spotlight. I just hope it doesn't go to their heads.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
snug
I'm deciding that something is not cliche if it is the first time you yourself have experienced it. Then, it is only a new sensation, perhaps one that many others have known, have written about and adopted certain language for, but it is still new in my body. That said, a few words about taking things for granted.
Inherent to this phenomenon is a lack of awareness of said things. If we took something for granted, we almost paid no notice to it or to the lack of it. Recognizing the object or person or feeling has never been a conscious effort just as we don't pay much attention to the mechanics of driving once we've got a couple hundred miles under our belt. So, it is a startling realization when something goes missing that has always been there.
There have been many wake-up calls in the past six weeks. Perhaps, a thorough documentation will follow in a later post. For now, as I came with the intent to write about my classes, it seems dishonest to ignore the creeping sensation of the week; the absence of security, something less than an absolute certainty in my safety.
I can remember only three distinct times in my life when I've felt anything less than bullet-proof:
There was the summer of the rape in the cemetery. The story that made breaking news in our little town for weeks on end. That
kept me and Jo inside for the best months of the year. Me, rationalizing the chances of being found at 336. Jo, poised with pots and
pans to protect herself.
Watching planes crash into towers when I got home from school one day. Just days into sixth grade and I tried to wrap my bubble
of a mind around the idea that someone somewhere didn't like our country. And that our borders weren't impermeable like I
somehow imagined them to be.
The day we played that inner-city team and I had to guard the big girl.
Of course, there have been flashes of scary Carmen San Diego dreams, getting stuck at the top of roller coasters, and someone walking a little too close behind me in between. But for the most part, my birth into a town facing big issues like traffic at rush hour and people breaking architectural standards, and my matriculation into a school with these mystical blue buttons on every corner which can supposedly morph into policemen, have cemented a permanent sense of safety when it comes to my physical well-being.
So, it was with great trepidation that I walked around my room, trying to fathom what kind of a world I have entered that someone could break into my living space and take something that wasn't theirs. What kind of a place is this where last year's keys to my current room are still floating around? Where they don't have video cameras to show us what happened? Where the law enforcers themselves can be won over with a bribe? Not so puzzling for my program coordinator, the detective, the security guard, or even my Ghanaian friend across the hall. But it blew my little ironclad mind.
Probably an important thing to come to terms with by the age of 20.
The truth that the world is not, in fact, a place in which the very trees were put to protect me. That not everyone is my friend. That not every lock is impenetrable. A simple fact, yes, but how tightly I cling to my rose-colored spectacles. How frequently I continue inventing alternative narratives that would explain why my laptop is not where I left it. How strongly I refuse to believe I sleep in a room that someone could and would enter without knocking.
And even now, of course, my understanding of what it is to be truly unsafe barely cracks the surface. I have insurance, a brand new lock on the way, the knowledge that this is only temporary- that I have a beautifully paved and perfect Wysteria Lane to return to.
But still, what a thing to take for granted! The absence of danger. To spend twenty years being safe and thinking that's normal. What a gift it is to grow up in a place where a segment of your mind does not have to be constantly on the defense. It is a privilege that neither Barrington or Evanston reminded me to be thankful for.
On a scale of "one" to "not the end of the world", my computer being gone is at like a 97. In many ways, it is a hidden blessing of sorts. But, I move with a slightly higher level of cautiousness, with delicately hardened brows and perhaps a jumpy quality to my stride that wasn't there before. And perhaps, in some ways I am more a citizen of the real world than I was before. By next week I'm sure I'll have lightened up and before I know it I'll be back in my foam-cornered and bubble-wrapped, safe and secure town where I can skip home alone after midnight. But I will carry with me the knowledge that such skipping is a privilege. And the hope that more and more people can experience this kind of security in all corners of the world. See, I've already got those green glasses back on.
Inherent to this phenomenon is a lack of awareness of said things. If we took something for granted, we almost paid no notice to it or to the lack of it. Recognizing the object or person or feeling has never been a conscious effort just as we don't pay much attention to the mechanics of driving once we've got a couple hundred miles under our belt. So, it is a startling realization when something goes missing that has always been there.
There have been many wake-up calls in the past six weeks. Perhaps, a thorough documentation will follow in a later post. For now, as I came with the intent to write about my classes, it seems dishonest to ignore the creeping sensation of the week; the absence of security, something less than an absolute certainty in my safety.
I can remember only three distinct times in my life when I've felt anything less than bullet-proof:
There was the summer of the rape in the cemetery. The story that made breaking news in our little town for weeks on end. That
kept me and Jo inside for the best months of the year. Me, rationalizing the chances of being found at 336. Jo, poised with pots and
pans to protect herself.
Watching planes crash into towers when I got home from school one day. Just days into sixth grade and I tried to wrap my bubble
of a mind around the idea that someone somewhere didn't like our country. And that our borders weren't impermeable like I
somehow imagined them to be.
The day we played that inner-city team and I had to guard the big girl.
Of course, there have been flashes of scary Carmen San Diego dreams, getting stuck at the top of roller coasters, and someone walking a little too close behind me in between. But for the most part, my birth into a town facing big issues like traffic at rush hour and people breaking architectural standards, and my matriculation into a school with these mystical blue buttons on every corner which can supposedly morph into policemen, have cemented a permanent sense of safety when it comes to my physical well-being.
So, it was with great trepidation that I walked around my room, trying to fathom what kind of a world I have entered that someone could break into my living space and take something that wasn't theirs. What kind of a place is this where last year's keys to my current room are still floating around? Where they don't have video cameras to show us what happened? Where the law enforcers themselves can be won over with a bribe? Not so puzzling for my program coordinator, the detective, the security guard, or even my Ghanaian friend across the hall. But it blew my little ironclad mind.
Probably an important thing to come to terms with by the age of 20.
The truth that the world is not, in fact, a place in which the very trees were put to protect me. That not everyone is my friend. That not every lock is impenetrable. A simple fact, yes, but how tightly I cling to my rose-colored spectacles. How frequently I continue inventing alternative narratives that would explain why my laptop is not where I left it. How strongly I refuse to believe I sleep in a room that someone could and would enter without knocking.
And even now, of course, my understanding of what it is to be truly unsafe barely cracks the surface. I have insurance, a brand new lock on the way, the knowledge that this is only temporary- that I have a beautifully paved and perfect Wysteria Lane to return to.
But still, what a thing to take for granted! The absence of danger. To spend twenty years being safe and thinking that's normal. What a gift it is to grow up in a place where a segment of your mind does not have to be constantly on the defense. It is a privilege that neither Barrington or Evanston reminded me to be thankful for.
On a scale of "one" to "not the end of the world", my computer being gone is at like a 97. In many ways, it is a hidden blessing of sorts. But, I move with a slightly higher level of cautiousness, with delicately hardened brows and perhaps a jumpy quality to my stride that wasn't there before. And perhaps, in some ways I am more a citizen of the real world than I was before. By next week I'm sure I'll have lightened up and before I know it I'll be back in my foam-cornered and bubble-wrapped, safe and secure town where I can skip home alone after midnight. But I will carry with me the knowledge that such skipping is a privilege. And the hope that more and more people can experience this kind of security in all corners of the world. See, I've already got those green glasses back on.
Monday, September 20, 2010
disassociation
In my Gender and Religion class last week, our lecturer, Fatimatu, said something that meant a great deal to me. She is one of three professors who alternate teaching that class, each representing a different faith tradition. Fatimatu is the voice of Islam. As she was explaining the basic tenets of her religion, she paused suddenly. A desperate flush came over her otherwise rigid and reserved face. She pleaded, “Being a Muslim and practicing Islam are very different things. Don’t look at humans to judge my faith. We are human. You cannot learn Islam from Muslims.”
It was as if I could see into her memory, with all the disappointments in a devoted life. Perhaps, when a religious mentor acted out of line, the time she opened the paper and cursed the acts of those who claim to worship the same God, maybe when she herself said an unkind word or refused help- hoping no one had noticed; at least no one who also knew what she believed. In that moment, I felt a strange kinship with this woman. How often have I silently begged my friends to look the other way, to not take all that I do as representative of the God I serve? How often have I felt, frankly embarrassed by Christians in the news and wanted to power of all TVs for fear that people will confuse Christians with Christ? I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that surge of frustration so strongly as I did this weekend.
We took a trip to Cape Coast where most Africans who were taken as slaves passed through to get to the New World. There are two large castles still standing there, looming over the village. The one I visited, Elmina Castle, is the oldest European building in all of Africa.
Of course, it was a very sobering experience. The tour took us through the hallways once teeming with unthinkable madness, the Governor’s Quarters where who knows how many women were exploited and abused, and the female dungeon where I swear there remains a faint smell of waste mixed with horror and blood. We passed through the “point of no return”- a narrow passage that led to the pier where hundreds of thousands were forced aboard the infamous ships- never to see their homeland again.
As we came into the main courtyard above the dungeons, I stopped short. A sign, “Portuguese Church”, hung on a small brick building. Of course, I knew the Europeans were religious, that it played a large role in colonialism, but certainly not these Europeans. This was a separate endeavor, this slave trade. This was unrelated to their faith. They didn’t have any faith- not these murderers. But sure enough, on the inside wall, above the window that looks out on the Atlantic, above the scuff marks left from pews, right above the dungeons in which hundreds of people were packed, was printed a verse. An excerpt from Psalm 123- “This is the Lord’s resting place”.
A silent fury rose within me. I tried to thwart my imagination from its inevitable wanderings: images of people worshipping in this room, of praying or teaching or opening Scripture here, of the people downstairs standing numbly as a “righteous” and “all-mighty” God was praised by their persecutors, a few feet overhead.
How to separate, how to divide, how to detach, how to remove from the canon of “Christian” works the parts that I don’t think belong there. Slavery, the Crusades, Koran- burning, being judgmental, being self-righteous, hypocrisy, my list gets longer as I get older. This church in the middle of a slave castle has stood for 500 years. And it will remain. Giving fuel to the Christopher Hitchens’ of the world. Haunting those who read the same Bible.
I suppose it isn’t really possible or feasible or fair or good research even to separate a system of beliefs from its believers. We judge the quality of a university by its graduates. We gauge the effect of political theories by those who implement them. So, I guess it’s unreasonable to ask for a distinction like Fatimatu’s to be made.
But possibly, a request to widen the scope of examination to include believers beyond those who make the nightly news. Maybe, a challenge to anyone who subscribes to any system to be mindful of what and whom we represent in every great act and each passing conversation. And ultimately, like all experiments involving humans, we allow for error. To remember that we are, in fact, human. And while that state of being is no excuse for intolerable and disgusting acts, it does raise a distinction between what we do and whose name we do it in.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
a night at the theatre
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| The National Theatre in Accra |
It felt so right. In a month of getting-used-to's and sorry-I-didn't-know's and please-can-you-repeat-that-just-one-more-time's, I needed a dose of normalcy. So, we went to the theatre. Why this was the antidote, I'm not sure. I should know by now that the theatre is not a place one should go expecting the habitual. But I was desperate.
Still, it began with the beautifully familiar sequence. Getting dressed up. Buying an over-priced ticket. Peeing before the show. Hiding a snack in your purse. Finding your seats. Reading the program (minus the part where we excitedly hunt for NU grads). Sitting back with anticipation and longing.
The curtain rose to reveal a set barely big enough for my American Girl dolls on a stage the size of Willow's. The actors came out and I gave them a much longer than normal grace period. I gave them almost the entire show. Even the writing, I tried not to judge too quickly. I figured there was surely a cultural gap in the way we use language and maybe it will just take my ears some time to adjust to the cliche, repetitive and preachy dialogue.
Terms of Divorce is the story of a husband and wife trying to settle their divorce with their respective lawyers (who were once married to each other). They are all forced to meet with a marriage counselor who is happily married to an insane woman; thereby demonstrating the power of love to overcome all obstacles.
It wasn't long before I had a hunch that both couples would somehow reconcile their differences.
It was long (about an hour into the show) before it decided to become a musical. Complete with angels breaking onto the stage in costumes and hoods a little too evocative of the KKK for me to pay attention to their big number, "My Redeemer Lives".
Then came the commercials. During the "scene changes" (the chair moved), we diverted our attention to two side projectors. At each interlude, the same phone commercial played. Took me out of it a little- I'm not gonna lie.
But then I was jerked back into the compelling two-hours-too-long saga which finally concluded in an epic monologue where the protagonist explained to us, Bible in hand, why no one should ever "bury love alive". Then a painting fell off the wall on the set. In a flash of improvisational genius, the actor walked over to the painting, looked at it, shook his head, and threw it offstage.
I was so ready to love this show. I wanted to come home and write all about Ghanaian theatre and how much they understand that we don't. And of course, this one playsical is not representative of all theatre here. Not even close. But by all yardsticks I have ever been taught to measure with, this show was not just not good. It was the stereotypical bad production you see in movies that are trying to be funny. I really don't like to write things off as bad, but 'twas. Bad.
BUT, the people loved it! It was truly the most engaged audience I have ever been a part of. They rattled off popular sayings along with the actors, cheered and booed as the action progressed and sang along with all the songs. The woman next to me was weeping when the angels came out! The girl who shared a cab back with me went on and on about what a wonderful playwright and director that man is and how much she enjoys his work.
This unanimous response really made me second-guess myself. Have I become so critical that I am left out of such an experience? And what does it matter what I think about this show if the people it was meant for share such a singular and profound response? Who do we do theatre for anyway?
I took a class at school last spring that dealt with these kinds of artistic exchanges between cultures. As we studied various examples, I became frustrated that people expressed difficulty entering into artistic traditions so different from their own. I wanted art to be a kind of universal language. Yet, my experience at the National Theatre puts me in the shoes of those I was so quick to condemn last spring. I wonder, had there been a higher level of professionalism, could I have at least appreciated that which didn't resonate strongly in me? But I have seen a lot of low-budget shows in my life, and the good ones still possess a level of earnestness and truth that was absent in "Divorce". Plus, we found out in an uncomfortable talk-back with the writer/director, that this show cost $78,000! That goes a long way here. It was with sunken-in and saddened eyes that Mr. White pleaded with the upper class audience, "In other places, I hear that shows can run for three years without being broken. Please, help us to go for a few weeks at least." The ticket cost 25 Ghana cedis. My friend pointed out that if you make minimum wage here, (GHC 2 a day), it would be two weeks before you could afford a ticket assuming you hadn't spent money on food or other necessities. In the U.S., a Broadway rush ticket costs $25. If you work minimum wage for a day, you can go see a show. It's still a luxury, but not at the same level. So, Mr. James Ebo White begged "corporate Ghana", as he referred to them, to continue supporting his shows. And to help their messages and themes to infiltrate society down to those who couldn't afford a ticket.
And so, theatre fills a distinctly different role here. And I wonder if my idea of good and bad in art even applies outside of the U.S. Because I know that show would have been laughed at in Chicago, but I don't think The Clean House would have done so well in Accra. Yet, if we throw up our hands and chalk it up to "cultural differences", won't our art just grow farther and farther apart?
I have often said that I hope to bring my faith into the secular world of theatre someday without any idea what that might look like. This show presented one method. It was well-received in a culture that is not only predominantly Christian, but shares an outward expression of their faith unlike any I have seen at home. So, is the American alternative just to tone it down? I'm not sure.
What has always fascinated me about collaboration in theatre is that people with different world views come together to create one world on stage, that can be experienced by people with their own unique perspectives. That unpredictable and delicate process allowed for my bizarre experience at the National Theatre. And it also made way for the experience of the girl next to me in the cab. Who was so touched by the story that she was heading home to remind her loved one how much he meant to her.
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