banku and palm nut soup

     This Sunday I spent the day with my friend Stacy and her family. Stacy lives across the hall from me and she is a presence. Stacy is tall and fierce and you always know when she's coming because you can hear her jangling (1). All week I had been looking forward to going to see her hometown and meet her family. I know well the joy of showing a new friend where you come from: where you went to school, the best ice cream within walking distance and the parking lot where all high school nights began.

     However, there was one part of the day that I was not as excited about. Stacy had been promising that her mom would make us banku and palm nut soup for lunch. Now, I knew right away this would not really be a "Sam" dish. I'm not a picky eater and I have tried a lot of new foods since I've been here. And yet, try as I might, I just cannot become a spicy food person. I have a fundamental problem with putting myself in pain when I eat. Chipotle chicken is about as far as I'll go.  

      But Ghanaians love their spice. In order for my new friends to choke down the mac 'n cheese I so kindly introduced them to, they had to douse it in hot sauce! I do not understand. So I had a feeling this mythical palm nut soup might not be quite as mild as I would like.

      The banku portion of this classic Ghanaian dish requires a little explanation. Banku is made out of cassava. It is really neat to watch it being prepared. Basically, there is a musher and a crusher. The musher moves the substance around in a wide bowl on the ground while the crusher stamps it with a huge stick in perfect symmetry. When it is finished, banku is a smooth round lump about the size of a softball with the texture of play-doh. To eat it, one must pull off a hunk of the ball, dip it in the soup, (the pros grab a hunk of meat en route), and then swallow the bite whole without chewing. It is done entirely with the hands and is quite a messy enterprise altogether.

     So, we sit down to Stacy's table while some Ghanaian soap opera coos in the background, trying and failing to calm the waves of anxiety that were emanating from my seat. Maame places a plate of banku in front of me. Why do I have a way bigger lump than everyone else? Then comes the soup. It is a deep crimson with dangerous particles floating around, taunting me. Two lumps of meat pierce the surface like the back of some unidentifiable sea monster lurking underwater.

    I say a prayer. They like this. I appear reverent, though I have just asked Jesus to turn my banku into a burrito like I know he can . One by one the family rips and dips. With a deep breath, I pinch off a tiny clump of clay. I submerge the piece into the scalding soup and slowly lift it up and towards the oral cavity- come on, little Sammy, a flash of sitting at the dinner table alone staring at that last cucumber, those 12 mL of milk that I just couldn't sip, the time I thought I liked pesto and daddy got angry, you can do it, pretend it's cookie dough, airplane coming in for a landing- BAM. My mouth is on fire. MY MOUTH IS ON FIRE. Seriously, someone help me. Stop, drop and roll my tongue. I remember faintly not to chew and with a final surge of emotion, I gulp it down, barely avoiding a third degree burn in my esophagus.

    Just as I gasp for breath, the other American at our table, someone I used to call friend, oozes, "Oh maame, this is delicious." In perfect Twi. I nod in agreement as I down my first of 12 glasses of water.

    A glance back at my banku. I swear my chunk just got bigger. Maybe it won't be as bad the second time. Now that I know what to expect. False. I try eating it fast. I try eating it slow. I try chewing. I learn why they don't. I try eating it with chicken. I find out it is liver. In a stroke of brilliance, I dip the banku in my soup and I release it, thereby hiding the play-doh in the soup. Proud of my ingenuity, I continue stuffing the clay into the soup until I discover that banku floats. And now my soup is overflowing. 

     Meanwhile, Stacy is telling us about what a difficult dish this is to prepare and what a delicacy this soup really is. Her mother is beaming.

     A war is raging inside my mind just above the one in my digestive system.  Millions of people eat this meal everyday. This woman has worked hard to prepare this meal for my arrival and is, understandably, very proud of it. The family does not have a lot and probably never throws food away. And now I'm going to waltz in and pick at their favorite meal because I just don't like it? Now, in my defense, my stomach has not been so great the past few days and I was wary of upsetting it further. But I am learning how much weight food carries here, past the pounds. Women learn to cook when they are young girls because superior cooking skills will make them more desirable.  I am told that if a man does not eat his wife's food, it means he is probably cheating on her.  Certainly, food is highly valued and those who have it buy it from those who don't and recognize the privilege.

     Therefore, in this home where maame speaks no English and lunch is our communal activity, there is no other way for me to communicate my gratitude. To show my appreciation for being let into a family, even just for the day. To thank her for her hard work and her nice table settings. To explain that I really love the idea of this meal, actually find it quite creative, but I grew up in the Midwest on bread and cheese, and I just have a very low tolerance for spice. All there is is to clean my plate. That is all that means anything.

     And so, I ate as much as I could. More than half of the banku ball and a fair amount of the soup. I was still asked why I didn't finish or if it wasn't good. Stacy still bragged to her cousin about how much Liz ate and told her that I didn't like it. And I still replay that meal, and wish I could have just sucked it up and finished every last bite...

1. jangling: the progressive form of the verb to jangle, meaning to make noise by the bumping together of many, many beads, bracelets and other generally clanky accessories

wings

The bird is struggling. She keeps slipping on the corrugated metal roof of our building. Birds never have trouble on my black raked roof at home. Her little feet move quickly as if treading water until she finds a point of balance. The bird contemplates the edge of the roof, threatening to fall. Of course, she can fly. Though I wonder, as it perches on the edge, if there isn't still a hint of uncertainty. The wings might not work this time.  Or not work fast enough. The air pressure might have changed. I may just not remember how. And I'm sure every time this bird leaps, there is a split-second before the wings kick into gear.  A split-second, that may feel like a month, of not knowing, possibly falling, forgetting how to fly, even though the bird clearly knows how. Has been doing it all her life. Muscle memory. There is still that moment on the edge every time.

the land of expectations

I am sitting in the nook on my balcony (!) which offers a beautiful view of the rolling green hills of Ghana. As long as you don’t look down. If you tilt your head 30 degrees, the view is obstructed by barbed wire that tops a high wall in the same circular pattern I used to doodle in on the side of my math notebook. A sharper angle down and the green disappears behind girls vigorously washing their clothes in large black buckets. I am taking notes as my first hand-washing attempt did not have quite the results I was hoping for. I didn’t realize you had to actually move the clothes around in the bucket, and scrub and such. They seem to understand this concept.

Nearly two weeks have passed and I am here.  I am here.  I’m not surprised nor am I unsurprised. For once, my mind’s eye had no image for this fall. I literally could not picture anything. And so, as I sip my water out of a bag and take in the foggy landscape, I wonder if this is what I expected.

In some ways, yes. Time is strange, strangers are not, I stand out like an angel hair noodle that snuck its way into mac and cheese.

But in some ways, not at all. It is cooler, darker, more behind and yet far more advanced in some inexplicable way.

Day by day, I feel myself being stripped of the expectations that build up in a privileged life. There are no guarantees here and it is jarring. I am learning not to look beyond the week, beyond the moment, beyond this word, because what would be the point if the electricity goes….

I feel open. As I become the new kid. 

In a nutshell…

My new home is mostly red. It is loud and smells like the inside of an oven.

My new room has the canopy bed I always wanted, in the form of a turquoise blue mesh mosquito net.  I feel like a princess when I sleep inside my castle walls protected from the invading insect army.

My new friends get up very early.

My new neighbor plays Beyonce’s classic hit, “Videophone”, every morning at seven am on the dot. I especially like when she sings along.

My new school is very special. It does not cost much to go here, but it feels elite. The students dress up- heels and ties- for class and remind me what a privilege it is to learn.

My new church is the place to be on Sunday mornings. People who didn’t arrive early enough sit by the windows and in the lawn, leaning forward to receive to catch what nuggets they can. My new congregation sounds very good when they sing.

My new coffee shop is called the Coffeecue. Shop is a strong word. So is coffee. It’s a stand, really, which serves “coffee” out of a Nescafe box. But they also offer pancakes, egg sandwiches, and oatmeal. I may or may not have eaten all three meals there yesterday.

My new name is “Abena”, meaning Tuesday-born.

My new classes are unlimited. Students can take as many classes as the days of the week will allow and classes have no cap, so some have been known to have over 1,000 students.

My new Diet Coke is an imposter.

My new run is up and down the main street of campus, past people who don’t seem to understand why I’m in such a hurry. On my last run, my friend Jenny and I were cheered on by several groups of students on the street, as if we were in a big race. It is nice, albeit somewhat awkward.

My new APhi formals are Wednesday Reggae Nights at Labadi Beach.   It is hoppin. They don’t seem to know any Fergie, though.

My new food is sticky and hot. There is no such thing as “on the side” or “light” or “just a little”.

My new friends are quick to laugh, though we’re not always laughing at the same thing.

My new country is very patriotic. Ghanaian colors and flag shirts abound and the citizens are quick to tell of the places and people you must see while you’re here. They love where they live.

And even when the newness fades, if it ever truly can, I will do my best to stay open.

Because when I’m not three steps ahead of myself, I can go whichever way I choose. 

And in a land where nothing is guaranteed but everything is calling, that seems the most opportune place to be.

pre-departure

For the first twenty years, the sequence of events that make up my experience has followed in a natural and logical order. Much like directions from MapQuest.

There is learning and then there is leading.

Calc BC follows Calc AB.

A season of basketball comes after the fall play.

A camper becomes a counselor.

My hair grows long and I cut it.

You get the license when you've done well with the permit.

A size four becomes a size six.

I applied early to Northwestern and never looked back.

And try as I might to hold my 10 year plan loosely, my inner compass typically steers me toward my destination along the fastest route possible.

So, it is surprising, if only to myself, that I am preparing to take a quarter off from the school I love so much to spend four months and one week in a place I have never been, taking classes that won't go on my transcript, with a people I know little about.  This autumn doesn't look like the others.

It is a detour that I probably won't be able to fully explain or justify until it's over and even then, perhaps not for some time. But I welcome the unexpected gift. The spontaneous combustion of being too comfortable and Tuesday after Tuesday after Tuesday.

As much as I have truly enjoyed (and I have) and benefitted from (and I have) studying theatre and writing at the collegiate level, the pursuit has whet my appetite for substantive experience to bring to the page/stage. So much time spent analyzing and theorizing about the vehicle through which to tell stories will serve me only to the extent to which I have something to say. A story worth telling. I am hungry for some life experience that will expand my palette as an artist and the scope of my awareness as a friend, a citizen and a believer.

Why Ghana?

Why not?

Also, I want to meet their soccer team.

Also, Ghana means "Warrior King".

Also, I don't have to bring my North Face.

Also, in the midst of so much danger, disease, political upheaval and poverty, Ghana seems to be a nugget of hope. They are a model of stability and peace in a ______-stricken continent. Their strength intrigues and inspires me even 5838 miles away.

I am told it is a country of great faith. Whether Christian or Muslim or Hindu or tribal, Ghanaians place high value on their individual and communal religions.  A dynamic and vibrant culture of faith will be a welcome change from what often feels like a vastly apathetic landscape.

The university at which I will be studying seems to place great value on the arts and I look forward to investigating the role of theatre and music in this society.

Personally, I hope this will be a time of solitude and community, of self-discovery and learning to be selfless, and one of restful adventure. 

And finally, though I have never been, Africa- an awareness and a passion for its people- has been in the air in my home since I was a little girl. My dad has a remarkable passion for the underprivileged and he has served the poor faithfully for many years.  It is my earnest prayer that my first third-world experience will help me to follow his example. I want to move through my suburban world with heightened awareness and deeper gratitude in hopes that I can live with half of the compassion I see in my father.

And so, 

    I am six days, 

       three malaria pills, 

             about 12 more hard goodbyes, 

                    one pal auction (to determine which lucky figurines will make it in the heat), 

                             and two macho suitcases that weigh more than my family

                                             away from the season that doesn't quite look like the others. 

                                                                      But just might end up fitting right in.