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.