{If I can learn things like this in school then it's all worth it}

Compress the entire 4.6 billion years of geologic time into a single year. On that scale, the oldest Earth rocks we know date from early February. Living things first appeared in the sea in the last week of March. Land plants and animals emerged in late November, and the widespread swamps that formed the Pennsylvania coal deposits flourished for about four days in early December. Dinosaurs became dominant in mid-December but disappeared on the 26th, at about the time the Rocky Mountains were first uplifted. Humanlike creatures appeared sometime during the evening of December 31st, and the most recent continental ice sheets began to recede from the Great Lakes area and from northern Europe about one minute and 15 seconds before midnight on the 31st. Rome ruled the Western world for 5 seconds, from 11:59:45 to 11:59:50. Columbus arrived in America 3 seconds before midnight, and the science of geology was born with the writings of James Hutton just slightly more than one second before the end of our eventful year of years (Geologic Time, 2nd ed. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1978)

On my run today (I'm up to thirty minutes a day) on the Burke Gilman trail, I was astounded by the sight of two merganser ducks, one male and one female, flying side by side down the trail at a break-neck speed of 15 miles per hour about two feet off the ground. They were plummeting right toward me without any sign of swerving to the side. Not quite comprehending that I was directly in their path, I kept plodding away while musing over their close proximity to each other and the ground. It finally donned on me that they were on a race to the death and that they weren't going to part ways to avoid a collision with me. I jumped to the side as they zoomed by. I turned around, mouth gaping, to watch them fly wing tip to wing tip down the trail and out of site around a bend. Later, on my cool-down walk, I saw the pair languidly floating in a swamp. I feel like this is some metaphor or sign but I'm not sure what. Any ideas, serious, funny or lame (I could use a laugh)?

what have i been up to lately?
i've was working at the SCCC bookstore. that was an interesting experience. at least we listened to the RHPS soundtrack and prince. i've also been working at Great Harvest Bread Company. i am a barista/sandwich maker/bread server. customer service is a bit of a drag but i like the customers and the employees and i really like making drinks. i've been hiking up and down and around. most of the days i've gone it has rained or hailed or snowed. but no matter. i have been schooling. yes, that's right, schooling and homeworking. i like my classes, i think. so far they are interesting. i will explain why humans don't have fur and the "universal timeline in relation to a year" someday soon. i appreciate incentives to learn new things. i went to see Finding Neverland. i also went to cry. sometimes i need a release. i still need a release. i spent time with my dad. we went to cafes and listened to live jazz. we went and saw colorful tulips in the skagit valley and we dined on indian and thai cuisine. i went to a concert. i'm going to more concerts, most importantly, The Shins. i'm training for bloomsday on may 1. times a flying and i've only just got my fairy dust. now it's time to think happy thoughts.

I dare you to ask me what it is like working two part time jobs and going to school full time...

Time is always moving forward but why do I feel like I'm stuck in the past year? I'm not bemoaning it, wishing it different or celebrating it, I'm just dwelling there, reveling perhaps...I guess I'll take The Shins' advice and skip with it...

Gone For Good Lyrics

Untie me, I've said no vows
The train is getting way too loud
I gotta leave here my girl
Get on with my lonely life

Just leave the ring on the rail
For the wheels to nullify

Until this turn in my head
I let you stay and you paid no rent
I spent twelve long months on the lam

That's enough sitting on the fence
For the fear of breaking dams

I find a fatal flaw
In the logic of love
And go out of my head

You love a sinking stone
That'll never elope
So get used to the lonesome
Girl, you must atone some
Don't leave me no phone number there

It took me all of a year
To put the poison pill to your ear
But now I stand on honest ground, on honest ground

You want to fight for this love
But honey you cannot wrestle a dove
So baby it's clear

You want to jump and dance
But you sat on your hands
And lost your only chance

Go back to your hometown
Get your feet on the ground
And stop floating around

I find a fatal flaw
In the logic of love
And go out of my head

You love a sinking stone
That'll never elope
So get used to used to the lonesome
Girl, you must atone some
Don't leave me no phone number there

the things on my mind:
commuting-gas, parking, permits, traffic
current jobs-too many?
grammas
imminent classes
jesus
musicals
physical condition (or lack there of)
sasquatch festival
spring
stagnant relationships
summer jobs-not enough
thunderstorms
traveling/teaching abroad

I found it nestled in a giant tree that overlooks the Sound and the strangely warm sun that makes my plastic hair smell like Ghana. I found it on a hill top while the full moon waved in the water of Lake Union and the city formed a bridge of light between the blackness of the water and sky. I found it in a conversation with good friends, home cooked curry and a guitar/bass with 9 strings. I found it in random visits and planned ones too, the pigeons of Pioneer Square and incredible generosity from my friends and family.

High Spirits

I hid for an hour, high
in a tree and I found him
sitting right next to me.
And when I turned my head,
I found him all around,
basking in the bright yellow
buds, sunlight searing high.
Making no sound,
he grasped my hand,
held it tight, and then
slowly let it go again.
And the yellow petals
scattered windward,
while white clouds washed
the bright sky like words.
Alone, I sadly thought
and scrambled silently down
to the waving field of clover.
But I felt a weight on my palm
and so slowly turned it over.
Painted there in pastel nectar
was the shape of a dove,
a symbol of peace, a reminder
that I am loved.

My senses are making me dizzy. How can one single solitary scent conjure images from so long ago and how can a song throw me into a reel of memores? I never knew there was so much information buried in a sound or lurking in a faint perfume. Life, my life, is everywhere.

News from the front!
I have made it 3 slobbery nights in a row in an effort to wear my retainer consecutively for a month. In addition, I have moved into my poor sleep cycle where I fall asleep late, wake up and am restless in the middle of the night and awake for good around 7, 8 or 9 am. So far, the adverse effects of this aren't rearing their ugly head. I have made positive contact with several life forms within the US forest service and baring any mishaps, miscommunications, time constrictions and bad luck, I just may have a crew job this summer. But who needs a job for the summer if they already have one in the Spring? Which I do! I guess I should add that it's a conditionally temporary job. I am only guaranteed one week of work at the SCCC bookstore during rush and buy back but it has the potential to be extended, if I'm not voted off the island. Last but not least, I'm putting on my glasses, picking up the pen, cinching up my backpack straps and going back to school. I hope I don't get eaten.

I am learning things. See...

Black Bart
The "Po8"

To distinguish himself from garden variety bandits, Bart would leave peoms in place of the treasure boxes he stole from Wells Fargo. Beware of the man in a flour sack and derby hat. Once when a panicked womean tossed her purse to Black Bart, he refused it and said, "Thank you madam, but I don't need your money. I only want Wells Fargo's." Black Bart was eventaully caught on his 28th robbery and imprisoned for four years. After his release, when asked if he was goig to rob any more stagecoaches he replied, "No, gentlemen, I'm through with crime." Another reporter asked if he would write more poetry. He laughed and said, "Now didn't you hear me say that I am through with crime?"

Here I lay me down to sleep,
To wait the coming morrow.
Perhaps success, perhaps defeat
And everlasting sorrow

I've labored long and hard for bread,
For honor and for riches,
But on my corns too long you tred
You fine-haired sons-of-Bitches.

Let come what will, I'll try it on,
My condition can't be worse
But if there's money in that box--
'Tis munny in my purse.

P08

Scientific Impossibility

This town holds no comfort
for me. Cold buildings sting my eyes
like jalapeno stained fingers.

This grassy dale echoes with our footsteps
and the ocean retracts the toppled
stones into its belly.

This book whispers our names
like a bee searching for a hive. I can't
read the words, the page is blank, bitter.

This street rolls along, numb to the measured
chants of our atom-repelling shoes. We never
touched. It's scientifically impossible.

This sky is littered with golden
coins giggling like seagulls, worthless
currency in a moneyless communion.

This town is stale, an empty shell littering
the drain. I love to swing from a song.
I entwine myself in music, finding a friend

I think that my trip to Mole National Park was the last you heard of my saga in Ghana. So even though I am home in Seattle and have jumped from Coeur D'Alene, Missoula, Moscow and San Diego, I want to send out a closure email on the Ghanaian chapter. My memories are already fading. I have these vivid pictures in my mind but they are like iceburgs rising out a sea of vagueness. It's depressing really. So I need it, even if you don't.

For those of you who haven't seen me yet, my hair is a bright blue and blond Rasta, a hair style where fake hair is braided into your own hair in many dangling plaits. I added some silver cuffs and super glued cowry shells at the ends. Corn rolls are similar in that fake hair is added but instead, the hair is French braided tight against the scalp. I had my friend Lily plait my hair. It was quite and ordeal and I had to sit for five hours while she braided and he brother chattered on and on about wanting to come to the US, liking my smile, liking my skin, liking my eyes, liking my skin, liking my skin, liking my skin. After having Rasta for about a month, I have grown attached to them. At first they were incredibly itchy and I would walk around slapping my head but now they are comfortable, at least for the most part. I will be sad to remove them because they are great conversation starters, I don't have to wash my hair and it is physical tangible proof that I was actually there. After my braids are gone, all I will have left are memories and a Teva tan.

I went to another church service with my friend, Christopher who I profiled in an earlier post on my journal. The priest was engaging, funny and inspirational. He cracked jokes and made the congregation laugh. The sermon was about living in the light instead of darkness and I felt like I was listening to a motivational speaker. I really could identify with his message on a personal level. In sharp contrast to my earlier Ghanaian church experience, I felt truly motivated and inspired.

I reached a zenith in dealing with Ghanaians when I returned to the post office. If you will recall, my first trip to the post office was miserable and unpleasant. So when I received another package notification I cringed and actually decided to wait for my post office parents to return from South Africa in hopes that they would pick up my packages for me. My curiosity and my general get it done myself attitude won out and I ventured into town as the very picture of Jeanette, my post office mother. I was oozing with goodwill, sugary smiles and generosity. I called each employee by name and I spoutedTwi. I gave them toffees and little gifts for their children (everyone has children). As a result of my selfish generosity I gained two packages full of goodies whose taxes cost a fraction of the taxes of the first post office trip. I walked away from the smiling employees in a wonderful mood. There is no question that I played the system or sucked up but I have to say that approaching the whole ordeal in a positive manner was much more effective then frowning and complaining about the fees. Thank you to my post office parents and Auntie Teri for showing me how to interact and react with/to Ghanaians in a positive rather than a negative manner.

My last week was a flurry of activity; developing pictures, meeting friends for final goodbyes and spending every spare moment at the school or orphanage. I realized at that point that I had made somefriends that I really didn't care to say goodbye to. It was the friends that eventually brought me to the bright side, as it were, and made my time memorable, enjoyable and a learning experience. For the first month, I was miserable and I seriously considered going home early. As I reflect upon the feelings I had during that time, I realize that they were a complex mixture of culture shock, heat shock,and isolation. While I had Cynthia to commiserate with about the dismal tree planting affair, the heat and the vast cultural differences and my host brother to escort me and get my feet under me, I was feeling trapped in a hole of cultural isolation. It wasn't that I wasn't accepted or even welcomed. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I was met with enthusiasm on all sides and people eager to talk about the US. However, I didn't blend in, and that is what I wanted most of all; I wanted to experience Ghana as a Ghanaian does, not as a sensationalized Obruni.

Gloria, the teachers and the children at Tuskegee International Schoolshared themselves and their culture with me. At TIS, I wasn't ananomaly for long and the kids and teachers, after their initial awe (Iwas the first white person many of them had ever seen including television and pictures), relaxed into their normal behaviors and routines. At the school, I think I was able to interact with them as a person and not a "mystical" American. Gloria and I fascinated each other and she delighted in teaching me about her Ghanaian culture. We spent countless hours in the shade of a lime tree exchanging ideas and describing our customs and traditions. She taught me Twi and explainedthe traditions surrounding marriage, child birth and rearing, politics and sexism. We delighted in comparing our cultures and picking out the similarities and their gaping differences. The children, too, sharedtheir games, songs and dances with me. I'll never forget our feet sending up clouds of powdery red earth up around our ankles as we giggled and played Ampe in the school yard or their hysterical laughter as they watched me "shaky shake my body."

The last day at the school was a crazy and I was pulled in every direction. A photographer took pictures of me with each class and then all the teachers. I was trying to teach class 1 how to write andillustrate their pen pal messages and I was teaching class 2 how to weave with construction paper. I never knew that writing a simple ten line letter could be so excruciating and time consuming. I really didn't help matters by telling the kids to put bus stops at the end of their sentences instead of full stops (their word for period). Emmanuel, the poor kid, desperately drew Xs at the end of each sentence and looked at me with wide eyes for approval. I was frustrated and growled "no, bus stop, bus stop, mark a bus stop here."I finally realized that I was saying the wrong word and futilely tried to explain to these kids who are afraid to speak up when they don't understand that teacher is not always right and they should say something if they are confused or the teacher is wrong. I don't think they will remember my message for long but I did get them to laugh.

The American pen pals sent Montana post cards and stickers. The kids were fascinated by the pictures and rightly so. They have never seen stickers much less snow capped mountains, conifer trees or wild bitterroots. They kissed the post cards and waved them around in the air, such joy from such a simple thing. I was whisked into the nursery for a surprise goodbye ceremony. The older kids performed a traditional dance and Auntie Josephina formally thanked me and adorned me with a Kent ceremonial scarf with my name embroidered on it in gold thread. They also gave me a corn husk basket with a tailored batik tie dress, a carving of a figure thinking (so that when I looked at it, I would think of them) and a wooden penholder in the shape of Ghana inside. I had a parallel experience at the orphanage in that I was able to assimilate myself into their community. Though it seems funny to be excited about this, they sometimes even ignored me or left me by myself. There were kids of all ages at the orphanage and while I spent a good deal of time playing with the 3-14 year olds, I "hung out" withpeople of my own age like Fatima, Agnes, Doreen, Aaron, Ricardo, Joe, Emmanuel and Jewel. This was very valuable to me from both a cultural and emotional perspective. It's amazing how desperately a human feels like they need to fit in and/or be accepted. As a more often than not loner, I was surprised at how relieving and comforting it was to have kids my age to laugh, chat and confide with.

One evening my friend Joe was walking me home and I told him how much I wished I had a white person to talk to. Cynthia had left a month ago and I really wanted to dissect my feelings and observations oncultural differences. I liken this feeling to when you are in agood/bad stressful situation. When you are alone, your perspective is warped and internalized. However, if you are with friends, the gravity you are able to joke and make light of the situation. In addition, you can say "remember when" ten years down the road and laugh about it. Anyway, Joe was perplexed and I futilely tried to describe some of the more obvious differences like temperature, sun rise and sun set times, the info structure (or lack there of), poverty, food, school system and transportation system. Hell, even the moon is sideways in Ghana. There are more fascinating and amazing differences to point out than negative ones.

In many cases, the differences are so subtle. It's like Plato's theory of forms and the subsequent perversions of said form in each earthly medium. For example, the perfect form of a chair exists in the eternal ether. The carpenter constructs a chair based on his vision of the eternal one and then the artist paints the chair as he interprets it from the carpenter's. So there is the eternal chair and then there is a Ghanaian chair and an American chair. Both chairs are made for sitting in, made from the same materials and even look the same but they are still interpretations of the eternal. They are inherently different just like the physical chair is inherently different from the painted chair. I guess I could use transportation as a better example. Both USA and Ghanaian transport get you to the final destination, if you know how to work the system, but the method is so different. Ghanaians go by tro-tro or shared cab whereas Americans goby bus or taxi. Both are perversions of the eternal transportation system in the ether. The same is true for cuisine, English language, manners, washing clothes, retail, music…etc. Joe was genuinely sympathetic in a non understanding way and encouraged me to exclaim to him like he did understand. So I went off for at least a half hour, marveling, complaining, declaring, questioning and generally creating a monologue of a whole list of things that were different and amazing to me. Joe laughed and listened and I was purged.

Saying goodbye to the kids at the orphanage was perhaps the most poignant and sudden farewell of all. Instead of talking about my leaving and saying goodbye over a period of time, goodbyes occurred all in a flurry. They sang "thank you and goodbye from the kids at the orphanage" at evening prayers. I gazed at their faces as they sang and realized how small my impact on them had been compared to their impacton me. I managed to hold back my tears as they sang but when they dog piled me, arms encircling every part of my body and faces smiling, I just couldn't keep my tears in anymore. They laughed at my tears and hugged me tighter, pulling me to the ground and sobbing fake tears. I hugged Emmanuel so long that I thought that my arms were going to break and Eben clung to my legs. As I hugged each child good bye individually, Abraham decided to give me a kiss on the cheek. All of my boys followed suit and some even lined up for seconds. I swear there is a little smear mark still on my cheek where they each kissed me. *tear* They are too young to realize or really care that they will never see me again and just as quickly as they surrounded me with their love, they scattered to do their homework and respective chores.

As I sat on the courtyard bench underneath the sideways moon, I thought about how easy it is love and what an amazing impact their love had on me. Granted, life doesn't start and stop with every volunteer that comes and goes at the orphanage and the kids' memory of me will fade into a blur but I do hope that they remember deep down that they were loved and played with and read to. I, on the otherhand, will never forget my kids, their smiles or that Christmas Eve, full moon glowing, choir voices ringing in the humid stillness, when my boys crowded around me and called me mommy, small words to them but big words to me. I am amazed at how much I attached myself to these boys and how they attached themselves to me. Suddenly it was cleart hat life is sharing not consuming and criticizing. Humanity had a purpose and being at the orphanage was all I cared about.

We arm wrestled, read, roller bladed, played football, basketball and tag, wrestled, had thumb wars, tickle fests, spelling bees, hangman games and human acrobatics. They taught me to play Ampe and I taught them to twitch their fingers by probing tendons in their arms. They taught me how to swallow fufu without chewing and I taught them the Itsy Bitsy Spider. They read to me and I brought them toffees. They taught me how to drum and I taught them how to whistle and hum at the same time. They taught me how to eat with my fingers and I taught them how to make it look like their thumbs were cut in two pieces, how to do back bends, dance with chicken legs, make monkey noises, swing dance. They taught me playground songs and I taught them how to do secret handshakes…silly things, we exchanged… but that is all I have to supplement my pictures of them… memories and the things they taught me.

I am and will forever be changed by my kids and at this juncture I can't say how I will act on what I have learned but I am finding connections in America to Africa that I never knew existed. My friend Zach, who has been volunteering in India for the past couple of months, compared his assimilation of his experience to that of the art of photography. It's a process, setting up a picture, snapping the photo, developing the negatives by soaking them in chemicals and waterand hanging them out to dry. Who knows if the contrast will turn outor if the pictures will be centered? I think my pictures are still in the darkness of their film canisters. I can say that I have a renewed appreciation for many of things that I took for granted before. I have never been so delighted to have goose bumps, go for a run or chat freely with my friends face to face and on the telephone.

Today while I as running to Volunteer Park in the chilled breeze withthe clear sun in my eyes, I realized how wonderful it was to be free, free to run, free to open my eyes in the sun's glare, free to stretchin the park and drink in the ocean, skyline and green, green grass. I am free to soar down the pavement on my bike, wind in my face and time on my side, free to sit in a café, undisturbed and write away the day, free to leisurely browse the internet or dance to blaring music in my living room, free to cook dinner, turn on the light in the kitchen inthe middle of the night, and visit friends. I am free to make phonecalls, drop in on friends and family and be the one to approach new friends. The world is amazing and the diversity of my own world is amazing.

I am so lucky to have choices and my future at my fingertips. I am free to be myself and strive to stand out in the middle of acrown. It's amazing how normal my blue hair and bright green Converse shoes are in the middle of Seattle's freak scene. I am reveling in it. I love every shiver, every shower, hug, glass of water from the tap, every phone call and email and minute spent alone and unnoticed in a sea of white, black and brown.

(I do want to say that I'm sure that if I spent enough time in Ghana or even made it my home, I would find a way to make these freedoms that I currently enjoy in America a reality in Ghana. By the time I left, I could imagine and even wanted to live in Ghana for a longer period of time…still do. But it would be after I visit and explore more cultures. After all there are bikes in Ghana and green grass and air conditions and kitchens and radios; I don't know…it's that film coming out of the canister :) )

So how was Ghana? Ghana was a rollercoaster of emotions, a pallet o fcolors and tastes and smells and senses, a spectrum of poverty and guilt and struggle. It was an eye opener, an experience and collision of worlds. It was a dream come true, a goal accomplished and a personal battle won. It was hot, humid and uncomfortable. It was a lesson in humility, generosity, compassion and my own selfishness. I feel like I am being cliché but I desperately hope that I will takewhat I learned about my culture and the culture of the world and apply it to my life everyday, whether it's pausing to admire the beautiful blue sky like my host father or participating in random acts of generosity and kindness like my post office parents or sending metal pencil sharpeners to the kids at TIS.

I will never be able to thank my Ghanaian friends enough for their love and for sharing themselves sototally on so many levels. But Cecilia, Amanor, Dan, Eddie, Laud,Ishmael, Cynthia, Kingsley, Charity, Mary, Precious, Marin, Darrin, Prosper, Lily, Gloria, Charles, Clinton, Millicent, Linda, Josephine, Justina, Yaw, Bufa, Pearl, Christina, Veronica, Lisa, Teri, Baba, Florence, Evelyn, Oba Yaa, Emmanuel, Phyllis, Peace, Comfort, Mary, Bra Joe, Yaa, Eben, Joseph, Ricardo, Jewel, Baba, Doreen, Fatima, Agnes, Abraham, Selasie, Katdyatu, Prince, Kwasie Nanna, Mommy Essy, Stella, Gloria, Abinchee, Victoria, Grace, Bena, Peter, King, Adua, Esther, Rose, Patience, Abraham, Carlton, Caleb, Stella, Gifted, Lydia, Abigail, Pamela, Portia, Christina, Aaron, Moses, Daniel,Godwin, Musah, Sadik, Sena, Felix, Bafa, Archibald, Christopher, Frank, Junior, Zion, Lover, Bless, Belida, Angela, Beatrice, Anita, Michael, Amadu, Benedicta, Jeanette, Charles, Ben, Priscilla, Berther, Isaac, Mercy, Florence, Esther, Monica, Rookie, Adzo, Kwamie…you are amazing. Even though we will never physically meet again, I will hold you in my heart always.

What is love? I honestly don’t know the answer, not that this is a new revelation, but I always had some idea of what it should be from the movies and songs. You know, TV is real life…

In Ghana, when a rastapherian says he loves me it is because he is high and it goes along with the religion. Raspapherians love everyone, one love, you know. If they declare their love and don’t receive a similar response, they call it racism or animosity. Neutral or liking or “getting to know” don’t is not part of the culture. If a girl says it to me, and plenty have, it is not meant in a homosexual way. Woe to you if you are a homosexual in Ghana. However, some girls are quicker to say it then the men. Charity initially wanted to be my friend so I could find her a husband in the USA. They seem to be just three words that are supposed to lure me into shedding some of my supposed wonderful mystique like a prize. Honestly, they collect addresses like trophies. I don’t like to think of it this way but the constant emptiness; racism or opportunistic ness behind these words is causing me to lose faith in the concept I had before.

When the theory that I identify with most, god is love, is nullified by the Ghanaian mis and overuse of this word, I become more and more convinced that love doesn’t exist and therefore, god does not exist. If love does exist, and god is love, then love isn’t something I want to believe in.

On a similar note, I have never been so inundated with Christianity in my life. Honestly, I’m exhausted by their constant scrutiny and attempts to convert me to full blooded Christianity in a single conversation. One of their favorite questions is “where did you come from? Oh, then where did the primordial goo come from?” I don’t know, where did god come from? Why do we always have to define god, religion and beliefs? To me it’s an entirely personal matter and what works for someone doesn’t work for someone else. I feel like their dependence on god is almost more dehabilitating then helpful. Sure, if you believe that god is in charge, then he is, but you have to help him to help you, right? Sometimes I just want to say, “why don’t you just do it yourself instead of praying for it?” and “for crying out loud, if you did manage to do it, don’t go and credit it all to god’s plan. Have some self empowerment and confidence.” I should put a disclaimer here. Either supplement your actions with prayers or pray for the things you personally can not help yourself with. There was a guy who said he'd been praying his entire life to go to the USA. But he'd never thought about saving money or completing his high school education or even talking to the embassy. I mean, come on.

But now I am just being hypocritical and we know what god does to hypocrites. As I said, religion is a personal thing and I should not down play their faith that god will take care of everything.

One Love
Raggae Rasta man, ears full of Jamaican heat
beat
headphones always on, music melting in
wearing Chaco’s,
tacos,
tie dye pants, pretty cowry shells.
Playing drums in the dark, beat,
heat
guessing songs, taking too long
follow the notes like soldier ants
a long song.
Tie dye pants, white and blue,
Reggae rastapherian dancing drumming, true.
Hand shake, hand shift, hand snap
holding hands.
Rasta man, Rasta hair, beaded, dreaded, faded.
Walk her home, remind her here how
a swinging beat swallows, heals, hurts, now.
New friends and feelings, shy smiling,
softly up, smoking down, dancing all around.
Tickle her hand, hold her hand, holding helping hand
whistle away into the wasted day
crinkle, fickle, stop
Not here forever, no never
she can’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t stay, so she stays away,
USA
inverse Rasta girl, ivory skin, emerald eyes,
smile, cry, corrupt music drums, dancing feet
turn around, around, around about.
Forget her Rasta reggae man,
you will never meet again.

I finally made it to the huge game reserve, Mole National Park. After planning to go with Cynthia twice, I traveled with Teri, an American who works at the Orphanage Africa Well Woman Center in Accra. I was nervous for the trip because I had heard tales of armed robbers, faulty buses, high prices and long, cramped tro-tro rides. In light of this, I certainly wasn’t keen to go by myself and was excited and greatful to join Teri.

Ghana is about the size of Oregon and has a thorough transportation system. It is very, very easy to get around if you are willing to deal with long queues, uncomfortable/overcrowded vehicles, late departures and bumpy traffic filled roads. Tro-tros run from all the major cites and they also drop in all small towns. They don’t have a schedule or rigid route with planned stops. They leave when there is one too many bodies crammed in and stop wherever you tell them or when someone from the road signals them. The State Transport System, which connects major cities (STC), has movies, schedules and air conditioning. They are less frequent, more expensive, depart late and make me carsick. I prefer tro-tros and, call me crazy, but I am going to miss the tro-tros and my triumph every time I commute successfully. Not only that, I going to miss the comradeship of my fellow riders and getting a face full of their butt or vice versa while maneuvering on and off.

The STC bus to Tamale from Accra leaves around 4:00pm (really 6:30) and alights around 9:00am the next morning. There are three stops and the total distance is around 250 miles. While waiting, some flirting firemen gave Teri and I a ride in their fire engine. I didn’t sleep much on the bus but it was so cold at the 2:00 am stop that I had to put on pants! As the sun came up I noticed the striking difference between the north and south. The hamartan has been severe in the north and it was brown, leafless and hot. The villages are much more remote and untouched by westernization. We passed mud hut and after mud hut with naked, open-mouthed children loitering on the roadside. The huts were situated in a circle and connected by thickly thatched grass fences and the roofs were made with similar thatching. There were no comm. centers, convenience shops, salons or tailors to clog the roadside.

In Tamale, Teri and I visited the Cultural Center and browsed through sheds full of local art and I learned how to play scrabble at an adorable “small chop” bar, the likes of which cram the streets and tro-tro stations. These chop bars consist of a central table with pyramids of Milo, Ideal milk, tea boxes and loaves of bread. There are low benches on three sides for customers and the vendor prepares eggs, omelets and tea over an open fire on the fourth side. In the early morning light, it was hauntingly eerie to see so many chop bars illuminated by blue or green florescent light. The bus from Tamale to Mole National Park left around 2:00pm and we arrived five bumpy hours and fifty miles later.

Our arrival in Mole reminded me of Jurassic Park. As we entered the park we passed through a gate, nothing like that of Jurassic park but I was imagining the huge solid doors slowly swinging open with torches lighting the way. There were bush fires all around and the air was dust-filled and dry. In the twilight, the land was foreboding and harsh. I would think “well, we’re back in the car again” every time we boarded a bus or tro-tro.

Teri and I were quickly drawn into a boisterous group of Kiwis and Aussies who were drinking next to the pool. There were around 25 of them traveling in a huge overland truck from Spain to Cape Town, South Africa in seven months. No one in the group has ever done the trip before, not even the driver. They had tents set up and a cooking fire going. They let me roast a plantain that I had found on the bus and forced beef curry down my throat. They have been on the road for three months. I don’t think I could or would enjoy participating in such a tour especially since I would never be in single country for long. The crowd was very crass and every other word was a swear word. My ears have become very sensitive in this highly conservative, god-fearing country.

We went on a walking tour at 7:00 am. Our guard led us through the bush with a rifle carelessly slung over his shoulder or on his back. The first thing we saw was a water buck (similar to a deer or antelope). Over the course of the three hours, we, or rather the guide spotted wild boars, bright blue birds, guinea fowl, egrets, crocodiles, monkeys and a very close elephant. The elephant was small and old and the last thing we saw. I had been taking pictures of massive elephant tracks in the mud thinking that would be my closest encounter. He was about 15 yards away and grazing on brown leaves with his trunk. The first thing that I noticed was his enormous penis. Of course it was proportionally correct but we couldn’t help but snigger over its length and width or cracking jokes about inferiority complexes. It’s a good thing that elephants lives in warm climates because hanging it out to pee in a snowstorm would be pretty dangerous. Then I started thinking of the poor female elephant and how large her vagina must be to accommodate that massive penis. Yikes! If elephants used condoms or tampons it would cause a “huge” depletion of rubber and cotton resources.

The second thing I noticed were his ears. He would flop them about periodically or twitch one and then the other. Someone said that African elephants have ears shaped like Africa and that Asian elephants have ears shaped like India. Let’s all think about that one for awhile…though an interesting thought, Africa and India have a very similar shape and for practical animal viewing purposes this theory is useless. Besides, if you’re in Africa, it’s and African elephant, right? The elephants name was On-E-Pieue, friend of man. He is usually by himself and the guide thinks he is an outcast and retarded. I could have watched him forage with his dexterous trunk and flap his ears all day.

When I was leaving our room to go for a swim, I was delighted and very startled to see a monkey pawing through the trash can directly outside our door. I swore (thanks to the overland truck’s influence) and dove back into our room. Teri, on the other hand rushed out, armed with her camera. I composed myself and did the same, forgetting to close the door behind me. The monkey, being no fool, looped around and strolled right into our room. It jumped up on the table, pawed around, jumped down and rifled through the clothes on my bed. Teri and I helplessly watched. However, he left as abruptly as he entered, leaving only paw prints in the dust on the table. We rushed out after it and found the entire compound over-ridden with red monkeys and olive baboons (or bamboos, as the locals say). They were hopping on cars, peering into garbage cans, drinking from the pool, sitting on walls and trees and pilfering salt shakers and ketchup bottles from the restaurant. One baboon climbed onto a truck, pooped on it, climbed inside and stole a loaf of bread which was promptly stolen by another baboon. It sat and chewed and watched all the people watching it. It was regarding us with such understanding yet perplexed eyes that I wondered which species was more fascinated with the other.

About the time the monkeys were retreating into the trees below, a crown of elephants meandered into the watering hole in direct view from the complex. They plunged into the water and bobbed up and down. They formed a circle, butts inward and floated there. Eventually, someone pointed out several sticklike forms in the water and we realized that the elephants were assuming a defensive position because they were feeling threatened by crocs. Over the course of our stay, the elephants came often, two or three times a day. One morning there were twelve elephants splashing, playing, trumpeting, sparing and even mating at the water hole. I will never forget the sound of distant displaced water or forcefully exhaled air from their trunks. Friend of Man showed up right next to the complex one evening. Apparently the elephants have been known to drink from the pool, though rarely. Three mother warthogs and eight babies foraged through the campsite. Though I as delighted to see the warthogs up close, they weren’t nearly as exciting as the monkeys and elephants. They just pawed through the grass and slowly grazed away.

We stayed three nights in Mole, swimming playing scrabble, viewing wildlife and talking with the other tourists. In addition to the rowdy overland crew and the Dutch couple driving from Holland to Cape Town, there were three kiwi boys creating a doco/film to gain funding for a school project, Darren, a brit who has traveled the world over and Erin, a volunteer with the same NGO as me. Luckily, she chose to go to the Liberian refugee camp and not some wild tree planting scheme. Being a tourist was a completely different ballgame and I have to admit that I really enjoyed being with white people and only occasionally chatting with the locals. Teri has been in Ghana for almost two years so I learned a lot from her on how to cope with some of the cultural differences in a more healthy way. For example, when people call me obruni, I ignore them, grimace at them or secretly flip them off. But Teri says, “May paw cho, mem pay ca obruni. Ye fremay Teri.” This means “please, I don’t like obruni. I am called Teri.” It works a lot better than my method and is friendlier. I think the best way to experience Africa, though, is to live with a host family, take the local transportation, eat the local food, and learn the language.

Teri is a piece of work. She mainly talks about herself and past lives. I actually find it all very fascinating. She also cleared up some of Orphanage Africa’s history and told me some of the orphans’ backgrounds. I can’t believe that some of my kids are still able to smile. One was burned by his mother, another abandoned for weeks at a time. A brother and sister were made to choose between school and being beaten or staying at home and doing chores. Another girl was raped at a nearby orphanage.

There is one girl, in particular who I am seriously considering sponsoring or bringing over to the US. She just turned 19 and is in middle school. She wants to go to high school in the USA. Her mother died and she was left with her two brothers and her very sick grandma when she was 12. She stayed at home for four years doing god knows what and then she was taken away by social services. She has been at Orphanage Africa with her two brothers for a year now. Recently, she told me that the girls here age at OA who have completed school are being integrated into independent life. In other words, they will still be supported by OA but they will live in a hostel and be expected to find a job or go to university. She is very worried that she will be sent away too because of her age. I don’t think she will be as she has not yet completed school and that would be very irresponsible and illogical to send her away.

Our bus out of Mole left around 4:50 am. It was supposed to go at 5:00 and we almost missed it. We alighted in Tamale and, as planned, we caught the next buss out of town. It happened to be a tro-tro to Kumasi and Darren joined us. The tro-tro was stifling hot because, for some reason, the Africans don’t appreciate the cool breeze from open windows. During the seven hour ride, I did my best to shove myself into the small crack of the window in order to block the complainers from the wind. My neck was wrenched and sore for several days. Along the way, the three of us decided to take the night train to the port town of Takaradi, about 150 miles from Kumasi and 400 miles from Tamale. The train left at 8:30pm and we shared a compartment with Marin, a kiwi volunteer in Kumasi.

I had massively disturbing dreams on the train. I even wrote them down in the bumpy darkness. In one dream, I was visiting my grandma in order to plan a family vacation. Grandma was living in her old KOA trailer court in Missoula and as I walked to her place all of the kids called me Ob-b-beenie (black man) and ran away from me. Completely the opposite of real life. There was a beautiful new silver jeep, displayed with a ribbon like on the Price is Right in the middle of her living room. But despite this new vehicle, she gestured to a rather dumpy red convertible on the patio and raved over it as a gift from my aunt and uncle. I stole the monkey barrels full of snacks and candy from beneath her table, which we were all crouching around. I also smuggled a huge jar of peanut butter from the table. As I was standing to leave, dad came down the steps silently sobbing. He was wearing an olive green army uniform. I ran to him and he cried that my dog, TJ was dead. I clung to him and screamed. I think I must have done it out loud because I woke up then, breathing hard, cheeks wet with tears. I was so turned around and discombobulated by the moving train that it took me several seconds to calm down and convince myself that I was only dreaming. Apparently, I wasn’t though, because when I returned four days later, I learned from and email that my dog had been hit by a car. Has anyone else had weird coincidences like this happen to them? I hope I never dream again and if you have any shocking or tragic news, please wait until I am near sympathetic and loving ears to tell me. My system is on overload.

Oh my, I got sidetracked. The train alighted in Takaradi at 12:30 pm the next day with four obrunis hanging their heads out the window drinking in the refreshingly green foliage and decidedly humid air. Ghana has moved into the hamartan, or the dry season so it is never really humid but the air had more moisture that in the north. During the ride, we found the perfect destination, Ellis’ Hideaway, and we took the necessary transportation to the beach oasis, including a rather sloshy, mildewing canoe propelled by two small boys walking at the front and back in the water. I am honestly surprised that we didn’t capsize. Ellis’ Place, rastapherian paradise… I was instantly adopted by Zion, a blubbering but cute, ganja smoking Rasta man who couldn’t keep his hands off my hair. There is no reasoning with a blubbering Rasta man. If you say don’t touch me, it means you are racist or at least don’t love, respect or even like him. I didn’t really mind him touching my hair because I wanted to touch his. Dread locks are a fascinating thing for me and he helped me find a spirit in the bonfire on the beach while blubbered interestingly enough about his rastapherian tenets. Most of the Rasta men I meet blubber the same thing over and over. They repeat “you understand,” “one love,” “respect,” and “rastaperian” over and over again while doing special hand shakes and hitting their chest with their fist. For most of them, I think, they are playing to the stereo type. They dread their hair, listen to reggae and Bob Marley, wear tie dye, cowry shells and anything red, green and yellow. There is more to being a rastapherian than that though. They have a Christian basis while amending and extend the belief to include an Ethiopian king and the wisdom weed. I actually heard a program about them on BBC’s Network Africa.

The next day, after wading through the inlet and trekking in the pepper and banana plants to a nearby town, I met a root man. I told him he was my first root man which made Marin and Darren burst into laughter. Apparently, the word root has a different sense in New Zealand. Anyway, in Ghana, root is Rasta without the blubbering stereotypes, wisdom weed and repetitiousness. He and his friends latched on to us and took us to see their house where they made palm wine. There were six felled palm trees in their small yard. They bored holes into the trunks and then held a burning stick in the hole while scraping the sides. A five liter jug positioned under the hole collected the dripping palm wine. They strained the clear liquid into a cup and gave us a taste. It reminded me of vinegar Easter egg dye with a hint of coconut. The alcohol content is apparently low but they can distill the wine to create a much stronger drink called apertishi. I was not crazy about the taste but I was very glad to taste the illusive, local drink after searching high and low for it. I realize now that commercial palm wine doesn’t exist and you must search it out on the roadside in ex Frytol or Voltic water plastic bottle.

The wade back across the inlet was terrifying. The sun has completely melted the glue in my tevas and so there is precious little holding the sole to the pad and the current from the sea pulled my shoe into an unwalkable contortion. That, coupled with the frantic shouts of the locals gathered on the shore and the chest-deep water made me so nervous that I called for Darren to come save me or at least my camera. Of course, as soon as he surged into the water, I stepped into the shallow and calm.

The four of us spent two days there, swimming, exploring and walking the beach. Despite the confusion with meals and drink tabs, the place was heaven. I especially liked the nearby fishing towns, complete with wooden boats declaring their faith in god. The villages were, like in the north, completely free of commercialism or westernization. I met the chief’s wife and his daughter, Princess Leia. One particular old woman, setting up crab traps, metal basins in the sand lined with bait, and who spoke very little English sprite fully and joyously danced as I sang her namesake song, Cecilia. Her rotten teeth and leathered skin struck me as beautiful in the moonlight. Cecilia was dancing with genuine joy.

These villages are self-sustainable in that they harvest or raise their own food and make most of what they need. Though these villages are probably the poorest monetarily, I think the people are content and happy. They actively work to provide for themselves by fishing, planting, washing and doing other chores. In the heat of the day, they rest and they are not constrained by schedules and time tables that are necessary in western culture. The atmosphere is decidedly lively and joyous not sleepy and malcontented like in the villages near Accra where semi westernization has created an awkward tension between the slow African nature and the structured west. I think that the bulk of Ghana’s problems are caused by this partial westernization and the idea that everything not African is infinitely better and richer. Africa is not meant to be “western.” It just isn’t and while westernization brought health care and primary education and other things that seemingly improve quality of life, it has also created a rift by leading people to believe that they are lacking something beautiful and amazing that can only be found outside of Africa. I want to snap Africa back to the way it was with no western influence. They wouldn’t know what they are missing. Are they really missing anything at all?

We left Ellis’ by canoe, taxi and tro-tro. At Takaradi, Maren went to Kumasi and Darren, Teri and I went east to the historical town of Elmina. We toured a castle built by the Portuguese for gold trade and then captured by the Dutch who used it as a holding tank for slaves. The disregard for human life during the time of the slave trade appalled me. I was standing on centuries old human waste and bodies. I was horrified to learn that the Africans acted as middle men, enslaving weaker tribes and then selling them to the Dutch and Portuguese for further trade. The eating hall of the castle was within earshot of the moaning and smelly slave holds. Women were regularly lined up and raped while punishment for uprising males was starvation, dehydration and eventual death in solitary confinement. Women were shackled in the blazing sun all day and raped for similar reasons. Our tour guide was knowledgeable but rushed and non-linear. He presented plenty of facts but there was no final cause or order. As a result, I was discombobulated by his tour and the museum did very little to rectify my linear confusion.

Elmina, however, is decidedly the most colorful village I have visited. There are flags, banners, fishing boats and people everywhere. The inlet is lined with fishermen untangling nets and selling fresh fish. There is a cute little bridge packed with people and vendors and a football pitch in the sand lined by palm trees.

Teri and I made our way back to Accra by tro-tro. The ride went quickly, three hours for 80 miles. In Accra, I waited four hours for a tro-tro. The queue was ridiculously long and around 11:30pm the cars started parking for the night. I was really worried that I was going to have to spend the night in the most dangerous station in Accra. However, a fellow queue mate assured me that a car would come. At 1:30 am, I was trying to figure out which tro-tro driver looked likely to let me hole up in his rig for the night when a private van pulled up. It was a distance from the queue but I ran for it as soon as I heard him call Adenta. Just when I thought there was not room for me and the pushing and shoving was becoming animalistic, a man pulled me into the front seat with him. The driver capitalized on the supply and demand theory and charged us 4000c instead of the usual 2000c. There was plenty of yelling and shouting and some people even got out of the van in protest. The trip that normally takes two to three hours in traffic only took thirty min! From Adenta, I walked home, pepper spray in hand. The road was deserted but I was nervous and walked quickly. Presently, a police car crawled by, stopped and four police men with rifles and decked out in green fatigues offered me a ride. So my trip started in a fire engine and ended in a police car.

What an amazing week I just had! I don't have time to write about my trip to the wild game park and the ocean in detail right now. However, I am alive and well. I want you to know that I really appreciate your support. You have no idea how much your advise and words of wisdom lift me out of my frequent slums.

I have received mail. I haven't opened all of the packages and letters because I want to savore them.

Sarita: Thank you sooo much for the chai tea and tea ball. How was Mexico? Is there anything in Ghana that you wish you would have brought back. Now's your chance for foofoo one more time;)

Aunt Barb, Uncle Ray and Gramma: Thank you for the school books and provisions. Lord knows I love licorous and goldfish and dried fruit and everything else! The moose is cute. I gave the light up pen to a little girl and she went wild.
Aunt Deb: Oh thank you for the sunscreen. I still have aquired wrinkles :(
Julie: I received a letter from you but I haven't opened it. Next week, I can't wait!
I also recieved a mystery package. I can't tell the sender.

Jaala: Still no letter. I think Eben ate it;)

Mom: Dan's new number is 027 7734 6419. I really would love to see you at the airport. I haven't thought much about what happens upon my immediate return. Not looking forward to finding a job:(
I don't know what the southern cross looks like. I think about looking for it though.

Aunt Deb: I would love to visit with your third graders. I am hoping that their letters will arrive here soon so I can facilitate another letter from the kids here.

Saralita: Thank you for the poem. I wasn't able to open the attachment but I'm sure it's lovely.

Gaeb: Long time, right? I will email you extensively if only you give me your address.

If you told me a year ago, I would be here, I would have laughed my head off. If you would have told me two months ago that I would be sad to leave, I would have falled to the ground with laughter. But here I am telling people I will miss them, their country and might even come back. Life is a funny funny thing.

When I am not Enough

I wanted to tell you I miss you, I need you.
will you assure me that I can do it, am beautiful,
capable and strong? Will you hug me and hold
my hand or swing me high on your shoulders
like when I was small, six years old, responsible
for reading books upside down, eating quartered
tuna-fish And cheese sandwiches and riding
every carved wooden carousel horse, completely
oblivious and ignorant of impossible dreams?

Didn’t I want Seattle University, the Honors program,
to travel the world and to be independent? No matter
my place, I want to be somewhere else, living a life
that doesn’t exist for anyone. Why do I dream of home,
friends, routine And familiar comfort when I will never
swelter in African heat, be lovingly incapacitated by brown
arms encircling my neck, waist and legs, listen to them argue
in Twi, sing or read, sway to reggae with a baby on my hip,
squash yam and plantain between my fingers, be so close
to believing, be spontaneously proposed to, feel the breezy
tro-tro air or follow the squiggling trail of ants and delicate
butterflies caught in the roadside grass again?

I wanted you to tell me I could change The world but I’m
not strong enough. Another dream, empty, misconstrued and failed
falls In the line of them, marching and fading into life’s horizon.

Profile:
Name: Christopher
Grade: 9
Age: 17
Family: Only child living with mother, abandoned by father.
Interests: Music, volleyball, trumpet, drums, high jump (can clear six feet)
Other: Doesn’t like playing with other school kids. Mama Lisa won’t pay his 20 dollar school fees anymore. He can’t afford school shoes or books and all he wants is a disc man or play boy so that he isn’t so bored at home. He has never been into Accra.

Tell me, how can I possibly spend my money on souvenirs, trips, clothes, anything extra when there are kids like Christopher. How desperate you must be to point blank ask a white person you barely know for her disc man and CDs. I shouldn’t have troubled with coming to Ghana. These people don’t need me, they need money and I haven’t a solution.

Oh my wordly friends and family,
How the time doth meander on...
A blow by blow account of my past week!
28 Dec: The toddlers abuse me and each other. King throws anything he can get his hands on at me, including a huge plastic truck. My head is still sore from the blow. On the same day, the physically disabled kids decided that I would be fun to climb and drool on. They too were paining me and pulling my skirt off. It seems they are learning from you Taylor;) Remember the WM parking lot? An older girl told me a bit of her story. I really don't what to say to her. She was moved from her old orphanage and her twin sister because she was sexually abused by the boys who stayed there. She is very negative and complains alot about everything. I have been trying to get her to tell me one positive thing about her day.
29 Dec: This was the fatefull day I met momma Jeanette and daddy Charles at the post office. I have to say that it felt really good to glare with all my might at someone. I feel bad about how good it made me feel now though. Especially with my renewed commitment to doing the little things that make people happy.
30 Dec: Mamma Phyllis and I took the toddlers to her house and she kerneled dry corn for about two hours. They take the dried kernels to market and grind it. Then they use it to make Banku or Kenke. I have a huge blister on my thumb from the ordeal but there was something so amazing about sitting on the floor with several kids and women in a circle around a giant bowl of kernels. I would race with the women to see who could kernel faster. I won once but I think I just got lucky. I have been chatting more and more with some boys my age from the Orphanage. The girls are really stand offish so I haven't talked with them as much. Joseph, the rasta man, is going to film school. His mother left him when he was five while his father was in jail. He still sees his father everyonce in awhile. He remembers his mother, but he hasn't forgiven her. We hypothised about what he would do if he ever met his mother again. I am giving him my burned CDs of Jesus Christ Superstar, Abby Road, Led Zeppelin 4 and Santana.
31 Dec: I met mom and dad for dinner. They took me out to a very nice restaurant/hotel. I had pineapple juice, roasted peanuts and vegetable curry. I was in heavan. Mom and dad have a lot of great stories about their five years in Ghana. It is amazing what a different experience I am having from them though. They live in a nice house, running water, air conditioning, car, security, maid and driver. They shop at super markets and eat at restaurants that cater to expats. I take tro tros, bargain, walk, bucket, carry water, hand wash my clothes and put up with a lot of shit from Ghanaian men. They loved my story about selling sandwhichs and I loved their story about how they became tro tro drivers for a day with a bunch of wide eyed black people in awe of the white person driving them around. They had the hotel find someone to drive me home and it just happened to be a silver BMW convertable. I was, to say the least, amazed and enjoyed speeding down the road with the wind full in my face. Mom and dad call me their daughter. What an amazing thing it was to meet these people.
1 Jan: The younger boys are in love with me. Honestly, I am in love with them. They just warm my heart and I love to tickle them, wrestle with them and chase them around. They love to climb on me, lay on me, hug me, tickle me, read to me and listen to me read.
2 Jan: I cleaned my room and washed clothes. Dust is everywhere all the time. I don't know why I bother. I stopped wearing deoderant. It's just not worth it. I brought toffees to the kids that had read to me the day before. Doreen, the complainer, is reading quite well, as is Eben. The others, read really easy books that I think are memorized but at least they are thumbing through the pages. The toffee made a lot of kids promise to read to me today and they all stormed into the library to find books. Then they piled on top of me and around me and we read and read and read. I went to a football match between OA and another orphange and met three more obrunis! They invited me to an international church. I will try to go but I'm a bit hairy on the location.
3 Jan: I got a package from Hillary! Thank you. You are the sweetest. Cecilia popped me popcorn and I gave it to some kids on the roadside who almost bowled me over in enthusiasm. In the same spirit, I gave an orange to a couple of girls who passed through my yard. I gave some more popcorn to a really young mate on a tro tro and took a couple older girls to my house and then to an internet cafe to set up email accounts. Fatima and Agnes went through all my pictures and even though they are coming back with me in my suitcase, they are going to confiscate several pictures. They think that Katy is beautiful and that Mum looks very young. They know how to crochet so they were fascinated by my knitting needles and I let them work on my latest project. Then I headed to mom and dads for dinner. They were having company over and had prepared an authentic american picnic complete with hamburgers, fruit jello, pringles, rice crispy treats, baked beans, franks and guacamole. I ate way too much. I think I must have eaten an entire can of pringles. It was really funny to sit around the dinner table with this Ghanaian family because they didn't understand the things that mom and dad and I thought were funny. For example, the tradition of passing fruit cake from family member to family member year after year. They also didn't think the tro tro driving or the sandwich selling was that amusing. It is really nice to have this couple here and in the flesh who understands. They left for South Africa and wont be back until the 22 :(
Jan 4: School resumed but no one showed up. So I'm here in a cafe typing away.

I am very sad that when I get home, no one will truely understand. Some of you will be able to imagine. Julie will a little from her Nepal experience and Hillary may a little from her Mexico trip and Sarita may from her time in Ghana previously but I will forever have something in myself that I won't be able to express no matter how hard I try and that makes me very sad. I really wish that there was someone whe could read my brain by touching my head and receive everything, smells, sounds, the heat, the children, the rollercoaster, the poverty and the generousity. How can people here give me so much? Me, a white person who will always have more then them? How can I bargain and barter and ask for change back when the it's only a difference of pennies? How can I ignore the people who shout at me? They only want recognition from a white person. I don't know what I've become.

Oh my, I can't believe my luck. Today, I went to the post office and after a particulary difficult interaction with the workers and a quick trip to the bank, I was finally awarded two packages! Thank you thank you thank gramma for the cookies and Aunt Deb for the sunscreen and goodies. Oh my goodness. I had to open the packages in front of the customs officers and I started bawling right then and there. This country has me on an emotional roller coaster. Anyway, a white woman was standing next to me and came over and put her arm around me. I turned into the hug and clung to her for a couple of minutes. She introduced herself and gave me her card. We chatted a bit and I found out that she has been here for five years and is a seminary teacher near where I stay. She told me to call her mom and I ended up driving around town with her. She brought me to her house and fed me salad and homemade christmas cookies and now I am typing this post in an air conditioned office on a computer that runs faster then a snail! I am so thankful that I have met her and her husband. She is the breath of support that I need. I think I can learn a lot from this couple about how to manage in Ghana. They have been all over the country and are going to South Africa next week. Oh yes, an American who works at the women's center of the orphanage might be going to Mole National Park where the animals roam next week. I am trying to see if I can go along with her. She has been in Ghana for a year and half. This Christmas has been, I don't know, amazing in a way! If I learn one thing in Ghana that I can pass on when I get back, it is to be more generous and giving. I have been much too selfish in my life and a want to promise myself to look for opportunities to give on a simple plane, like some of the people I have encountered here like paying a bus fair or giving an extra penny here and there or taking someone home for dinner and being more compassionate. I need to be less penny pinching and self-involved. I have given far less then I have taken in this country and for that matter the history of my life. And if you want to send something for the school, letters seem to be a bit more reliable and stickers are a great thing that would fit in an envelope. Packages take too long and are too expensive. This little piece of advise from the semanary teacher.

Time is an amazing phenominon. Seconds seem to pass so quickly, hours drag on and daylight fades into another night. When I look back on the past eight weeks, I wonder where all the time went. I can barely recall all that has happened. The memories are distant and I feel like I've been in Ghana for years. But then my mind snaps and it's as iff yesterday I was first slapped in the face by Ghana's heat. And even though it seems like ages before I board the plane to take me back to rainy Seattle, the time will pass and I will marvel at how quickly it fettered away.

I fell into a comfortable routine while teaching at the school. Wake up at 5:oo am, listen to the sounds of morning and doze until 6:00, read untill 6:30, drink tea and get ready untill 7:30, write in my journal and play the guitar untill 7:50, walk to school with Dan, teach untill, 10:00, break until 10:20, teach, lunch with Gloria while she serves the kids rice and stew or beans and rice until 1:30, teach until 3:00, walk to Adenta (20 min) or Madina (1 hr), walk home, eat dinner, and sleep by 9:00.

Of course, something new happens everyday, so I don't ever get too cozy. Dec 12, I attended an engagement of class one teacher, Millicent. In Ghana, the ceremony start three hours late, the microphone cuts out, the engagees don't smile and the couple is considered married. Even thought the man is the only one who gives a ring. What's called an engagement in Ghana is essentially the act of marrying. However, some Ghanaians have a separate wedding ceremony where both exchange rings in a church on the same day or even years later. The engagement, taking place outdoors, is ceremony enough, with the man's family presenting the woman's family with a dowry payment (schnappy, suitcases, money...), dancing, prayer, speeches, and refreshments. In Northern Ghana, marriages are patrilinear and the woman's father administers the engagement but in the south, the marriages are matrilinear and the maternal uncle administers. Millicent's uncle, chairman of the ceremony, declared his undying love for me and was quite persistant despite the fact that I told him I was engaged and even so, not ready to get married. He assured me he would wait five or six years for me. I was his lifelong dream come true. An obruni, alive and in person! During the ceremony, he was giving a winded speech and twi and I was therefore, off in outerspace. Suddenly, I felt eyes boring into me and the women behind me were jostling me out of my chair. Clinton was talking at me in Enlish saying that I was to share the opening dance with Millicent's uncle, alone. Looking back on the experience, it makes quite a story but truthfully, I was embarassed and uncomfortable.

At school, I planned an art project. I fee the their creative side is not simulated enough. I saved 500 ml water sachets and and bought dried beans and string. I had the kids fill the sachets with beans and blow air into the remaining space and seal the sachets with string. The crude rattles proved to be a success but they also revealed the children's poor grasp of rhythm. Eventually, we lapsed into a talen show with the kids crawling over eachother to sing or tell a story. The rattles were forgotton. The otherday, I taught them hangman. I also began pen pal program with some kids from Florence, Montana. I took individual pictures and they all wrote letters.
Dear American Students,
My name is Kwame/Mercy/Berther. I am 5/8/10 years old. I have 11/2/4 siblings. I like to play ampe/football. When I grow up, I want to be a soldier/manger/nurse/teacher/pilote. What is your favorite subject?
Yours faithfully, Felix/Priscilla/Emmanuel.
The 17th was, as the kids say, OUR DAY. I was met by kids in their Sunday best instead of their white and green plaid uniforms. They mundhed on biscuts, toffees and soda. We gathered in the nursury for their talent show. KG performed wonderfully and class 6 had a great native drum/dance sequence. Then they feasted. They came to school with picnic baskets full of spaghetti, rice and stew and biscuts and minerals. Gloria cooked Jollof rice for the teachers and we ate in solomn silence while the kids screached and danced outside.

The headmaster, Clinton, has become bit of a guide for me. He offered to take me to his hometown, Dodowa, to see the 1000 year old forest and his 4 day old baby son. Dodow is the mango capital of Ghana. To my dismay but not my surprise, the forest guards were away and we couldn't enter. His son was adorable, small and quiet. He was bundled in a blanket, sweating in the stuffy ghetto heat. Clinton just sat, dumb, in the room. He didn't even introduce his son's mother to me. I felt very weird in this silent room with a woman nursing her child and me not having anywhere elso to look. Finally, a couple of neighbors burst in, tickling and cooing at the baby. I asked Clinton why he didn't hold his son and the neighbors whisked the baby into his arms. That was the first time he'd ever held his child. Then I got a turn and we checked for the appropriate number of fingers, toes and you know what's. When we left Clinton said he needed a name for his son and he wanted to use my father's name. So Nicholas he is.

Clinton also accompanied me to Kiddafest 2004 in Accra. It was a day full of events for and by kids. The main performance was three hours of drumming, dancing and sketches from Nigeria and Ghana. My favorite was a satyrical sketch/dance with drums and overexaggerated movements and gestures. I laughed and laughed over a huge wad of sugarcane hanging out of the market women's mouths. I loved everything I saw including a rasta dance to a Michael Jackson medley. They encorporated traditional african moves with Michael Jackson staples. I also made it to the semi finals of a dance contest. I still can't believe I was on stage shimmying and doing rubber knees in front of a hundred or so black kids. Though I didn't win first, I was definately the most memorable and spent the rest of the days fielding complements and mockeries. I can easily say this has been the best cultural experience. Instead of championing the western culture, they were honoring their own traditions!

The second day of the festival was canceled (surprise, surprise) so I explored Mokola Market which was the spitting image of every other market in Ghana. I walked from central Accra to Osu neighborhood. Their are only a few street signs and even then it is ambiguous as to which street belongs wo which side. So my trek was a bit hairy at times. However, I did discover the fairly monumentous Independence Square with an arch and the Sports Complex with rowdy Nigerian football fans horsing around outside. Osu is the "white neighborhood" if you could even call it that. It has a supermarket and a bookstore and an airconditioned icecream/pasteries shop. In the grocery store while I was drooling over 6 dollar boxes of cereal and 4 dollar boxes of herbal tea the instumental of my favorite song from Jesus Christ Superstar came on. And as if I wasn't already making the cornflakes soggy with tears, Imagine came on immediately after.

However, nastalgia aside, I am constantly humbled by the generousity of the Ghanaians. Clinton, barely making 300,000 c/$25 a month, insists on paying my bus fare, a lady selling roasted plantains in arguably the richest neighborhood of town insists on giving me two for the price of one, the women who I chatted with in the market once shoves onions into my bag, Valerie cooks a full dinner for me even though she doesn't know me, Florence, a complete stranger on the tro-tro pays my fare and the taxi driver asks for food and then offers to drive me as he was going that way anyway and I see a Ghanaian women hand a blind begger 2000c.

Ghanaian cuitsine has little variety outside of the staple foods. Rice or foo or yam and oily stew or soup with chicken , dried fish or goat is the most common. Soups include peanutbutter, light, okra, eggplant, and fish. Fermented corn rols called kenke or banku with salso or soup is also popular. My favorites include red red(plaintains and spiced beans) and jollof rice ( spiced rice with cabbage, corn and tomatoes) and mpotam potam, a thick yam stew. Though Ghanaians doen't really have salad, Cecilia keeps cabbage, carrots, cucumbers and weird mayonnaise dressing on hand. I eat pineapple for breakfast but most Ghanaians eat rice water, omelettes, kooko porridge or any of the above listed foods. I completely died when I tred a drink called Forah. It is made from gineaflour, ginger, pepper and hot peppers. It is better then chai. I am going to learn how to prepare it but guinea flour might be tough to get my hands on in the states. Overall, eating meat has not been as tramatic as I had feared and most days I dont even have the option. I am decidedly not a fan of anything goaty.

I have been spending my vacation at a nearby orphanage. It is run by a Spaniard named Mama Lisa. The orphanage has around 50 to 60 kids from a couple months old to 24. Ghanaians don't really move out until they get married. Much to my surprise, the the orphanage is really clean, well staffed, and equipped. Mama Lisa, it seems has raised and trained her staff well. I can't really explain how amazing the children are. Just at a point when I felt quite directionless, I find toddlers joyfully playing hide and go seek and girls teaching me how to play their games or crochet. The younger boys crowd around me and listen to me read or arm wrestle with me. I am constantly searching for the boy with my hanky, glasses or watch. Today, I finished reading a watered down version of Tom Sawyer to them. Mama Lisa asked me to help with the toddlers especially King who is mentally ill and Peter who was locked in a closet for three months and only says ma and banana. They are a handfully and destroy most everything they touch. On xmas eve, I was preparing to leave around 5:00 when Mama Lisa insisted then I join them at a carol service. She sent me to her house to bath and pick out one of her african print dress. She sat next to me while I ate Jollof rice and they all clapped when I appeared at the dinner table. The carols wer nice but the most monumentous thing was the declaration of several young boys that I was there mother. Since then, we have been most insperable. They hold my hand, hug my legs, lead me around, tickle my hands, take piggy back rides and read to me. After the service, Mama Lisa had one of the older boys take me to my doorstep. On xmas day, Cecilia killed two chickens. The orphanage killed a goat. I don't like goat. I spent the morning playing hide and go seek with the toddlers and desperatly trying to keep my sarong up while they tugged on it. Everyone recieved presents. Mama Lisa gave me the dress I had worn the night before. The toddlers got soft stuffed animals, the small boys, magic tricks, the girls jump ropes and teh older boys CDs and traditonal shirts. We played sports in the afternoon and had iced kenke and meatpies. I learned how to play ampe and a game similar to rock, paper, scissors. I stayed for dinner, fried rice and goat. I don't like goat. I danced with the older boys and and the little babies. Doreen, a teeage girl, very shy and negative even danced with me a bit. I try to get her to tell me something positive every day. Joseph, a 21 year old film student, is teaching me to be rasta woman. After the toddlers went to bed and baby abigail had fallen asleep on my sholder, I told Mama Lisa that I had come to help but she had given me so much more then I could ever give. Jo saw me home and I sat outside and stared at the moon before going to bed. I marvel at this country and my changing attitudes towards it. I can't believe the journey I've made from idly planting trees to teaching to making friends with kids that hug me and hold my hand and honestly feel comfortable with me.

I recieved a two letters from Gramma Pat and have just received word that two packages are at the post office for me. One of the letteres took 10 days to arrive. We'll have to see if there is anything left in the packages. Horray!!!

I hope everyone had a lovely holiday. Happy New Year or Afishyapa, as the Ghanaians say!

Oh, I'm late, I know. That's the problem with developing a routine. I wrote a little something for this post but as I read it, I am thinking it is not the kind of thing I would like to post. I really don't know what to say but that this uphill battle is halfway overwith as of today and I can't wait to get home. The school kids vacated today with quite a party and talent show. They bring biskests (good lord, how do you spell that word) and minerals and fancy food from home and eat themselves sick and dance and dance. I brought string and made friendship bracelets. I taught some of them how to do it themselves. They are demanding little things. No manners. I also snapped individual pictures of the kids in class one. They wrote letters to kids that my Aunt teaches in Montana. They are really excited about talking to American kids. I am very nervous that the postal system will fail them and they will never get letters from the US. I sent out the letters and pictures yesterday. So, I have vacation for 18 long days. I am trying to psych myself up to go to the north and explore the towns there. I am not altogether excited about this prospect as I am sure it will be more of the same. But I must do something with my time or I will go crazy.
I am thinking of keeping a marriage offer count. I think I'm around 50 or so. I was at an engagement the other day and Millicent's (teacher getting engaged) uncle, an old man. was so persistant about marrying me. He even said he would wait 5 or 6 years. I told him I was married but that didn't stop him. I was zoning out during his speech suddenly found that all eyes were on me. The ladies were pushing me out of the chair and babbling in nonesense. Well, some poor soul finally translated and said that the uncle wanted to share a first dance with me, ALONE. Well, I danced and was embarassed but I guess now, I have a story to tell you!

Julie, your email was such a light in the dark. I can't imagine sleeping on the ground in that kind of environment. Please keep up the emails. They save me every week. I do write a lot in my own journal but, I get frustrated because it never comes out right.

Phone's down again :(

I was at my wit's end this weeekend. School didn't meet on Friday because of Farmer's Day and it seemed as though I couldn't waiste time fast enought. You would think that Africa would be teeming with diversity and culture and in some ways it is. However, the constant struggle with poverty leaves little time or money for extra flourishes like parks, libraries, cultural centers or museums for tourists like me. In my free time(which I have a lot of) I have braved the horendous traffic, heat, and should of Obruni and ventured to several villages. Needless to say, if you've seen one, you've seen them all. Crooked shacks housing salons, stationary shops, chop bars, curio shops, taylors and convience goods line the streets. Every village has a market and taxi/tro tro station and besides tightly packed laundry strewn neighborhoods, there is nothing else. I guess the refreshing thing about this is that there is not a commercialized coffee shop on every corner. America should follow Ghana's example of establishing small private businesses.
The idea of starting my own business has been swimming around in my mind for some time and Saturday, I decided to give it a go in Ghana. The main income source in the villages comes from selling chop(food) on the roadside and armed with plastic bags, a serated knife, groundnut paste, bananas, brown bread, and paper signs declaring my wares, I set out to join the venders. My main challange was finding an empty table that I could set up on. But finally a man named Sam running a lotto booth at a popular road junction in Adenta(about 20 min walk from where I stay) let me use and empty table in front of him. I drew quite a crowd as I set up my signs and started making a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Several Ghanaians caught on to the foreign concept of sandwich and started calling out to passerbyers to try my American sandwich. Finally, a brave soul in the crowd bought a sandwich and I soon finished my one loaf of bread. I decided to continue selling so I packed up( I didn't want to leave my things set up while shopping for more supplies) and went in search of more bread and groundnun paste(across the street and down a bit). There was a banana table right next to my table. My main clientel seemed to be young men mainly interested in marrying my, but some older women were brave enought to try the new chop. Most people walked by staring and once past, broke into laughter. At the end of the day (3:00) I had sold 21 sandwiches at 2000c each. My profits: 21000c or 2.50 dollars. As I walked home, I felt strangly satisfied but even more mystified by how thse people survive. The average Ghanaian makes about 330 dollars a year. Granted my fellow sellers were selling staple foods and for a much longer period druing the day, so hopefully make more but the comme center to my left and the banana table on my right did less business than I did.
This brings me to Melinda, the level one teacher in my school. She is 25 and has a 7 month old daughter. She assures me that they have everything they need in their school. I am amazed at this assertion. However, I guess that we have so much in our schools in America that we are blinded by our excess. I have been thinking about some of your offers to send supplies or money. I think it would be best to send money to my mother and she will deposite it in my account. Then I can buy supplies here. A pack of crayons costs about 25 cents and a note book around 16 cents. Also if you have any fun games or songs that don't take a lot of suggestions could you pass them on. I have taught them the hokey pokey and the ants go marching and bingo and the itsy bitsy spider. Any suggestion would be welcome. My mom's address is Stacey Miller 2252 Westfield Court Missoula Montana 59801.

Dan's cellphone is working again!

Thank goodness for Blogger! My hotmail saga continues. Today, I could only read the lovely emails you sent. I couldn't reply or compose a new email. Frustrating!
So Stacey:
Thank you for writing the check. I hope remember to withdraw the amount from my account. Did you find anything out about insurance? Do you know why muscles twitch? My quad won't stop twiching. Dan's phone is still broken and the other one is lost. Xmas when I get back sounds weird but not unthinkable. I really only miss my blanket and we can't lose that in the mail ;)
Hillary: Thank you for the lovely message. I didn't get a rabies shot either. Thank you for the package. It has not yet arrived but I have hope. If you send in the future, send it to the address on this site. I am so very excited you are on your way to Honduras!
Sarita: Thank you for the J house update and the mail update. Stupid SCCC. Go SCA! I will be sleeping on the floor for awhile in Feb, I suppose. I'll work something out;) My address is in the comments on this site or KAUFMAN, RACHEL C/O AT Amanor PO Box 0602 Osu, Accra, Ghana.
Cynthia: If you are reading, I miss you and my mom sent the check. I hope you are readjusting well.
Gramma: I have not received any packages. I am waiting with baited breath. I love you tons and tons thank you for the emails. rachels_imagine@hotmail.com is the correct one.
Chris: It took awhile for the good vibes to get here but apparantly, they travel faster then mail. Thanks


"Good afternoon. How are you?"
"Fine thank you. How are you?"
That is how I start my mornings now. My co-volunteer, Cynthia and I decided not to plant trees anymore for various reasons including my hip and the seeminly pointless nature of the daily work. I was unsure of how my remaining time would unfold but my host brother, Dan, introduced me to the headmaster at a nearby school and he said he would be happy to have me help in the class rooms. I started at the school last Friday in the Kindergarten class. They call me Auntie Ra-hell and they start at me with huge white eyes like I was a giant chocolat brownie.
The school is a slap in the face. If I thought I was fortunate to live in America before, it is now painfully clear to me that I am more than fortunate. I now realize why there are so many kids on the street selling water or gum during school hours. Many kids can't afford to pay the 20 dollar fee. Nor can they afford to pay for their uniforms or books and paper. The parents don't take an interest in their children either. As for the kids who do stay in school they face barren walls, bookless shelves and earsplitting noise from the classes in the same room. It makes me very sad that my program fee has been wasted with the Save the Earth Network instead of paying for crayons or books or paper for these school children. Despite their lack of supplies and tools and books and a teacher who spends all her time nursing her 8 month old baby, the children of the KG continue to impress me with what they know. For example, they can recite numerous bible verses and sing any number of songs. They know thier ABCs and numbers. Most can spell and do addition and recite the months and days of the week. They are also rehearsing for a fairly extensive Christmas program. They sing "the list has been done" instead of "felize navidad." The headmaster said I will be able to help in all the grades (up to 6) and I am anxious to see if their first years of school were at all affective.
On another note, the teachers swat at the kids with sticks if they are misbehaving. I was appalled. But still, the kids smile and hold my hand or stroke my straight hair. I taught them the Hokey Pokey, a hand clapping game, high fiving and a hand trick. It makes me sad that I can't take them all and give them crayons and construction paper and scissors but I hope that my presense will make them more worldly. If anything, I am learning more from them!

Happy Thanksgiving all!
Here is my Ghanaian Thanksgiving poem:

Rememories

I hope I remember the smell of spongy
sweet coconut simmering in sugar,
crisp clean clothing drying on a line
in the dead equatorial heat and the warm
fruity breeze of over-ripe paw paw, mango and banana.

I hope I remember the easy raggae
beat behind swinging saxophone melodies,
the unpolished harmonies of morning prayer
and the rare pounding of sleeting rain
on powdery red earth.

I want to remember the feel of tightly
curled hair capping flat African heads
and the refreshingly luke-warm water
sliding down my sticky neck and arms.

I hope I remember the icy taste of grapefruit
juice; bittersweet caresse on my tongue,
candy-like pineapple, Lipton tea
that brings beads of sweat to my upper
lip and the starchy dryness of grilled
plantains and salted groundnuts.

I hope I remember bright white teeth
behind genuine smiles, the fragile balance
of people, goats, chickens and tro-tros
on the pocked roads and the topsy-turvy
moon hanging in perpetual twilight,
reflecting light from my eyes to yours,
sharing our senses and knitting us together
for a suspended universal moment.

So I thought I would write a bit on my daily routine, if there is such a thing.

Up with the roosters around four o'clock am and my sleep is very broken from then on. The dogs bark, people turn on radios, birds chirp, hoo ho hoo hoo hoo and my host family prays. Laud, Edgar, Cecilia and Amano and Dan are my family members, each precious in their own right. I get up and get dressed. I brush my teeth and spit in the sink in the hallway. The pipe runs straight down into a bucket beneath the sink. There is no running water. I drink water from small plastic pouches or from water bottles in the fridge. They are dodgy though as they came from a pipe. The toilet is in a small room and the tank is filled with water from the bucket under the sink. I only flush after I have pooped and toilet paper goes in the garbage can. It took me some time to figure this out and I felt horribly guilty about flushing the toilet every time I used it. The amount of water a tank holds is exhorbant. I take a bucket in the shower room. Green soap and a washcloth. I use a smaller bucket to pour water over my body and the cool water is so nice in the hot weather. My towel smells funny, but so does most things. It smells like mildew or sweat or fish or dirt or poop or burning. I hope I remember the cooking coconut smell when I return and not the other smells. I am never completely dry. My towel is never completely dry. Nothing is every completely dry. My vitamins are dissolving.
Cecilia or Dan bring me breakfast on a tray. There is a tea bay in my cup, a bowel of sugar, a thermos of hot water, a tin of milky cream, several slices of bread with ground nut paste, an omlette and a bowel of pineapple. I have no appetite and my stomach is upset anyway so I eat the pineapple and bag the bread for lunch. The lipton tea is a savoir even though it is too hot to drink such things. Sometimes Cecilia gives me cake or canned pickled macaroni stuff for breakfast. I drink a lot of water, around five to six litres a day. I feel bad about drinking so much. Water is such a hassle to haul and buy.
At six thirty Dan and I head to Madina by tro tro, not a bus and not a taxi but transportation just the same. We have never gotton to Madina the same way twice so I am still confused about how to get to this village. There are no set scheduals in Ghana and sometimes a tro tro comes and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes we get to Kingsley's house by seven and sometimes we don't arrive until eight thirty. Tro tros cost around 1000 to 2000 cedis. A man called a mate operates the door and takes money. I am an aspiring mate. A mate yells out the destination as the tro tro hurtles down the road. The mate is painfully hard to understand and Accra sounds like acracracracracra and Madina sounds like markemarkemarke.
We all meet at Kingsley's, sometimes Alex, Prince, Charlie or Eben are there. We hang around and rarely leave the house before ten. We catch a tro tro back towards Frafraha to Adomrobe. The ride is long but I savor it because the wind blows through the open window and cools me off and I am left to my thoughts. There are few stops on the way and the road is ungodly bumpy.
At the site, past volunteers have already filled lots of "rubber bags" with "sand" We are doing the same thing soon to be planted with Lycenae trees. The days are hot, the nights are hot. I am always hot. We work slowly if at all and after at least two hours we head home. The commute is long and we walk at least forty minutes both ways.
Kingsley shops at the market on the way back home and we help him prepare a three or four oclock lunch as it were. Eventually, Dan and I head home and end up walking half the way because tro tros are dodgy and taxies are too expensive. I fall into bed exhaused from heat and read or listin to music. I practice my guitar or talk with Cecilia. It is dark around six but the noise continues well into the night. On days when we don't work and I don't go to cape coast and get horribly sick, I sit at home and read or knit or play the guitar.

Hello from oh so hot Ghana!
I made it, I made it, I made it!
Already, after two weeks, I have had an interesting if not fun time. First of all, the heat makes moving absolutely unbearable but the sun goes down at six and things start to cool off. My host family is very gracious and they still instist on filling my bucket for my showers and refilling the toilet tank after I flush, which by the way is only after pooping.
Food has been a challange, partly because I have no appetite in this heat and partly because I've seen what the meat looks like before it goes into the pot. It's been sitting out in the heat of the day rotting. I did eat a crab leg. My favorite is red red or fried plantain and beans.
I bused down to Cape Coast with my volunteer partener, Cynthia. THe bus ride was a painful 4 hours long. But the trip was worth it. Cape Coast has two forts and one castle rich with history of the Gold Coast and slave trade. We also went to Kokum national park and walked on rope bridges high above the jungle canopy.
Perhaps the most exciting thing to happen though is that I got severe dehydration from eating too little and especially not enough salt and had to be carried to a clinic not far from the American Embassy in Accra. I was very out of it and too weak to stand up but Cynthia was amazing she got me to the clinic and paid for my visit because I didn't have any more money. They gave me two bags of salene solution through and IV and antibiotics. My tongue was dark black. I thought I was going to die. I honestly did. But I'm ok and it's not malaria or cholera or anything scary. I just have to be more carefull about salt consumption. You really wouldn't believe the heat. It is unbearable.
I love you and miss you.
Peace,
Rachel
oh yes, my gmail account is not supported in Ghana so email me at rachels_imagine@hotmail.com