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

As this is my last post from the United States of America, I should say something striking, or at least intuitive. But I've got nothing folks. My brain is saturated with basic Twi (thank you Sarah), itineraries, images of who will pick me up at the airport, getting to the airport, and finalizing any number of loose ends. This fabric just keep fraying!

I have nothing brilliant to pass on except what my friend Jules told me the other day: There is nothing in this world worth getting upset over.
Think about that one for a while. I can agree with this on certain levels. I think the abbess that told Jules this meant it is not worth it to get upset over spilt milk or Washington state residency or financial aid or school or rent or money or love or lost items. It's not worth it. Let it go and get upset over murders and social injustice and politics and thieves.

Peace and love and other things sweet,
Imaginer(with tears in her eyes)

Is it right to know it and feel it with all your heart but not share your knowledge and feelings? Or is it right to work for their endurance in yourself and others, fight for what you know and feel? Is knowing enough? Is feeling enough? If everyone knew and felt then it would be enough...
PEACE, Rachel

I'm tired and uninspired and my feet are wet. (good alliteration in that sentence. Do I hear a poem?) I did just make a great curry and got a lot of stupid errands done today. I think I'm going to go play the guitar and not pack right now. Yea, that sounds good!

I'm tired and uninspired,
with wet feet and smelly socks.
I ran beside and skipped down
the drizzling streets and sidewalks.
My hair is a stringy mess,
masking my brain's scatteredness.
Forgot my way in the rain,
lost my soul in the gutters.

Oh yea, if you want to see real live pictures of Ghana, Sarah has some pictures on her site. Click here to see them. Sarah went to Ghana with Habitat for Humanity for three weeks last December.
Other than being absolutely amazing, she has calf muscles like rocks. Check them out in picture number one. I'm writhing in jealousy. She could crush an aluminum can with those suckers : )

A couple things first:
1. I can't see the floor of my room, and I'm ok with that.
2. I am writing on this journal and baking cookies instead of working on school applications, making hotel arrangements, sewing a sleeping bag, and shopping.
3. I have a really annoying pimple right at the corner of my mouth. Aren't I past the pimple age?
4. I just heard a rap song about Leonard Nemoy.
5. The KGBA DJ doesn't know what songs she's playing, therefore, I don't know what songs she's playing.
6. My new hair cut is cute but I have about 1/4 inch of blond hair at my roots.

Now, I am going to tell you a story, the moral of which I have not yet discerned.

One day, a capable, able, beautiful, smart, princess named Roxanne decided to make a batch of Namaste vegan fat free brownies. She delicately poured soy milk into the round metal bowl. The milk was silky white and tasted sweet and vanilly. She opened the package of brownie mix carefully in order to reduce the flying brownie dust. The mix was light brown and smelled of cinnamon and baker's chocolate. She used her mother's golden heirloom mixer encrusted with diamonds to swirl the wet and dry ingredients together. Soon the precious mixer was straining under the pressure from the thick batter and Roxanne cranked up the speed and pressed the power boost button. The dough crawled up the stem of the beater and smeared on the body of the mixer. The beaters began to grind to a stop and the smell of rubber mingled with chocolate.
Roxanne, oblivious to her mother's mixers complaints, spooned the batter into her mother's crystal brownie casserole pan. The pan had been in the family for years and it was rumored that one could see their future in it's clear crystal form. She placed the pan in the preheated oven and set the timer for 30 min. She subsequently pulled on her golden running slippers and took a 25 min run around the block. Then she did her daily push ups and sit ups in order to maintain her princessly figure.
After 30 min she pulled the brownies out of the oven and did a test cut in the center of the pan. They smelled heavenly but the knife came out hopelessly gooey. She put the pan back in the oven for 10 min and then repeated the knife test. Again, the knife came out gooey but, oh, was it good. Wanted to have light fluffy non gooey brownies, Roxanne placed the brownies back in the oven for 10 min. She repeated this procedure several times until she realized that the brownies were never going to solidify. She set them on the fridge to cool and waited for her mother, the queen to come home from work to show her the day's handy work.
Queen Ruby came home later that evening and when Roxanne eagerly showed her mother the brownies she was dismayed to find them rock hard and petrified to the pan. In desperation, she cut slices of apple and laid them on top of the wood like brownies. She sprinkled them with water and hoped with all her innocent heart that they would soften up in time to serve them to her mother's court.
Fortunately after several nights with the apples, the top layer of the brownies softened up enough to scrape it off. Roxanne used a knife to vigorously dislodge the rest of the brownie. Unfortunately she was so strong from her daily pushups that she shoved the knife right through the heirloom pan. In dismay, she picked up the broken pieces of the 9 by 13 inch masterpiece and consoled herself with the fact that her brownies were not burnt just crispy and edible. However, they were not suitable for the court so she began making the motions to make oatmeal apple cookies instead. Much to Roxanne's dismay, the mixer failed to rotate the beaters. She had tried to use it too long while mixing the brownies and striped the gears in the diamond encrusted machine. How could she forgive herself for breaking her mother's heirloom mixer and pan. And to top it all off, they couldn't really even enjoy the comforting gooeyness of her brownies.
Roxanne finished the oatmeal cookies by hand and saddled up her horse for a trip to the store to find inferior replacements for the equipment she had so carelessly broke. That evening her mother returned and found the damage done but Roxanne was prepared with cookies and an apology and new mixer and pan. The new mixer was encrusted with rubies and the pan was burn proof. The mother and daughter laughed as they munched on crispy brownies and delicious moist oatmeal cookies.

Hello hello,
Oh my, I'm starting to get a bit nervous for my expedition to Ghana! Truthfully, I don't really feel like I'm going away. But the reality is, I ship out of here in 12 days. It seems like I have a lot of loose ends I need to tie up before I go.

I am going to have a really hard time leaving my friends and family behind, if only for the selfish reason that I am afraid they will forget me while I'm away. Not only that, I only got to see some good Montana friends briefly and I haven't seen other friends in too long. (My fault, I didn't drag myself to their doorstep like I should have). I did get to spend a lot of time with my family including my great aunt and uncle from far away Martinsdale. I feel like my Seattle crowd is whizzing forward to new peaks of friendships without me and my family is getting more and more distant as I grow up. Soon, I will have to knock on my parents door before I come in. This being independent and homeless(or should I say, having too many homes) thing can be wearing sometimes. I mean, I don't know what direction I'm facing most of the time, and don't even ask me what I'm doing tomorrow, much less next year or where I'm from. I think there must be name for what I'm suffering from.

I'm ruining my chances at becoming a WA state resident by going to Ghana and therefore making it oh too expensive to go to UW, which wont except me anyway. My other option, flying under the residency radar at SCCC, seems ok, but a bit, oh, I don't know, deceiving. I could go to UM. No! I could do the WHICy program, which allows me to go to certain state schools in Washington for Montana tuition and a half but UW doesn't participate in that. So that leaves me with Bellingham, hmm, maybe, Ellensburg, not so hot on that part of the state, Pullman, closer to home and friends nearby, but not Seattle, and Cheney, again, why it it so flat? Sigh, I am just going to turn into a homeless, uneducated bum in Texas. Yes, I think I think I will go to Texas. The weather is mild enough that I can sleep outside year round.

I didn't mean for this to turn into a gripe fest, but sometimes, that is what the void is for. So take that void. Bad energy, begone!

My newest music discoveries:

1. Plant is actually saying words in his songs. The Ocean, The Battle of Evermore and Misty Mountain Hop are particularity good lyricwise. Before I started reading their lyrics I really just loved Plant's screeching and the guitar/drums breakdown. But by god if they aren't poets as well!

2. The Silos! Of course, music is always more enchanting live, but I think these guys are good.

3. I may not be as adverse to country as I originally thought. I'm not going to admit to liking it but Jaala's sound bites of Big and Rich and Cowboy Troy rapping were pretty amusing!

4. The Counting Crow have a song in the sound track of Shrek 2 and it took me forever to figure out it was Adam. I guess the whining should have tipped me off but it didn't.

5. Heart does an excellent version of Led Zeppelin's Rock and Roll.

6. This is the deal with the symbols on Led Zeppelin's fourth album. They each decided choose a metaphysical type of symbol which somehow represented each of them individually.

John Paul Jones' symbol (circle over three interlocking ovals) was found in a book of runes and purportedly represents a person who is both confident and competent.

Bonham's symbol (three interlocking circles) came from the same book, and Bonham just liked it.

Plant's symbol (circle around a feather) features the feather of Ma'at, the Egyptian goddess of justice and fairness.

Page designed his own symbol (Zoso). Though it resembles the alchemical symbol for mercury, its meaning remains a mystery. The most recent fandom theory is that it symbolizes a near-death or Tantric sex experience to unify the worlds of the living and the dead, and thus to reveal the secrets of the universe.

This is third hand knowledge so I don't know how accurate what I'm about to relate is.

There is a philosopher who believes that there are many different worlds with many different levels of goodness or holiness. Earth is fairly low on the scale. This philosopher believes that there is a world where there is no spoken language. Instead, the beings automatically know what the other being is thinking. I don't know if this telepathy is within a certain range of distance or if one can tune into a desired being, or if one hears the thoughts of every being in its vicinity and must filter undesired thoughts out of perception. However, no matter the method or limitations of their ability, it remains that if you had a secret, it wouldn't be one for long and if you had nasty thoughts, everyone would know them. The luxury of having privates thoughts is completely null. The theory is, these beings are so good and pure that they don't have nasty, bad, murderous, adulterous or mean thoughts. While I value my private thoughts, I can see how wonderful it would be to have someone who knew exactly what I was thinking. There would be fewer misunderstandings and zero deception. You just absolutely couldn't think-lie. If something was on your mind, like an annoying room mate or a crush or relationship problems, you couldn't bottle it up. Out the discussion/think would come and you would resolve your issues right then and there. Think about it, evil impossible and truth all the time

If I'm not back again this time tomorrow, carry on, carry on...nothing really matters...

I think it is very important to set goals and stick with them. The time has come to set some new goals and rediscover my old ones. Two years ago, during my Freshman year at SU, I typed up one short term and two long term goals. I posted them on my mirror, above my bed, over my desk and on my laptop. Those goals were:

1. I will act on Broadway or something similar
2. I will serve with the Peace Corps or something similar
3. I will not consume caffeine

I will soon acheive number two and number three is too absolute. In other words, I don't consume caffeine unless it's in tea or chocolat or I really want a diet coke. I consider number three checked off.

So here is my new list:
1. I will pursue a career in acting
2. I will floss and brush my teeth daily and wear my retainer three to four times a week.
3. I will become fluent in French or another language
Yep I'm super ambitious...
4. I will conquer the guitar

I don't expect to get all these in a year or even two, but if I remember that I have something I want more than anything and I remind yourself now and then, I can make them a reality, i.e. number two! I would love to hear your goals and then, someday in the distant future when we meet again, we can remind each other to pursue those things that really matter to us.

I was sitting at my gramma's kitchen table with a bowl of cheerios. I poured heated water over my cheerios and watched them rise up the rim of the bowl. I sat and persistently stirred them, trying to get them to soften but they remained rock hard. They wouldn't even crumble between the bowl and my spoon. In despair, I thought the water into milk and instantly, the cheerios disintegrated into a lump of grainy meal. While I was swirling the cheerio paste with my spoon, my gramma came home from church. Without even acknowledging me, she ran to the sink and looked out the window over the sink into the living room. The TV was on, Judge Lochner. I didn't turn it on. The living room was dark but the sound was so loud. My gramma frantically started to chop vegetables in the sink. The chopped pieces of vegetables clogged the drain and gramma panicked, desperately trying to chop and clear the drain at the same time. Suddenly, the dishwasher was in the middle of the kitchen and my gramma couldn't get past because my mom's shoes were in the way. Oh, the problems that life presents us. Mom, restless, sleeps and then goes to work.

I'm in a playground, dressed in a tattered prom dress. The kids scream and chase each other around me but the sound is distant. All I can see is a group of teenagers in front of me. The man doesn't have a date but he knows who he wants. So he wades through the kids to a dress sitting on the slide and declares that if he wears a dress he will get the date he wants. I follow as the group goes shopping at the mall. The decor has changed since I was there last and I felt in a daze. My head loomed above my body.

The man is swinging. I am pushing him from behind and his friends show up with a skirt and several tops. It was all they could find. The skirt is cute and he looks good in it but the tops are hideous. But I am on the swing, pulling on a purple sleepless tube top. It looks better on than off. I pull it off and put on a shirt with only a square of silver fabric on the front and plastic wires around my shoulders to hold it on. The shirt flaps in the breeze from the swing.

GS has a cigar and drinks. Another woman is trying to get the shirt off the man. I am suddenly ten years younger and get off the swings. Two girls from my past are swimming in a maze of a turtle wading pool. Beth peeks over the turtle and Jess swims in a circle. I say, "want to be friends?" We swim around the pool while the sun moves from North to South.