Ramblings.

In the past 8 weeks, I have collected countless observations that I have deemed somewhat unclassifiable for the sake of a blog post. They don't adhere to a theme or document a certain event. But to keep them from being forgotten in the depths of the iPad's memory, I figured I'd lay them out in a catch-all post.

I like lists. Who has time to read paragraphs anyways?

Things I miss from the US:

- Ice: It does not exist in Africa. And if it does, it's gone before you can sip the drink you drop it into.

- Ellenos Greek Yogurt: If you live in Seattle, go to Pike's Place Market and spend the $6 for a pint. Yes, I'm a yogurt snob, and you will be too once you've tried it. Dairy is essentially non-existent in Africa, minus shelf stable milk and cheese-product. (But those don't count. If it is safe at room temp, then I don't count it as dairy.) Ellenos is the food I'm most excited to get home to.

- Pedestrian right-of-way: Cars don't stop for pedestrians. Two other volunteers were in a taxi recently that struck a pregnant woman on the street because she didn't cross fast enough. Ghanaian drivers are not messing around.

- Parks: Kasoa is characterized by one long, filthy, dusty road. The sidewalks on either side are clouded with gas fumes and bustling street vendors (diesel-infused corn on the cob, anyone?). Trees are only present once you get back into dirt roads, and even then they are few and far between. I can't wait to be barefoot on grass or sand when I get back to Seattle. Gasworks, Greenlake, Golden Gardens: get excited.

- Baking. If you live within a 10 mile radius of me or do something even mildly niceish in the first few months when I'm home, expect some banana bread or a plate of cookies. Can't wait to get back to my favorite pastime.

Things I'll miss when I leave Ghana:

- Softball-sized avocados for 50 pesewa (14 cents US) each: Forget your $4, Whole Foods. I'm working on a strategy to smuggle a supply through Customs.

- Not wearing makeup. Ever.

- Going days without seeing my reflection: This is awesome, though it's always a shocker to catch a random reflective window when I'm not expecting it. I tend to not recognize myself, and usually look around for the disheveled, sunburned, wild-haired Obruni before realizing its me.

- Kids playing with a wheel on a stick. I don't know why this is so funny to me but I love it.

- The music. YouTube "Shatta Wale" and get excited about Ghanain dance music. Everyone here dances, all the time. There is always music playing and even better, no noise complaints. 



Situations: A few things have happened that have stuck with me in my time here. Again, they don't fit a pattern or belong in any other blog post. A few of my favorite random exchanges: 


Too Big

In my fist week in Ghana, before leaving for a 5-day trip to the coast:

Me: Is traveling safe? I'm afraid of being kidnapped.
Eric (NGO director): HAHAHAHAHAHA!
He falls over sideways, laughing for a solid 60 seconds.
Me: What? I don't get it .
Eric, wiping his eyes: You're too big to be kidnapped in Ghana!

(It's true: I rarely see anyone, man or woman, over about 5'9". I've got a good two inches on the average Ghanaian. Safe!)


The Name Game

Everyone in Ghana is given a nickname based on the day of the week on which they were born. There is a male and a female name for each day of the week. On my first day working at the clinic, the nurses asked which day I was born on. I had no idea, and was totally caught off-guard. Apparently that's something everyone knows here, and I wanted to fit in, so I quickly spat out "Tuesday!" My Ghanaian name became Abena, which a lot of the nurses and people I pass in town still call me (people here have a hard time saying "Emily" so when anyone asks my name, I usually say Abena). I fact-checked later that day, and learned that November 2, 1989 was actually a Thursday. My Ghanaian name should be Ama. Whoops. My little secret. 


Why aren't you running?

I run a few mornings each week before work. The humidity is debilitating even at 6:00 am, so my efforts are usually limited to about 30 minutes. One morning was especially muggy and hot and I slowed to a walk as I neared home. People always stare as I pass and sometimes call out, as I must look absolutely ridiculous to them. You don't see a lot of joggers in Africa.

On this particular morning a little girl yelled out. "Obruni! Obruni! Are you exercising?" I smiled and waved and continued walking. Children are usually content with small acknowledgement, but not this one. "Run, Obruni! Why aren't you running?"

I was taken aback, and ridiculously, my pride took a hit. I thought bitterly, "Well, little girl, because I just ran 3 miles and it's 90 degrees, so lay off!" She kept at it though, following me. "Run, Obruni, run! Exercise!"

I didn't know how to respond, other than to start running. She ran behind me, waving a stick, yelling "Run! Faster, Obruni, run!" until I turned up the dirt path to my house. Confused and exhausted, I collapsed onto a step, ashamed to have just fallen bully victim to a bossy African 8-year-old .  


How we really feel about your paintings

Vendors in Africa are overwhelming. Most of the touristy areas have tons of vendors selling basically all the same things: the same beaded bracelets, the same carved bowls, the same paintings in the same styles. All claiming to be original and hand-made, of course. They're nice to look at, but if you let your gaze linger on an item for more than a second, the seller is all over you like white on rice, shoving said items in your face and yelling about the good price.

My volunteer friend Claire was on a solo excursion in Osu, an artsy neighborhood in the capitol city Accra. A vendor not only called out to her, but started following her down the street with a painting of his, begging her to come into his stall and see his work. She tried to politely shrug him off but to no avail. After he had followed her for a few blocks, she turned to him and said, "You know what? I actually hate paintings."
Confused, the seller stopped. "You hate paintings?"
Claire: "Yes. I hate them. A lot."
The vendor considered. "Well what about bowls? I have bowls too."
Claire: "I hate bowls too. In fact, I really hate bowls."

While the man bewilderingly tried to piece together how someone could hate both paintings and bowls, Claire slipped away into the crowd. From now on, we all hate paintings. Works like a charm.


People: They don't each deserve a post, but at least a shout-out.

Koffe: The creeper Rasta who I've seen on 4 different occasions on three different beaches in Ghana. He looks like a mini Lil' Wayne, and is either slow on the uptake or embraces the Rasta tradition of marijuana all the time (definitely the latter). He never lets me walk away, always complaining I don't want to be his friend (I don't) and begging for my phone number (not happening). I first met Koffe in Busua Beach, which is a 6-hour trip away from where I live in Kasoa. The very next weekend he was at Kokobitre, the beach nearest Kasoa. Three weeks later, I heard the familiar "Emily!" in his slurred Ghanaian on a beach in Cape Coast, another 4 hours away from Kasoa. Once again at Kokobitre again a few weeks later... This guy seriously creeps me out. He's too stoned to be harmless and I'm a solid 8 inches taller than him, but still. I don't get it.

Pacques: Pacques is 2 and lives on the dirt road on the way to my house. He runs to me every single day, without fail, as I walk home. For weeks he yelled "Obruni! Obruni!" while I corrected him "Emily, Emily. Not Obruni." The first time he yelled "Emily" was the proudest moment ever. One day last week, he jumped out of the bucket he was being bathed in, suds and all, and flew at me while his mom and siblings cracked up on the porch. I always grab him and carry him back up the road with me while he wears my sunglasses and pokes at my white skin. I love this child. He has two older sisters, Vanessa and Monique, and cousins that live with him named Precious and Rhoda. Many of the children here are overwhelming with their yelling and taunting of the Obruni, but these are among the few that are great.

Clinton and Maria: Two more children who live near me. About 10 and 8 years old, respectively. They run a shop that sells crackers and laundry soap and little convenience items, and I don't think they go to school, since they are there all day. Every once in awhile the mother will be there too, but the kids mostly run the shop. Some days when I walk home they're dancing or playing games and I'll stop to play with them. The funniest thing in the world, apparently, is when I join their dance parties. "Dance, Emily, dance!" I don't have to be told twice... it's worth it to shake it a little and make a fool out of myself to see them rolling on the ground crying laughing at me. Always a mood lifter!

Joyce: An Obruni who moved to Ghana in the seventies and now lives as a local on Kokobitre Beach. Originally from Oakland, CA, Joyce traveled to Ghana to work with a project to save traditional Ghanaian music.  She has been here over 40 years now, and must be in her late sixties or early seventies. She walks around the beach in her bikini, selling handmade jewelery to tourists to support the music she came to save.

Abiba and Amalia: The two sisters who run the fruit stand near our office. I don't know which is which, and call them both by both names, and they both answer to both. I'm pretty sure they think all the white people are the same person too, so it all works out. They see me coming each day and begin peeling a papaya ("paw paw") for me, picking out a less-than-ripe one the way they know I like it.

Felicia: Runs a beauty shop next to Abiba and Amalia. She's super sassy and loves calling out to me while she has clients to show that she's friends with the white girl. She taught me to say "Nyame bwa, ochina" as I leave for the night, which translates to "If God permits, I'll see you tomorrow." It's always hilarious when I say it, even though it's been a daily routine for 8 weeks now.

Charles and Rosamund: The mother-son duo at the Forex money exchange in Kasoa. Charles is at least 6'5", skinny as a rail, and ambiguously aged anywhere between roughly 17 and 25. Rosamund is cheerful and motherly and constantly nags me to date her son. I don't give a straight "no" because I don't want her to cheat me on the exchange rate (she handles the transfer of US dollars to Ghana cedes). It's kind of weird. But they're both sweet, and the Forex is air-conditioned, so I don't mind making frequent trips to change my money there.

There have been plenty more noteworthy people and countless memorable events, but these are the ones that sprang to mind and seemed least likely to put you to sleep during this post. To be continued as more occur!