Last night’s class, offered at Albany’s Grand Street Community Arts Center, was just five dollars, a small price to pay for a perfect reintroduction to the djembe. I knew would it be fun. What I wasn’t expecting was Saeed Abbas, a Ghanaian master drummer… from Accra no less. Saeed has been teaching children with special needs in Seattle for several years while Village Volunteers, the Seattle-based non-profit I work for, helps people with special needs in Ghana. Serendipity strikes again.

Only after an online search did I learn that Saeed has played with the National Dance Ensemble in Ghana and performed in theaters and festivals all across the United States, including Washington D.C.’s Kennedy Center. He has played for “dignitaries” such as President Clinton, Queen Elizabeth 11 and Tony Blair, and here he was guest teaching me “Fanga Alafia” in a drum circle of 9 on his way back from playing a Rhode Island festival. What a gift!

The lesson was very easy going in feel, if not challenging in technique. I felt a bit inexperienced and shy at the start but we were making music in no time. It was good to join others in song, especially one about peace and welcoming.

My friend Kate came too and we shared notes over dinner afterward so as not to forget the rhythm and lyrics. I wrote “Fun guy a laughia” which was a fun interpretation but not quite right. Hammering out the rhythm with battered hands on my drive home, I used the wheel center for the bass and the outer ring for slaps. Kate and I also traded lyric pages and YouTube Videos once we returned to our computers. By this afternoon, I could finally sing and play simultaneuously using the correct words.

I learned the true value of my drum when hearing it with the others. I knew it was special for sentimental reasons, but the sound is so alive. When I designed my drum, I wanted its voice to be one of peace, unity, knowledge and strength. In Ghana and Cote d’Ivoire, Adrinka symbols visually represent concepts or aphorisms and these are often carved into the drums. To that end, I chose the following:

• Bi-nka-bi: “No one should bite the other.” A symbol of peace and harmony, this symbol cautions against provocation and strife. The image is based on two fish biting each other’s tails.
• Sankofa: “Return and fetch it.” This symbolizes the importance of learning from the past.
• Hye wo nyhe: “That which does not burn.” This symbolizes?imperishability and endurance and derives its meaning from traditional priests that were able to walk on fire without burning their feet, an inspiration to others to endure and overcome difficulties.

Peace, unity, knowledge and strength were certainly prominent themes last night. What a wonderful celebration of my one year anniversary, if only in my own mind.

Fast forward exactly one year…

I’m watching President Barack Obama on AC360 as he walks through the Cape Coast Slave Castle, feeling the power of a place I too visited. It is powerful too, that place, hauntingly powerful. You don’t have to be black to feel it. You don’t have to be an African to feel it. You just have to be there and know of people’s suffering and strength still in those walls to feel it. There is connection there from past to present to future, from black to white and every color inbetween, from country to country, and from generation to generation as children like Obama’s daughters learn about their ancestors’ slave history.

This coincidental connection of place and time has drawn my attention to a meaningful anniversary, one which reminds me of the goals I used to have, goals I have achieved, goals I have yet to achieve and new goals I have since laid out – all based on a journey I took one year ago.

In honor of this anniversary, my latest goal among many is to revive my writing, to tend to the importance of my own experience, to share it with anybody who cares to follow and, most importantly, to honor those friends made throughout my journey who have significantly shaped the person I am today.

I thank you for bearing witness to my story.

When I reached home on August 2nd, I was jumping out of my skin. I wanted to compile all I had learned in order to preserve my memories and allow every one I know to live vicariously through me. Most of all, I was desperate to find a way to empower my new Ghanaian friends. To do that would require money. To raise money required awareness. I got right to it.

First, I made a video of my time spent with the children at Have’s RC Primary School. My hope was to show the enormous mount of need there in order to raise funds for a new building. I put this short film together in about three days. Having never done it from scratch, much of that time accounted for my learning curve. Still, it looked nice enough and I was feeling pretty proud. I decided the best way to get the word out is to use, well, YouTube. I mean really, isn’t YouTube the new evening news?

I downloaded some software to convert the file into an acceptable format and all was going well until…

The first on-screen message had something to do with an incompatible codec, that thing that compresses the file from one format to another. Windows wanted nothing to do with it and tried to barf it up. When that failed, my poor, poisoned laptop suffered a complete system shut down. Before it went into a brief coma, up came the screen that all-too-calmly said, “Windows has unexpectedly shut down and will now attempt to find a solution to the problem.” Solution, my ass. Rather than offering up anything helpful, ANYTHING, it quit on me, shut down, died.

I nudged it with the power button. Nothing.

Then, slowly, it strained to get up. The OS rebooted with that other little message that says, “The previous session of Windows did not shut down properly. Would you like to restart in safe mode?”

“Hurrah! You’re back!” I selected normal startup, hit enter and watched events unfold with sweaty palms.

Getting one leg up at a time, the sign-on screen appeared. I fed it my password, logged in, and behold! Something! Oh yeah, we’re moving forward, Baby!… until that same false promise appeared about a solution. Another shut-down, restart, the message looping to infinity. It didn’t even need my input anymore. It had a will of it’s own.

With my information held captive inside the brain of a dying body, I sprung into action. Safe Mode. It’s like heart pills for hard drives. It’ll get you through a rough patch until real assistance arrives on the scene. Since the puter asked for this several minutes ago, I hoped it wasn’t too late… I cut the power, rebooted…

Seriously, how does this continue IN SAFE MODE?!!

My husband said to call tech support. I refused. Dell has trained me so well that I no longer need their help. My last computer died so many times that I could eventually troubleshoot and have the OS reinstalling in under two minutes. I have named each and every one of my computers Lazarus for their uncanny ability to rise from the dead.

Obviously, I had to get inside the brain before the OS could spasm once more. I pressed F something (10 or 12, I forget now) and ran through every pre-boot BIOS test made available to man, or at least a good Dell customer. As those tests worked to churn out a diagnosis, I tore my house apart looking for the Windows Vista repair software on the misplaced installation disk. Finally… Found it! It was stashed with our Alaska stuff, because the hard drive fritzed in Alaska too.

When I returned, the tests had all come back negative. Lies! Surely my installation disc would fix things. I popped it into the drive, booted from the disc and guess what… The vicious cycle started once more. AND, Vista (unlike XP) has no repair mode.

In a heap of defeat, I grabbed the phone. From the other end, a bored woman spoke.

Dell technical support. This is Michele speaking. How can I help ya?

I told her all I had done, hoping for the warm, welcome words of hopeful and helpful advice. What I got instead was:

Seriously, that still happens in safe mode? I’m sorry. It sounds like you’ve done all you can. Are there any files you need to retrieve or should I walk you through a complete re-installation? Although, it sounds like you’re a pro at this. I doubt you need me.

I declined her offer and hung up. I now feared that I could lose all of my Ghanaian notes and a large portion of my photos and video. I had made weekly backups until about my third week – when sixteen hour excursions to the North or last chances to play with the children left me two options:

• I could waste time backing up my technology and writing about the days I had already experienced, or
• I could fully experience the time I had left, video everything, take a million pictures and hope to remember the nuances later. I opted to live the experience – technology be damned.

And so it was… damned that is. I suffered an anxiety ridden two weeks before learning that all my information had finally been rescued. Matt, my nephew at Best Buy’s Geek Squad, was able to move everything to my external drive and he threw in the little gift of an OS install with the latest updates. I spent three more days loading all my software and personal files. This entire experience had gone exceptionally well considering the alternative… you know, the one where I lose everything… obviously not the one in which it could have been fixed.

My system and data was restored to normal for about a week and, since I needed more more room on my external drive, I deleted the 70 gig retrieval file. About a day later, tragedy struck once more.

While sorting through my photo files, I shrieked to no one in particular,

What the… ? Where is my Brong Ahafo folder?!

No one in particular answered but I knew that the folder (complete with hundreds of photos of waterfalls, monkeys and monuments) was gone. I ravaged through every possible place it could be until the only place left was in the ginormous retrieval file I had just deleted.

I found some miracle software – the kind that finds and restores deleted files, a download that was going to save my life. I revved it up, searched my C drive and found nothing. In all honesty, I hadn’t expected to, but it was a smaller drive and would take less time to scan. Hey, you never know. Next up, the external drive. I selected it, filtered out which type of files I wasn’t searching for, hit scan and got that nasty little promise just before it shut down. I tried again. The program aborted. I screamed.

I wrote to tech support asking for help. That was last week. I still haven’t heard back, nor have they responded to my request for a refund.

Another day, another dollar or two, and a download later (this time a little goody called Handy Recovery), and I’m in. I hook it up and, two days later, it finished scanning through 44,812 deleted photo files. Of course, none of these were retained in their original file structure. The names had all been erased and assigned numbers according to the order in which they were found. I had to manually open each one to search for what I had lost.

Three days later…

I have found and retrieved 928 photos, all but one. How do I know this? I had been looking for the rooster perched in some kind of fruit tree. You can see it one or two postings back. One would think that if it resides in my post that I could just grab that version, but – not so fast. The resolution for this blog has been greatly downgraded and could never print as a crisp, clear photograph. And hey, it’s a pretty cool picture.

I have to admit I was on a mission at that point, unwilling to be defeated even by a single lost file. I thought out loud, “If Windows Live Writer [the program I used to write the post] includes a resizable version of this file, it must have the original stored somewhere, right?” Tearing through every folder in the program and it’s shared files, I found nothing. But sure enough, I could resize the file without losing quality. Hmmm. I opened the post within the program, deleted everything from it but the picture, renamed it Rooster Rescue and posted it to my blog. Ta-Dah! There was the photo in all it’s enormous glory! I right clicked it, saved the sucker to a safe place, and tasted victory for the first time in weeks.

Then, of course, horror struck once more. The modified post, although I had renamed it to a new file, had been converted into nothing more than the silly rooster. Hugh Grant’s line in Four Weddings and a Funeral came to mind,

F*CK-A-DOODLE-DO.

But hey, I just undeleted my entire life and this file was in the heap. I will take a bow now for successfully retrieving and re-uploading the original post. To my laptop, I have just one thing to say…

HUZZAH!!!

Don’t get too excited. Sure, I did, but I wasn’t as savvy as you, dear Reader.

Next on the list of fritzes, Corel Photo Album 6 asked why it was installed on two computers. It couldn’t fathom that it might have been installed twice on one. When it slammed its door in my face, I tattled to tech support. As it turns out, they won’t support a program if there is a newer version on the market. But seriously, the new version came out three days ago. Couldn’t they help a girl out? Um, no.

In my frustration, I begrudgingly bought the new version. Sure enough, the function I use at least 30 times daily has been stripped out. Seriously?

I wrote the nastiest letter explaining how they have turned a professional product (with the extremely useful and rare capability to visually arrange photos before a batch rename) into a dime-a-dozen, kiddy scrapbooking program. Their only reply was to send a refund form. 30 days from now I’ll have my money back.

As a last resort, I purchased a new key and downloaded the version I already own at a reduced rate. This time I bought download insurance, just in case. Being the last piece of the puzzle, I have finally restored my machine to the full function it was capable of before the meltdown (both the computer’s and my own.) Or so I thought…

Yesterday I tried to copy something but my laptop didn’t want to play nice with the scanner. I shoved a new driver down it’s interface and the two started talking again. Then, when I tried to print what I had successfully scanned, the laptop needed a bit more attitude adjustment before the two were back to being BFFs.

And then I saw them. Little red ants. There were little red ants coming out from under my keyboard. Little red ants from Africa were eating my computer from the inside out.

All that said, I finally pumped out a post about my Ghana trip, complete with pictures, for the Village Volunteers Blog. You can find it below, because heaven forbid I’m able to do any work on my own stinking blog. For now, please visit:

Village Volunteers: Ghana: My Second Home.

Wait a minute. Could it be? Did I just successfully finish my own post??

I have submitted a personal account of my Ghanaian visit to the Village Volunteers blog: Village Volunteers: Ghana – My Second Home. Because their blog may be moving, I include the post below as well.

Mez

A young woman came to the porch with a large tray of wrapped corn on her head and I was offered a piece. It was luke warm, which was perfect in the scorching heat. Was this Florence, my cook, and was this considered lunch? In case it was, I didn’t want to ask as though it weren’t enough.

I carefully unwrapped the plastic bag and savored each kernel one row at a time. The cob had been steamed in saltwater and tasted divine. Fresh from the refrigeration unit, Salomey also brought two cold water bags to go with it. (Note: Rather than using water bottles, you chew a hole in the corner of a half liter plastic bag and drink.) After perspiring in the heat all day, I was truly grateful for both.

Taking a break from gluing tea boxes, leaning back against the wall to enjoy her own food, Salomey asked, “Do you like mez?”

The Ewe accent on the word maize threw me, particularly since I’m used to saying corn. It took me a moment to respond in the affirmative.

Jimmy added, “It is sweet, yes?”

This wasn’t the kind of sweet I know. The kernels were a starchy, somewhat tough and tasteless. I smiled and said, “I really like the salt”

Apparently this was funny. I wondered, is the taste for salt an American thing or were they just pleased that I enjoyed it? I decided that since they liked it too, they must be happy to have pleased me.

We made about 30 more boxes while the family talked about their day in Ewe. At times some syllables sounded French and others Spanish. This offered no meaning. I was just grasping at any inroad to understanding. Emmanuel eventually did break into English after a phone call. He told me that Florence had delivered lunch to my house and that Jimmy would take me there. This was good news on two levels. First, the corn was a drop in the bucket after toast and coffee 6 hours prior. Second, I doubted I could remember which network of paths took me back to my house. Thanking Emmanuel, I finished gluing one more box and followed Jimmy “home.”

The Introduction to Florence and Her Food

Florence was waiting on my porch with Sampson (a boy of nearly 18, perhaps) who she introduced as her grandson. I was excited to meet someone famous and told her so. Receiving her sideways glance, I explained that I had read about her cooking on the Village Volunteers web site.

Straightening her back a bit, she asked, “I’m on the Internet?” ending the question with a pleased “Hmm.” Half smiling to herself as I unlocked the door, she followed me inside.

(Florence was not as unhappy as her picture suggests. I eventually learned that smiling for photos is considered unnatural by many Ghanaians.)

I unlocked my room to access the plates and water, followed by both Florence and Sampson. I hadn’t yet unpacked so my large bags were a point of interest to my guests. Seeing Florence stretch her neck to see inside the one left unzipped, I felt the need to defend what appeeared to be an obscene number of belongings. “These are donations for the school and clinic,” I blurted.

Florence curiosity was thinly disguised. She kept one eye on the bags as she continued her preparations, dishing food from coolers and containers.

At the table just around the corner from the front door, Florence took warm plantains from a cooler and placed them on the bowl that Sampson retrieved from the dish rack in my room.

With a slightly raised eyebrow she asked “You like them fried?”

“I don’t know yet, but they smell delicious!”

A flash of worry crossed her face. “Ah. You are a vegetarian?”

To her relief, I said that I would eat fish. I had a feeling this will be my best source of protein for the month.

After cutting the plantains just like a mother would for a child, Florence dished out a Ghanaian stew consisting of fresh fish from Volta Lake, cabbage, tomato, red chili pepper and a green vegetable local to the area. The food was delicious but every spicy bite elicited a bought of coughing which made it difficult to breathe. Before I gave up meat, I used to throw down hot, spicy Buffalo wings like nobody’s business. Once, on a dare, I even drank a bottle of hot sauce called Scorned Woman (as in “Hell hath no fury like a…”). I guess I’m long out of practice. I worked my way through anyway, enjoying the flavor if not the lack of oxygen. Florence continuously apologized and I tried to reassured her that I liked it. I’m just not sure she believed me through the choking and heavy perspiration.

I was the only one eating at the table. Jimmy had stepped out promising to return shortly while the other two sat on the couch and chair staring silently at the far wall. Florence’s head eventually lolled as she massaged one temple. I asked if she had a headache and offered some pain reliever. She sat up and gave a single nod of acceptance, not wanting to appear too eager. The mother had turned to child. Grabbing a trial size container of Excedrin from the toiletry bag in my bedroom, I gave her the bottle to take home. She lowered her eyes and accepted with a simple thank you. Aside from helping this woman who had fed me with such care, it felt good to break through the weirdness of hearing myself chew and cough while others waited for me to finish.

Once through, Sampson filled my dish with a small bit of water from my room. At a long wooden hutch just outside the bedroom door, Florence soaped it up while Sampson retrieved more water. The soapy water was tossed out the main door and the dish was rinsed, dried and put back in my dish rack. All this effort was required for one bowl and a fork. I offered to help but was told to rest and “feel free.” Feel free? I’m not sure I can ever get used to this.

Getting acquainted, Florence asked how many children I have. I could tell from her raised eyebrow that having none was not the right answer. Of course “Why don’t you have any?” was the next obvious question. I tried to explain that I graduated from college rather late in life and that I wanted to use my education without the commitment of having children. Had I started younger, maybe things would be different but Tim and I have decided not to disrupt the life we love with such a drastic change.

Well, THAT was definitely not the right answer. Not only did I feel as though I had somehow disrespected the whole of motherhood, I had also made my husband out to be a villainous cohort in our selfish desires. It was time to switch the subject.

“What will you make for dinner?” I asked.

Florence suggested pasta, perhaps due to my trouble with the Ghanaian spices. She assured me that Jason, the previous volunteer, had loved her spaghetti. That was just fine. It sounded easy enough and I was so full that I couldn’t think of food for some time anyway. I did tell her that I was eager to try more of the local dishes so she gladly listed off the things she’d make next including fufu, banku, red red and abolo.

Jimmy and I made our way back down the hill and, before we arrived at a door adjacent to Salomey’s porch, he taught me that butterflies, in Ewe, are called what sounds like colcolch and the lizard is called a gecko. Gecko I understood. Colcolch is how I remember it now – and that doesn’t mean it’s correct. I’m not too worried. There will be plenty of time to learn.

This is just the beginning of my journey…

Straight to Work

I suppose I didn’t have to do anything other than rest my first day, but instead, I joined a boy named Julius on the well-worn wooden porch bench. Julius was busy with a thin stick applying strong smelling rubber cement from a coffee can to a printed and die cut piece of cardboard. He told me that he was making bags for tea.

I asked, “Can you teach me how to make boxes?”

He looked up from his work with a smile and a nod, appreciating the gentle hint, and agreed to show me. Applying the glue to the cardboard himself, he taught me to wait until it dried to the right consistency before folding in the edges and forming the box. We then pressed doubly on the glued portion to ensure a good seal. Before stacking the the finished product, I rubbed away the external dried glue to keep one box from sticking to the next. It didn’t take long before we had achieved a  rhythm working in tandem.

I wondered, as I dealt with the blank sides of the box, did they sell these to an outside tea company? Turning the product over to read the print, I then realized that production of this tea, a type called Moringa, is part of the EDYM Village program where I was to volunteer a portion of my time. What wasn’t clear was whether this household was part of the farm operation or had been subcontracted per se. These answers, I knew, would come with time.

We were joined by Jimmy and Salomey soon after my first stack of ten was complete. Salomey watched me work through the corner of her eye as she methodically prepared her own box. “Goood! You are tryyying,” she said with a voice as thick and smooth as sweet molasses.

Sitting on a short stool with elbows braced on knees and her skirt draped up over her lap, every one of her motions was slow, careful and deliberate. With a slight tilt of her  head she’d inspect her own work with the scrutiny of a skilled artist. I suddenly sensed myself mimicking her style, trying to achieve the same kind of patience, precision, confidence and grace.

This being their livelihood, I was concerned that my edges weren’t exactly straight. Sometimes, if I didn’t wait long enough for the glue to firm up, the folds would spring free and I would have to reset the ends. “Are these okay?” I asked.

“Yes, verrry nice.” The slightly upturned corners of her mouth and eyes offered confirmation.

It had grown quiet after we exhausted our small talk about me living in New York (but not New York City) and that my tea boxes were made well. Fluffy American conversation about travel and parties wasn’t going to fly here and I couldn’t immediately think how to adjust.

Finally, I asked Jimmy how old he was. When he told me he was 16, I thought he was pulling my leg. This boy looks no older than 13. Julius said he was 20 but he could pass for 16. Playing fair, I revealed my age of 37. Emmanuel offered up a proud 57 and then asked how old I thought Salom? was. I knew I ought to be careful. I tried for an accurate guess but, in the dark shadows of the porch, her sweet manner made her look very young.

“You must be 17.” I said placing great emphasis on the word must.

It seems I played this one right. I thought Jimmy would actually fall from his bench in a heap of laughter. Emmanuel too. Salomey, I finally learned when she recovered from her modest giggling, is 42. I suspect adults look so young because their honey brown pigment keeps the sun from aging their skin as quickly as mine. Sadly, I suspect Jimmy looks so young thanks to a different and less desirable cause: poor nutrition.

The Welcoming Committee

A young boy about 13 years old ran top speed toward us with sweat pouring down his brow. He introduced himself as Jimmy. I shook his hand and said hello which was followed by his customary “You are welcome!” I introduced my travel mates to him and slowly worked through my own name since Paul, EDYM’s director, mistakenly told people I was called Kimberly. I said with my most gracious smile, “I’m Kim. Just K-I-M.”

“Kem? Ah, Kem! Kem! I see!” He enthusiastically shook my hand again. “You are welcome!”

I was not going to let Jimmy carry even one of my bags so we all climbed back in the car, Jimmy on Emily’s lap in the front seat. Driving a few hundred feet up the road, Christian parked and unloaded my things. We were met by Emmanuel who I later learned is Jimmy’s uncle and Paul’s brother. A slightly older boy, also named Christian,?soon came too. As they all tried to navigate the rocky, uphill footpath, each with my 69.5 lbs (x2) of donations on duffel wheels, I said my goodbyes to the others and caught up.

??

?

As we ascended into the trees, goats and chickens eased themselves out of the way. We quickly came upon a lovely palm roof under a mango tree. There on a bench in the shade sat three older women of distinction, one of which was Mama, mother to Emmanuel and Paul. Emmanuel introduced me as Kem and asked me to spell it. When I did, the pronunciation changed completely. “Ah, Keeem! So sorry!”

The women listened intently to the conversation, although it was clear that they understood little English. Once Emmanuel spoke a few words in Ewe with my name at the end of the sentence, each offered a warm and friendly hello saying that I was welcome. I had read that it is inappropriate to hug an elder so I was pleasantly surprised when they all embraced me. I hugged them back feeling like I just received a gift far greater than the standard greeting.

Emmanuel sent the boys to show me where I’ll stay, drop my things, and bring me back down the hill to talk more with Mama. (This would be interesting with the language barrier.) Jimmy and Christian had several questions for me along our way but I can barely remember what they were having been distracted by six passing school children no older than 7 or 8 years old. They walked single file with logs six inches in diameter and 4 feet long balancing upon their heads. All I do remember is my awe at this overwhelmingly beautiful and utterly foreign place.

Turning back to the boys, I helped to grab a handle?weilding some of the baggage?up the winding hill past curious goats, chickens and roosters. My help was met with resistance. The boys were determined to do this on their own. Not wanting them to get hurt, I allowed them to protest and then helped anyway.

Along the way, I found that if I waved first, people would wave back from their thatched roof kitchens and clay brick buildings. Otherwise they just watched the ridiculous luggage queen stumble through their village.

Home Sweet Home

The building where I’ll stay (a palace compared to other local dwellings) looks like a mix of Spanish and modern styles with graceful arches, traditional railings and linear wall supports. We keyed into the beautifully carved front door to the main area where there was a dining room table with two plastic chairs,? matching upholstery in the form of a chair, love seat and couch and a large china cabinet against the far wall. Transitioning from the curb appeal of creamy plaster and the brick colored gate with matching landscaped blooms on the outside, it was an interesting shift into the echoing space of cool blue plastered walls and fluorescent lighting within.

Through a purple curtain to the right of the entry, I unlocked my black bedroom door and entered another room of smooth plaster walls painted a deep mint green. The room also featured a cement floor, desk, fan, plastic chair, dishes, 3 hangers in an alcove and a full size bed complete with mosquito net.

Off to the side is my bathroom. I do get a toilet, which is more than I expected. It doesn’t flush but it’s better than squatting. There is no shower, which I had braced for, but 7 big, colorful plastic buckets and a plastic trash can with a lid had been filled for me to bathe, launder and flush with. I can’t imagine how anybody carried all this up here on their heads but the colors are a nice decoration in blue, orange, black, green and gray.

The boys turned on my fan and asked if I was hot. My shirt was soaked through. I would have been fine but for hiking those bags up. I stretched out my arms and invited them to join me in the breeze. They laughed and said, “No, you. Just you. Dress down and we’ll take you back to Emmanuel.” With clarification I learned that I was to change from my skirt to shorts, so I put on some capris and was ready for the next adventure.

Walking through the paths with foot tall grass caressing my calves, I landed back in Emmanuel’s courtyard and met Salom?, his beautiful and charming wife. Salom? approached me with excitement, a huge hug and a smile, all of which I couldn’t help but return. “You are welcome!” she said as she put her arm around me and led me to a chair on her bright blue porch. From the hand prints at various levels on the paint, I could tell this place had been blessed by many children.

“Sit. Sit. You are welcome!”

I took a seat looking out over the caladium, various shrubs and arborvitae to the mountain in the distance.

Salom? noted my contemplative state, nodded in approval and went back to the kitchen off the porch to make the children’s lunch. Emmanuel ate his meal explaining that Florence, the volunteers’ cook, would come with mine very soon. Until then, I was told to make myself at home, relax and “feel free.”

Leaving Accra

After breakfast, Gunadiish and Christian lugged our bags into a vehicle, helped us to buy phone cards and exchange money. The nearest bank told me that only the main office in central Accra will cash travelers checks. Unfortunately, that was just too far away. I headed instead for the nearest ATM.

Having tested my new Visa check card by making a purchase in the US, this was an interesting time to learn that my card has a different pin number than my husband’s with whom I share the account. Mine I do not know. Nothing could be done about it today, nor will there be an opportunity this week. With the vehicle loaded up as tightly as the night before (minus Gunadiish who wished us luck and said the seatbelts in this vehicle were working) we set off on a three hour journey toward the Volta Region… to a village with no banks or ATM’s. With a small bit of money on me, I’m not in too much trouble but I’ll need to sort this out by next weekend.

The Sights

After more than an hour of driving through similar scenery, Christian informed us that we were still in part of Accra. This city might not build upward, with a few multi-story exceptions, but it sure has built out. Structures lining the streets are typically one story, one room shops consisting of three walls and one open side. Behind those are people’s homes.

The landscape from Accra to Have

Most of life takes place out of doors for all to see. No matter where I looked on any street, people were working, selling or buying. Several blocks of outdoor chop shops employed men who hammered every part off the old vehicles on the street. The soot and oil coated steel parts were then categorized and sold by different vendors throughout the car part district. Furniture, food, windows, mirrors, bicycles, anything you could ever want was set up in one shop or another. An hour of driving still had not exhaust the number of vendors. When we did finally get to the more rural areas, farmers worked in the fields, girls carried many mangos or bundles of cassava root as thick as my calf on their heads and men stacked clay blocks to dry in the sun. Although I can’t tell if the new building construction is moving forward or has been abandoned, overall, everybody was hard at work doing something.

The Law of the Land

As we rounded a military compound, we came upon a road block with red, white and blue painted car tires and a movable bamboo fence. The police pulled over five cars in a row, ours included. Christian got out and showed his license and was led behind the vehicle for some time. When he finally returned, he wouldn’t speak.

After minutes of silence, Christian finally erupted with “Ahhh. Corruption!” I asked what he meant and he struggled for a calm voice. The police had taken Christian’s personal money, which is apparently a common occurrence. I couldn’t understand all he said as the wind screamed through my hair in the back seat, but I’m pretty sure a recent and very large shipment of cocaine had been recovered and then lost by the police. It seems they might now be using the guise of recovering it to harangue drivers for money. Christian thinks the public displeasure with this type of corruption will be reflected in December’s election. Having just heard about Kenya’s latest battle with corruption, I hope Ghana’s outcome will be far better.

My Arrival in Have

Christian pulled up to a sign for Have’s Roman Catholic Church among the lush green trees at the foot of a mountain. We were to wait in front of the dusky colored building for someone to help with my bags. A few uniformed school children ran between the distant trees and a black hen was busy scratching in the dirt to my right. Foliage lined both sides of the street blocking any distant view. When nobody came immediately, we all got out of the vehicle. Having been been packed thigh to thigh in this heat and, after hitting many of the deep crevasses on a road nearly washed out from recent rain, we were quite ready to stand and stretch our damp, sore bodies upright.

Christian’s patience was wearing thin but his disposition remained jovial. He was running late with our unexpected police detour and still had to drop off the others a half hour away. While waiting, he took the opportunity to relieve himself. Upon his return from the other side of the road, he looked at his watch, shook his head, chuckled and said, “You’re on black man’s time now.” Having been warned that events in Africa happen later than planned, we all had a good laugh.

Time is on My Side

Christian’s comment reminded me of a quote Shana from VV shared from Kenya that reflects a similar philosophy. “White men have all the watches but black men have all the time.” I am so ready to have that kind of time. I vaguely remember, many moons ago, learning much more when moving slowly than when constantly rushing to accomplish many tasks. These past few years have been consumed with projects great and small but I’m ready to reclaim some inner peace.

Case in point… Observing my surroundings, I stooped down to show the others the “Touch Me Not” plant. Having first seen it at my previous home in Rensselaerville, NY, I ran my finger down the center spine of the leaves. Each small frond slowly recoiled and closed along the stem in response. The end result was an organism that looked like a pile of inedible twigs (below right) rather than a healthy, leafy plant (below left). It was something I would have missed had I not been stationary. (Follow the link to see the “Touch Me Not” or Mimosa pudica in action.)

I’ve found my way back online after two weeks with little withdrawl… or so I thought. Signing on actually gave me butterflies.

I have been writing a great deal and will begin posting soon. For now, I can tell you that I have been working hard AND playing hard. I sleep little, eat a lot and today I met the village chief for the first time. He invited me for a celebration on Thursday in honor of my presence and in gratitude for all the items you have sent with me. Tomorrow I will be making donations to the school but I have been working on the farm otherwise. Amazing work they do there!

You wouldn’t believe how much I have been learning. I love it here and will certainly feel a geat deal of sadness when I go. More news soon.

I hope you all are well.
Love,
Kim

I Made It!

As I write, I am in Accra at the home of Gunadiish, the In-Country Coordinator (an all around jovial and hospitable guy). Since he guarantees that I’ll pass out shortly, as most early morning arrivals tend to do, I won’t fight the moment when exhaustion trumps excitement. For now, that hasn’t happened.

How It All Went Down

JFK’s Delta terminal was a madhouse yesterday, teeming with those who were stranded like me the day before. I found my way to the automated check-in kiosk but was told I had to see a ticket agent. That’s when I discovered that Accra has it’s own check-in area, with good reason. The number of bags people were transporting was astounding. One guy was charged nearly $500 with the new fees and he was less than prepared for the big surprise.

Once checked in, I met a family in security. Better stated, they met me. Two young boys going to Ghana had a million questions about where I was going and why. By the end of our conversation, I had been adopted. They were from Long Island so I scored points for having a husband from Brooklyn. When we got to the gate they were sure to tell their mom, “We need four seats, three for us and one for her.” I then heard stories about how their aunt and uncle owned a bank in Accra. “They don’t just work there, they own it. That means we’ll get FREE MONEY when we get there! FREE Money!” I didn’t have the heart to tell them anything different.

On the plane, I met Diantha, a young woman who works in international government aid. We talked so much that I never realized the plane hadn’t moved for an hour. She told me about living in Haiti for five years and how she would set out past the villages to live in peace for a month at a time, dropping all calls from her cell and having no access to email. I told her it sounded wonderful. She told me she’d come out a little weird … just like I would after this month.

Even with the delay, the flight time was ten rather than the typical eleven hours so we arrived on time. The first thing I noticed upon landing is how red the earth is here. The dusty clay-covered roads are so vibrant in contrast with the deep green trees along the edges of the city. The iron content must be very high. The city is also very widespread. I could see thousands of structures, although not clearly, from the center section of the 767.

The airport in Accra is easily navigated. I made my way through the orderly, well marked areas and was caught off guard only by the silhouette of a lizard crawling on a wooden wall just past the window. It made me laugh, which always looks weird when standing alone. I got a cart, loaded my bags, changed some money (which is very close in value to the US dollar) and wheeled through customs with no issues. The only thing that struck me was the customs agent who inspected the children’s books and said, “I wish my child was going to get such gifts.” From the gravity in his voice I knew he truly meant it.

Gunadiish and Christian, his driver, were among the masses outside the gate waving Village Volunteers signs as promised. I pictured a more frenetic reception but we moved about quickly after friendly handshakes and hellos. They loaded my bags and whisked me away down the streets of Accra where, among the most lush and beautiful flowering trees, women carried enormous tubs of pineapples and bananas on their heads.

I got some historical context along with an introduction to Ring Road, the main drag adorned with billboards featuring Guinness products and beautiful Vogue-type Ghanian fashions. Street vendors stood between two lanes of crazy traffic holding items for sale up to passenger windows. Gunadiish took a book about Obama from one, cooly bargained a price and took his time paying before the light turned green. From then on we all engaged in a spirited political discussion. (VV warns against this but we were all safely on the same page.) The occasional goat stood watching this bustling world go by in the outdoor shops lining every inch of every street. Welcome to rush hour.

Once parked in Dansoman, a suburb of Accra, we passed behind the cell phone shop through a metal door with all my bags, followed the dirt path stepping over the open sewer, and entered into a dirt courtyard with several benches and a small dog tied to one of the bench legs. Here several apartment units converged and neighbors looked on with the yapping dog as Gunadiish keyed into his unit. I smiled and waved to them receiving timid smiles in return.

With shoes off and in through the single-file front hall, we passed through a kitchen and into an air conditioned living space. Once I dropped my bags and settled on the couch, Gunadiish said with outstretched arms and a great smile, “Welcome to my ghetto.”

Some Americans might see more truth than humor in this jest, but Gunadiish has made his apartment very comfortable. Off the front hall are two small rooms, one with a toilet, one with a shower, and the small sink is in the entry itself. The kitchen is a bit tight with plastic chairs stacked in the corner, cases of water stacked beside them and a small table accompanied by a stool. These spaces are not air conditioned but the important rooms are kept quite cool. Through the second kitchen door, railroad style, is a living room and then a bedroom both of which have walls and windows covered with light blue and tan drapes. These serve as decoration as well as a means to keep the heat out. Aside from a central compact fluorescent bulb, little outside light makes its way through the fabric and yet the atmosphere is cheerful with many photos of volunteers and family with Gunadiish encircling the upper portions of every wall. Great care has been taken to keep things very clean. The dark purple carpet hasn’t a spec of lint. As a final touch, an Obama tee is hung prominently next to the couch.

In the living room we enjoyed a stereo, CNN on TV, and internet, kind of. Internet “speed” here is an oxymoron. I’ve been showing my host around WordPress.com and Windows Live Writer as an alternative to Blogger when there is access. The power went out twice already so we’re taking it one step at a time. Gunadiish does web design and coding (as evidenced by his bookshelf), is on Facebook, and has Skype so we have been in total tech-talk mode. This also led to a discussion about the precarious condition of the dam at Volta Lake and thus the fragility of the nation’s energy supply. There are two units on the floor that protect his electronics from frying as the power surges create waves that would make the Honolulu surf jealous. I must admit, this makes me a bit nervous to plug in when I get to Have.

We meandered through topics such as Barack Obama, Noam Chomsky, media filters and consolidation, capitalism and government. I taught Gunadiish idioms like “party pooper” and Gunadiish deciphered what specifically constitutes cursing in Ghana. (Taking the Lord’s name in vain in any way is off limits as most of the country is Christian. Everything else appears to be fair game, unless I misunderstood). All of this has been mixed with a LOT of laughter. At one point, Gunadiish turned to me and said, “You’re the volunteer and I’m learning more from you!” This is absolutely untrue, but I was happy to help determine that a US college asking for his help in searching for Ghanaian students was not a hoax.

The bathroom is an interesting adventure. The door is locked from the outside until you enter and lock it from the inside. A sign reads “Sit down before you pee. Do not stand.” When you turn around, you learn from another sign not to flush toilet paper but to put in in the waste basket. Before you flush, two drops of bleach get added to the water and then you can hit the handle. My favorite additional signs were those with philosophical text on the door:

Always be engaged in Pun’ya (virtue, those actions which lead to the cosmic goal) and always avoid Pa’taka (sin of commission and omission). Always try to be with those people who are engaged in Pun’ya. Never be with those people who are engaged in Pa’taka. This is because these Pun’yaa’ne people who are engaged in Pun’ya will give you outer suggestion, good outer suggestion, positive outer suggestion. Pa’takiis will give you negative outer suggestion, and their suggestions are detrimental to the progress of the human society.

- Shrii Shrii Anandamurti

Virtue and vice are temporal entities. These things have nothing to do with man’s relationship with the supreme father… High or low, upgraded of degraded, all are equal for him because the heaven is his creation; the Hell is his creation… He is in Hell also… You must not think that you are a sinner, that you are a degraded person. If you think that you are a sinner, it means you are meditating on sin… A man becomes just like his object of ideation, his object of meditation. You should think, ‘I am the son of a great father… and a day is sure to come when you will become one with your great father.”

- Shrii Shrii Anandamurti

Just after my arrival, I was introduced to my sleeping quarters for tonight. I’ll have a mosquito-netted bunk while a mother/daughter team arriving this afternoon will take the queen size bed to the left. Another volunteer arrives this evening taking the other bunk while Gunadiish sleeps on the floor in the living room. A rooster is crowing outside the window right now and I’m sure that he will serve as the alarm when tomorrow, at 9 a.m., Christian takes us all out of Accra. I’ll get out in Have, about 2.5 hours away, and the others will continue on to Kpando (said Pandoo) about another half hour down the road.

Paul from EDYM Village just called to welcome me and make plans, although I heard from a little Rasta bird that I should be pro-active in choosing my activities or I’ll be at the mercy of others choosing for me. For now, all I want to choose is which bunk to nap in. I just hit the wall.

PS: Gunadiish just offered me a can of prunes. He got them from another US volunteer and laughed, “My friends all ask where I get this stuff. I am like an American… living in Ghana.” He followed this with another hearty laugh.

Oh yeah, this is going to fun.

Later…

After my nap, we left for the airport to pick up 3 more volunteers. On my way through the bathroom door, my finger caught the latch incurring a small but somewhat deep gash. Since we were in a hurry, I let it bleed hoping that the germs would be carried out with the flow. There was no way I’d find the small tube of Neosporin in my bags now. The throbbing and swelling was uncomfortable throughout the night and I hope for no signs of infection but there is always the Cipro if needed.

In our search for a taxi, every driver wanted 10 cedis (close in value to dollars) rather than the typical 7. Aggravated with them all, Gunadiish turned to me and said, “It’s because of you.” I suspect that the drivers’ assumption is that white people can afford more so should be charged more. I offered to stay out of sight until a fair price was agreed upon, jumping in the vehicle only after the money was settled. Gunadiish laughed but his stress would not subside. We were under the time constraint of the new volunteer arrivals. Pat and Nat, mother and son (not mother and daughter as I had expected but it seems pronouns are often interchanged here), would arrive at 6:00 from London and Gunadiish feared that nobody would be there to greet them. After walking away from five or six stubborn negotiators, we finally stumbled upon a fair deal.

Hitting evening rush hour, brought back memories of my childhood growing up on the sandy shores of a small cottage town on Lake Erie. The smell of baked corn husks and burning refuse wafted through the air with the sweet scent of a Fourth of July beach party. Oil lanterns aflame on vendor tables flickered down the streets. Bullying our way into each turn through oncoming traffic, it occurred to me then that there were no stop lights. That morning it hadn’t stood out because it was daylight (and I was less than awake). With nightfall at about 6:30, I could see only the soft glow of headlights or the red brake lights, no green or yellow was anywhere to be found until we got closer to the airport.

Arriving a bit late, Pat and Nat were very pleased to finally see friendly faces. Someone had offered Pat the use of their phone, an act that appeared as kindness. She learned only after hanging up that it was for a fee.

We all had a bite to eat at the airport’s outdoor Chinese restaurant and I learned that Pat had held an “auction of promises” in order to fund the travel for several students at her school. She was meeting up with them and her husband already stationed at the Missahoe Orphanage in Kpandu. By 8:30, we met up with another volunteer arrival, Emily from the US, and Christian, our driver. An exhausted Emily wasn’t prepared for every Ghanaian who greeted her with a hearty handshake and “You are welcome.” Personally, I really like it.

All six of us and 7 enormous bags piled into a tiny five seater. When young Nat had to share the front passenger seat with Gunadiish, he asked for the seatbelt. Gunadiish said, “Don’t worry. We don’t use those much around here.” Looking behind me, I realized that there weren’t any. I later read a billboard saying, “Did you know that wearing a seatbelt is the law?” This is great in theory but too many vehicles just don’t have them.

Once back, I took my shower in the evening hoping to avoid early morning, Western style grooming. What I got was a frigid blast from the handle that was marked hot. It was difficult to force my head under the faucet but I had already committed to a head full of shampoo. So much for easing in to sleep with my heart racing from the shock. I’ll really have to get used to this.

Added the following day…

Seeing that Gunadiish was exhausted from his full day (his is no 9-5 job), I tried to sleep so he could also retire. With the bedroom air conditioning set to ice cold, my head sopping wet and no top sheet or blanket on the bed, I lay awake thinking about the sweltering heat radiating off the road this afternoon. It was of no use. I froze. (I knew I should have nabbed that Delta Airlines blanket.) I spent most of the night wrapping my warm fingers around my cold toes. I eventually crawled out from under the mosquito netting and grabbed my shower towel to use as a blanket. Still wet, it was only slightly better than nothing. Then, as I was finally about to fall asleep, Nat’s snoring began. (He had warned me that this would happen thanks to his upper respiratory infection.) Emily did a lot of shifting in the bunk above while talking in her half-sleep. By 5 am, when the rooster crowed, I had all but given up.

Breakfast consisted of bread and instant Nescafe with powdered cream and sugar already in the single serving packet. As we ate, all four of us admitted to having the worst night’s sleep due to the cold. Nobody said anything during the night because we assumed every one else was comfortable. So much for being polite. Next time it’s all about being honest.

Of course, too much honesty isn’t always a good thing. Emily (in the gray tank) was entirely too honest, announcing how tired she was, that she hates the smell of burning peat, that her mother called to make sure she had a toilet where she was going and that she doesn’t have the energy to do more than she’s asked. I honestly wanted to know why she bothered to come.

No matter the sleeping circumstances or negative attitudes I’m subjected to, I AM IN ACCRA. I wish you could see my happy face!

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