Sacirfice and Sunshine

Step back, relax, look through the glass one more time. But I inevitably see myself reflected, wide eyed and expressionless, waiting for a way to get through to the outside, trying to break the inertia.


Then REWIND---

The second Eid Muslim festival, in honor of when Ishmael (not Issac) was almost sacrificed by Abraham as a test by God to ensure his dedication, was a few weeks back. We were able to spend the day with a Muslim couple going to a few different mosques to pray and witness the sacrificing of a cow, which we had NOT prepared for. Actually we were slightly prepared, for in the morning we met at the embassy where the American head of cultural affairs, as sweet woman who had done much work in West Africa. She kept making comments that we were so brave to be doing what we were doing today and she didn't think she could handle a sacrifice, and we looked at each others surprised faces thinking, well, in this case there was less bravery and more ignorance.



Sacrifices are made in honor of Allah on this national holiday and the meat is divided into three parts- one for the family who bought and killed the cow, one for the family and friends that they decide to bequeath with cow, and one for the needy, orphans and homeless.

This is an excerpt of my journal entry after the day:

Moments in time- the animal on the cement, tied hooves, limp tail. A calm beast, like one who is resigned to accept it's fate, knowing the dull blade is meant for its jugular vein. In the name of Allah- but is it ever right to slaughter so inhumanely even in God's name? When the blade came down I expected the metal to slice through the flesh, to immediately abort the flow of life- instead the man slowly sawed through the tough flesh, through the veins, through the bone- a hollow pipe thus exposed, and the stony animal barely grunted.
Red rivers running toward the feet of the wide eyed children, barely scaring them away. Final shudders of life shaking the massive animal- bolts of energy screaming it's not my time to die.

Later we tried a Nigerian/Ghanaian dish that we had never had. It was a sticky ball made of rice and cassava powder- slightly sour by itself, and you dip it in a tomato stew/sauce or a green one that was very very slimy and not entirely appetizing. Overall it was enjoyable, though not something to write home about ha ha ha. Sorry.

I also got a new perspective on the veil as it being a means of protection for women through being modest. I actually realized that in the future I would consider veiling myself for that very purpose if caught in a situation that called for it. Our host explained to us how Muslims believe that since we have cloth we aught to wear it and it is considered primitive to expose unnecessary skin. This is the thought behind their modesty, which I find very interesting, even if I don't quite agree.


Then there was the trip to Krokrobite (pronounced krokrobitae) that I took with some other exchangers which I mentioned in my last blog. About 45 minutes outside of Accra, we got there by public transport, me and four others squished up in the back of the trotro with one rasta man who was very nice.
Just a note- the lights just went off, so we are 8 kids age 1-19 sitting in an absolutely dark den where the TV was recently unfolding some soap opera, we are lit by cell phones and laptops, the blue illumination coming from hands- blue tooth r&b entertainment playin the song i've been singin all day, and Lady crying probably because it is dark, because she is usually so content. Oh. They just came back on. Everything is Illuminated.

Today I went to the mall and on my way home I saw someone selling very old beat up books on the street, so I moseyed over and found some titles like "The Russian Adoption Handbook" and guidebooks for Guatemala, Amsterdam, San Fransisco, Canada and London, then Ovid's Metomorphosis which I bought for 1.5 cedis, about a buck. There was some Martha Stewart- but it was like some biography on her brother. I definitely got a good laugh and will be visiting the spot again.

Back to the beach- traveling there, out of the city, in the trotro slowly approaching the water, a truly sparkling blue ocean, the perma-swayed palm trees then through the coastal villages, little more than slums, sprawling and inhabited boxes with crisscrossed lines of laundry. Then when we reached Big Milliy's Back Yard we were in resort zone obruni land.
These long fishing boats on the hot hot sand, massive nets hanging off and around- boys playing football on the beach and heaps of scarves from Libera sold by a rasta in a blue sequin midriff. the whole place was a rasta camp- nice background reggae and assuredly a peaceful place (and for those of you who would jump to the wrong as conclusion I would, no, the place did NOT reek of wee, though I'm sure it would have been readily available). In the trotro going home we met a nice obruni volunteer from Germany. He had just finished high school and was through some small NGO... then he told me that he had been an exchanger in Texas living with a single Indian (as in East Indian) woman who had grown up in South Africa, gone to college in Canada and was hosting a Venezuelan student at the same time! Now that is a cultural experience.

These children were selling bowfloats- large puffy balls of fried dough- and when I began snapping them, oh they loved it, except one girl, the one who told me to delete the picture of her- insisted really.

From the left- Sophie, Me, Marie, Silka and Coralie, the latter two have since gone home- they were on the 6 month volunteer trip.

This was from the football match- though you can't tell, this man is very short and the popcorn is about half his height again and he just cruised the stadium selling sugar or salt popcorn for 50 peswas.

My small brother Jake, or as we call him, Kookoo (because his day name is Kweku) and my little sis Abena, though we call her Lady.


Scattered Scales.

May the new year be blessed and prosperous.
Love to all.