Just Life, Just Death

In Rural Ghana...

Escaping Accra, again, this time stuffed in a crowded car between my brother and grandmother. We roll across the dirt, the broken highway, the speed bumps and potholes and into greener mountains, rolling hills, heavy skies and cooler breaths. Out into the village.

It was a different world there. But so comically reflective of Ghaliwood- Africa Magic- that I recognized it somehow. I was on the set with the same old women wrapped in cloth in the cement compounds painted blue and light pink, goats, chickens, naked children weaving through. Saw the men drinking palm wine, which they always do too much of in the films, and got to see the process of "tapping" palm trees, a term thrown about quite often, always to my confusion. The Actually it was a Togolese man who explained it to me, and he only spoke French, so there I was wracking my brain to understand him, and surprisingly I got most of it... The tree is felled and you "coupe, coupe" the branches till it is smooth, then notch a little hole out of which the sweet, thick, whitish wine drips from for about a month, filling plenty liters. When fresh the drink is not so potent, very sweet and lovely- traditionally drunk out of a calabash- very cheap- completely natural. When it sits for a few weeks the alcohol goes up, and if it is distilled, which they also do locally, you get Ghana's Gin and it is pure alcohol used for mixing. There is a local drink which is the pure stuff flavored with roots and herbs and voodoo (kidding) to make a shot to knock you down. (Too bad I didn't get to try that one, hehe.)

Went out to farm expecting of course nice flat rows of tomatoes and cassava... well, we never got
out of the forest. Cocoa, plantains and bananas shade the growing pineapple, cocoyam, and yam, and they out in the sun the cassavas grow with particular long (tall as me) branches crowned by distinct thin leaves.

The cassava is grown by planting this stick, whereas the yam and cocoyam are planted like potatoes, using a sprouting eye. Pineapples are grown by simply chopping off the spiky top and sticking it in soil, and
cocoa trees are grown from seed and nursed in the village before planting in the forest. They all also grow wild. The thing about farming like this, in the trees, is that any passerby can come and harvest your crop... this is beneficial for voodoo masters becasue they get paid to administer charms to protect people's farms- it may seem like a joke to us, but it's completely legit here.

The village life was noticeably hard. We fetched water in the morning for our bath, and tea and household needs, me and the young ones. Fortunately for this village they had a pump just in close to
the houses so we only walked five minutes to get there... but this was a small village. We cooked eggs and tea on a little coal stove and bathed with one bucket. This was the village my whole host family (Dad, uncles, aunts and older cousins) grew up in, this was their place, their home, their childhood. It is pretty incredible to see just how far they have gotten- living in this house, with a pool and three cars in the drive.

So the point of it all was a funeral, but for me that ended up being just the excuse. I saw a dead body for the first time and was at a burial, which was a Christian burial and nothing very "traditional", and went to the party which was just a big gift giving ceremony to the family of deceased... In the middle of it the clouds blew over, dust whipped our faces and funeral dress- all black and red- and the heavens broke sending all the old and young dashing back to their houses. I didn't witness any strange or interesting Ghanaian funeral rites, except for the whole fact of the matter, that hundreds of people, mostly old, had come back to their home for the event. The person who died was an elder, so even those who did not personally know him came, which I think I could say is pretty different from home. So overall the funeral itself was just a bunch of watching from the outskirts as elders greeted elders and gifts were given to the family..... my experience was about being in the town.

So. Life. I saw a woman the other day carrying a load of plastic baskets as tall as she was on her head. It was fatter than her too- the bundle that is.
Three Elements. Labadi Beach, December
I walked to the AFS office the other morning instead of school becasue we were going to the embassy...





Le Matin

On the trotro, small girl, wide eyes on her mama's back, neck craned around to stare me down. No smile. No frown.
I walk down past where the hoards are yet sparse,
walk and buy some coco a millet porridge, poured in a bag with sugar. 2o peswas. Walk small bit further,

buy a bowfloat- fried corn dough, sweet sour, 30 peswas. I now have a full meal for just about 35 US cents...
Thin World. Volta Region, January
Walking faster in anticipation to the beat of a rumbling stomach... past cripples, hands stretched for coins, coins which I have to spare and do. A man asleep on the cement, disrupting the growing flow of foot traffic, his few 5 and 10 p. pieces scattered about him. I hope he isn't dead. Cross the street- moving with the flow of business men

and women, uniform clad youth like myself, and early sellers. Shake off the 4 year old Sudanese refugee clasping my wrist. This child's skill thus far in life is being able to identify those who might have some coins or loose pockets and latch on to them. They are trained not to cross the street, not to be aggressive, just to implore with dirt rimmed eyes.
Circle Overhead. Accra, January
I pass a man selling gum, lollipops, Mentos, and greet Goodmorning. He replies, Good morning, and have a nice day. Thank you, and you too.
Then he looks at me, as I look back, smiling, his lips- Receive it.

Receive it. Receive it. It came into me, and I did, but what does it mean? Receive the day, receive my blessing, receive each moment, receive the sun rays... like a poem or a riddle it played through my head, walking past my reflection- green with white flowered dress down to my knees, brown sandals, black rubber with hot breakfast inside. Past a small girl's face pressed up against the glass, squished nose, this is the world, past woman in her compound in one long ntoma piece of cloth, cup in hand, toothbrush scrubbing. Past morning, past frying doughnuts, past steaming rice
and bread and egg and up to the little white and blue AFS.
office to sit and take my meal in the cool of morning, the quiet behind these walls, a different day beginning.

Looking Down. Cape Coast Castle, January
Everything is spinning down, zooming down at top speed, me with my hands off the handle bars, feeling the wind trying to grasp at it to slow. I'm rather uncertain about going back. Obviously it is not a question so much as a feeling... of sadness and disbelief thinking that this will ever end. Walking to buy credit the other night- sunset time, cool air, bats overhead I felt the satisfaction of being home. Deep fulfillment comes, not from always the gogogo, the seeing this and that and leading the super-life of one who is passing through, no, though that can bring some sort of satisfaction. But in that moment, it was the feeling of being home, of living real life, down time, normal old going to buy credit for my phone. And I relished it becasue so often I get caught up in trying to do the most, be the most, say or see or show the most. So often I equate living with thrill, but strolling along that road I felt normalcy suddenly take on a whole new significance.

And finally, though it is not entirely related, here reads a passage from one of my favorite books, The Prophet.
Shrimp. Volta Region, January
"And an old priest said, Speak to us of Religion.
And he said:
Have I spoken this day of aught else?
Is not religion all deeds and all reflection, And that which is neither deed nor reflection, but a wonder and a surprise ever springing in the soul, even while the hands hew the stone or tend the loom?
Who can separate is faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations?
Who can spread his hours before him, saying "This is for God and this is for myself; This is for my soul, and this other is for my body?"
All your hours are sings that beat through time from self to self.
He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked.
The wind and the sun will tea no holes in his skin.
And he who defines his conduct by ethics imprisons his song-bird in a cage. "

There, something to chew that should be thoroughly digested by the time I write again...

Independence

Then half of the stay was over, and 2009 was over and being 16 was over and therefore three new pages had been opened, blank and ready for me to create my own life with. Time Time Time is taking me breathless through, sweeping me off my feet into and beyond the days and moments and weeks. I wish I could just pause and speak of all the emotions, sights, and beings I have encountered.

The Holidays With Family
Christmas did not feel like Christmas, but not only because I was in skirts and sunburned. My host grandmother's 80th birthday was the 26th, and her massive party was held here in my house, so the days before and after were filled with relatives and friends and cooking and cleaning and more cooking and generally preparing. The amount of food we made- well, I should say THEY made, becasue I mostly walked around in awe or chopped onions or fetched water or took care of Lady- was incredible. Coolers and coolers full of rice, watchee (a rice and bean dish from the north which I LOVE) and jallof- huge cauldrons of stew and soup and shito (a spicy sauce for the rice and watchee) and fried chicken and fish. Christmas night I sat out back with my sisters peeling onions at midnight when it began to pour on us- dancing in the rain after scrambling to get the laundry and food under shelter, in the streetlight, washing the day's work away... Then I made christmas cookies with my little brothers... and I have to say they came out alright, though most people found them too sweet... and it was 4 am and my mom and auntie were still frying the chicken and fish out in the yard because the rain had gone as suddenly as it had begun. The next day at the party there must have been a few hundred people in our yard and over the course of the party all the food was eaten,though I'd thought it not possible. I enjoyed feeling like a part of the family when I was helping out and being part of running the party- serving and clearing amidst just dancing and talking and enjoying the outcome of all the hard work.

Ghanaian parties are very big and they all seem to appear the same... loads of food, people sitting and eating in their lovely dresses and some people dancing, a loud sound system pumping the air with live singing in Twi what are probably mostly Christian songs.



For another few days after the party we were cleaning up all the dishes and repacking all the rented cutlery and plates... our yard is mostly recovered though there are still black spots of burnt grass and one of the laundry lines is almost touching the ground... I don't know what destroyed it.


New Year
31st night is big in Ghana. They don't watch a ball drop (and from far away, describing the event it seems so absolutely random!) or clink champagne glasses at midnight... no, every Ghanaian rich or poor, pious or not goes to church on the last day of the year to pray in the new season and release the old. So even if it was not the New Year's Eve I might have been expecting, it certainly was once-in-a-lifetime! I went to Independence Square where there were thousands of people gathered for the International Christian Gospel Church service. The pastor was really quite good and preached about this new year being one of BREAKTHROUGH for all people in all areas of life. The last 15 minutes of '09 we were all praying praying praying- people jumping, shouting, rocking back and forth whispering "jeasus jeasus JEASUS" and then the last second struck and we all broke out cheering and a thousand white handkerchiefs were waving in the midnight before me and a firework went off alighting the arc-de-triumph-look-alike with the black star and FREEDOM AND JUSTICE declared on top. Everyone a dancin and singing in the new year and we got little bottles of oil to anoint ourselves with and we shook the hands of those around and there were tears in my eyes as they swept the crowd again and again in disbelief.

Cape Coast

The young days of 2010 were fairly uneventful- bidding my mom and brothers goodbye again as the headed back to South Africa maybe not to return until I leave. They left a rather enormous rip in my heart and vacuum in the house. I thoroughly miss them all- playing snooker with Jake, bouncing Lady and making faces with her, Marco-Polo in the pool with Baron and Kelvin and, of course, cooking with my African Mama. Once they left though I rallied up my friends and we all went down to Cape Coast- about two hours out of Accra.

The three days whirled past on salty air and 5 am wake up calls- deep dungeons and dark jungle- pineapple juice dripping down our chins and loaves of bread. We four- Adam, Marie, Sofie and myself- got a ride down with my host brother Bush and got a flat tire on the way, in the middle of green mountains and coconut trees. The first day we woke early to see the sun rise on the roof of our hostel.... but of course the Hamatan dust hazed out the horizon all day.
Cape Coast is most famous for the salve castles built by the Portuguese in the 17th century. The castle in Elmina was actually the first sub-Saharan fort built in Africa and became an epicenter of European desire along the coast causing tension among the colonizers. Of course the castles were used to house the whites, most prominently the Governor, and there was much trading of goods through those white walls, however a significant chunk of that trading was the shipping off of slaves to all parts of North and South America.
We were able to go on tours in both of the castles on which we were taken down to the dungeons where the slaves had been kept for months at a time- deep under the castle, dark with barely air holes but at least tall ceilings- told us about how around 200 men would be crammed in as much space as the Governor got for his living quarters, how they were chained to each other as they died and had no place to dispose of their body waste. Of how food and water had been simply tossed on for the fittest to struggle for.

And how the women, crammed in the same conditions only saw the light of day when brought out to be looked over by the Governor when he desired them... and only washed if they were the one chosen to climb to his chambers.




By the way, this is me and Adam climbing the poles that had been used for training the soldiers. The next day my arms complained royally, asking me why I had decided to climb up it...twice.


Katkum National Park
From Cape Coast, Katkum is only a 40 minute taxi drive and we spent a lovely day on the beach and shopping before heading out to the jungle.
Arriving around 5pm to an empty park, the park rangers led us up to the sleeping platforms we had read about in the Lonely Planet guide book. About a ten minute hike through the deep forest around and over roots- it was like the floor was alive with snakes frozen on top of one another.

Somehow there were showers up there in the middle of the "campsite"- open showers with just stone walls and after such a long day we readily stripped down and cleaned off there in under the canopy in the coming dusk- rapidly coming dusk... Adam, being the last one to bathe, came back in the dark. I remember Sofie's darling voice calling to him, Adam? Yea- . . . Adam? Adam? (more high pitched now) ADAM??? Wut? OH, thank you. oh, what for? Oh, just being you, and being there, and answering and being alive.

Our accommodation, which was I think 36 Ghana Cedis, was an elevated platform about the size of a king bed with wooden railings around it, a few steps up, a mattress, a low mosquito net and a tin high roof that would not have helped against rain, and only blocked out the stars... few though they were through the thick canopy. So the four of us crawled under the mosquito net, ate some fried rice we had bought by flashlight beams, and tried not to think about how utterly alone we were. The night was uneventful, fortunately, but the whole place reminded me way too much of a Thai horror movie I'd seen and so I was pretty creeped out and as Anna could attest to, a bit jumpy.

Around 5 the next morning we aroused, still in darkness, got dressed, packed up, at a little bread we'd bought out of the taxi window on the way there, and went down to the lodge. Getting to the canopy walk by 6 or 6:30, the whole place was ours, and even our guide had to go to leave us to open up the exit, as we were the first tour of the day. Considering that the previous day we had talked to some Californians who were not all that impressed by Katkum- having been on a tour of 40 and therefore pretty much ushered through the series of rope bridges, I considered us very wise to have stayed overnight and gone so early. The canopy walk is incredible. Suspended between the tops of very tall trees, above the mesh of green vines and branches but below even greater limbs- in the mist of the morning, in the cool of the day, the sun eventually rising, out above the distant treetopped hills.

A monkey scooting up the long smooth stretch of trunk to the awaiting fruit above- followed by another, and another, and another- funny fuzzy little creatures in their own domain just doing their morning thing. Then they jumped from one tree to a shorter one and scooted down that one's trunk. Apparently there are many kinds of monkeys in the park as well as some forest elephants, however they are very shy and we were counted as lucky to have seen anything "wild" at all.
Imagine the perfection of that moment- sun rising, monkeys climbing, four little humans on top of the world- and for those of you who know me well, that is exactly where I like to be- the fresh air, the long day ahead, the pure white satisfaction of having gotten myself there.... with a ton of support and guidance and reassuring and trust and wisdom from so many many people. So here is a little shout out to everyone who helped me- teachers, relatives, friends, AFS, YES, Bra Bush and of course, most importantly my beloved parents. Thank you for giving me this, for letting me go, for teaching your fledgling to fly- and look where I have perched. I wouldn't let you down if you could see me now, here in the treetops, here in the world, in the beauty and the sorrow of reality- out here, where I belong.


The Ride Home

...don't remember much...

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.

Take me out to the ball game

KOTOKO vs. HEARTS OF OAK

National Ghanaian teams- arch rivals here in Accra, today, 4 cedis ($2.75 maybe), wear red and white if you are Kotoko, the Ashanti team from Kumasi, or red, blue and yellow for the Hearts of Oak.

I wore red and white.

Waiting in the stadium, the energy mounting with drums and chants, the Hearts fans with gourds and rhythm, all the young men in yellow and red clapping and dancing. Although I have only experienced one actual professional sports game (baseball) in a stadium before, I can safely guess that American fans don't drum and dance to pump up the vibes. Especially not the young men. Watching and feeling the unity in the division I somehow appreciated sports all the much more in that moment. Looking around the stadium, which was not that big as stadiums go, but had a fairly good turn out I noticed at least three drums leading a beat for the surrounding fans to celebrate to- all through the game they played, singing religious songs, and songs about the team.

Before the game began, two gulls flew over the stadium and the fans wearing red and white began cheering. At first I couldn't figure why- there was no action on the field, but then I saw people pointing at the sky and realized it was the gulls, who were then joined by more. I then remembered all that I've been told about how the Ghanaians are very superstitious when it comes to sports and since the gulls were white, they were considered a good omen for Kotoko.

I sat there with all my brothers (young and old, for the young ones are back from South Africa) and my bra Bush kept a heated exchange going with some rival fans sitting behind us- I can't really express how funny it was how their tones (for that was all I could understand) would swing from joviality to the heated passion of enemies. I would hear them spitting twi back and forth and then turn and see a wide grin on my brother's face- he gave a bet that we'd get the first goal within 5 mins, a bet which we unfortunately lost.....

As always, there were people selling things from their heads, but today I saw a new one- some small school boy was selling gum, mentos, and cigarettes. First, of course, I thought it was strange seeing cigarettes being sold at all because nobody smokes but then I realized how young the boy was and thought of legal ages... something that is easy to forget about here.

The match itself was unfortunate. Kotoko scored on a penalty kick but the ref called a foul and the goal was canceled. Hearts scored and the score stayed 1-0 for the rest of the time. I can say that the ref did NOT seem to be neutral, and I have heard that there is much corruption in sports here....

As we left the stadium among the celebratory music and water spraying everywhere- people were throwing water bottles off the stadium after emptying them on their neighbors- there was a row of young men responding to the call of nature along a wall... or should I say they were seeing a wall about a horse.... Ghana Ghana.


***

I have no thoughts to speak of me, no mind space left to ramble about my own self, but I can say that I've been doing very well these past days and weeks. I can say that I've been sunburned from a beautiful day on a beach- the sort of perfectly tropical beach that seems impossible to have reached and to be sitting on, eating a pineapple that is not the best pineapple I've ever had but is quenching and succulent in the moment. I can say that I've been singing and watching the sun, been being myself, been exploring what that means and finding interesting things.

Nyame Adom, me ho ye.

Peace and blessings.

Motown

The trip up north- school boy at the village, and Mosque. This Mosque was particularly famous- it as believed that the first man who found the place and set up the community was buried next to it and then the tree sprouted three days later. To this day the people eat the leaves of the tree on special occasions in a ceremonial way.




The mosque had different entrances for different people- men, women, chiefs, and is still used on Fridays for prayers, however we did not get to enter.



Sitting under a tree at school, feeling the cool shade, the heat of sunburn, the airy trees, the red earth, the human tall termite mounds, the black etches of a cracked path, the sinking benches, the pastel sky.


So, Life. Mosque at sunset, this was actually on the day of the festival that happens right after Ramadan. We went to a Muslim community and watched a parade of chiefs, there were tons of people- and I turned around and here was the sun setting against these wires, well, as you see.


Ahimota Senior High. I am sitting upon Lover's Lane, in my school uniform which what I wear now for a majority of my existence. I have to say that I appreciate the uniform, in all of its conformity and sometimes discomfort... I love it because it is the tag which says that I belong here- that I am a part of this place, not just a visitor. Now, when I am taking the trotro home people call "Motown girl", instead of "Obruni". That sums it up right there.

So what is Achimota schooling like? How does one of the most prestigious
high schools in Ghana run?
Here is a typical day in school:

I wake up and leave the house by 6:30. On the way I pass the women who sell oranges and bananas at 10 peswas (about 7 cents) a piece, but of course if you buy more then they "dash" you an extra or two. We always greet and pass a few words in twi, and I tell them I'll go and come. Waiting for a bus is never long- in the morning at my station there are never that many passengers waiting, though those that there are can be business men or old women with baskets of things to sell all on our way to work. I love the trotro because of this, because everyone uses it- policemen, school children, fashionable young women, people coming from funerals, going to weddings, and somehow we are all in the same place at one time... So I pay my 20 peswas (maybe 15 cents) to the junction where I get down (they don't say get "off" and I remember the first time we all took a trotro with AFS, and they said "get down, get down" we thought there was a shooting or something! Though now that we know Ghana, we would never make the same mistake even if we didn't understand).

When I walk from the junction to school- about 25 mins- I pass the same man who wears a blue baseball cap and hustles past with a small look and smile, I pass the same three women with large baskets full of plantain chips going to the junction for a day of hawking, I am passed by the same trotro full of school kids who one time all stuck there head out to call GOOD MORNING to me, and Mrs. Suspicious because she always gives me a sidelong glance until I smile, and she usually smiles back, and Mr. Blue Shirt because I swear he has worn the same type of blue button up every single day and he is always holding a radio out in front of him, and we always exchange an "etesen - eye" (how's it - it's fine) and a smile and if I am eating a banana, he asks me where his is and we laugh, and I could go on but the day has only just begun.

I love these morning walks, when it is still cool and my mind is open and fresh- the feeling of belonging given by these interactions. The walk up toward the school is long and under these magnificent shading trees, some of which have small yellow petals of paradise which float to the ground like fallen sunshine. But then there is all the trash among the trees- backlit bags, like dandelions, on a lawn of leaves.

First we all go to morning devotion at the chapel. Led by a female student, everyone sings, listens to some sort of sermon given by a student or teacher, usually about discipline, religious devotion, or something, and we sing more hymns and give the school prayer which is as follows:

"O God, who art the King of kings and the Lord of lords and the Father of this people, we thank thee for this School and all the opportunities that we have in it.
Blesss thou this place adn may thy glory dwell herein. May the sons and daughters come to know the life that is life indeed, and go forth from it as living water to a thirsty land, for thy name's sake. Amen"

Chapel is always mixed for me. While I find the sound of the music- the soft voices in such a mass as to produce a lovely melody, I feel like people sing them as words, and without much though into what they mean. Two days a week (I think?) the small percentage of Muslims and Catholics may go to their own places of worship- for the former it is my class room because it is big enough, and for the later, they have their own chapel.

Then classtime, and my classes are as such:
Core- English, Math, Social Studies and Integrated Science (Agriculture, Physics, Biology and Chemistry, each given two periods a week)
Elective- Textiles (in which we are actually finally doing traditional weaving!!!!) and Ceramics (and we are actually working with clay!!!) and Literature (in which we are reading both The Tempest and a Ghanaian story-A Woman in her Prime)
Other- Religous and Moral Edu., PE (which is a class ABOUT PE, and its role in history, so far in Ancient Greece and in Ghana, though we don't actually DO any PE) and General Knowledge in Art. and ICT.

The day is broken into 10 periods of 40 minutes and I usually have 4 or 5 subjects in a day, no subject more than twice a week. Unlike the American school system, I am with the same kids for every class- we are all 2Voc2- Form 2 (like 11th grade), Vocational track, option 2 which is Visual Arts. (Voc. 1 being Home Economics- cooking and marriage stuff). When we first entered the school we were given the options- Science, tracks 1-4, each with different focus, slightly, General Arts, tracks 1-5 which had electives like History, Geography, French, Government, etc. or Vocational 1 or 2. Personally, I though the vocational class, with textiles and ceramics and artsy stuff would give me more sense of the culture- though I would have loved to do French and History... one more note on classes is that in the elective category there were some other options, and during those lessons the students split up- eg. while I am doing textiles, others are doing Picture Making or Graphic Design. Ceramics or Jewelry. Literature (4 students) and the rest in Economics.

The most frusterating thing about school is that teachers are often late or don't show up at all and either send a note with the class prefect (who is responsible for the class in absence of a teacher) or we do nothing- I mean we do nothing even if the note is sent, but at least then we have a feeling there is still a teach out there. Teachers will answer cell phone calls in class too and will come without the text book and have to borrow a student's one. But they expect us to be on time, awake, stand up when answering a question, keep the classroom clean (no such thing as a janitor) and do all of our assignments despite their own lack of discipline. Then there is the lack of resources which I find really depressing. Classroom, are just rooms with hard, terrible for your back desks, a black board (or in the not-vocational classrooms, white boards) and some chalk. No maps, not pictures, no mathematical tables, no projectors, no flag, no extra pens, no scissors, tape, rulers, absolutely no nothing except trash and it is for two reasons. 1. no funding. 2. if there was anything there worth anything, it would be stolen before it could be used twice by the village people who live on the outskirts of the place against whom there is no protection.

These are my Motown chickitas- Sofie the Dane and Anna Marie the Missouri girl who is on YES and whose videos are featured above. Someday we are going to write the adventures of the poedunk mexican, great dane and redhaired hippie. I'll give you all a discount on the sure to be best seller. Here we are in front of Frankies with Papa- a boy from Marie's class who we happened to meet at the American Embassy while we were all on midterm vacation (the boarders, which is 95% of the school, get to go home). The story is- we were going to get some school supplies, and enjoy a day out together, and we went to the embassy to pick up a package for me and while Iwas waiting, all the sudden all these Motown kids start coming out and I was like WHAT AREYOU DOING HERE? I mean we YESers haven't even been invited to the American embassy yet, but they had come for a program with a group of american exchangers that came to Achimota for a few weeks.... (btw, Motown is the local nickname for Achimota) and so Papa decided to join us for a day.

As far as academics, I am finding them very simple- not many assignments, no exercises to do, class mostly consists of waiting for a teacher and taking dictated notes... my favorite classes are Social because of the subject matter- leadership, resources, nations, etc. and the teacher is very very good in that he is not late, he leads an interactive class with q&a as form of discussion, and brings in real life examples and comparisons (quite a few having to do with the US). The only real way to measure our academic learning is by the monthly test and end of term exam... however the questions are pre set for those exams and not by the teacher, so sometimes the teacher has not taught us far enough, or not mentioned a specific answer or the information was from last year, form 1, which is all really frustrating, but still my average score has been great and I am not stressed over school at all, whatsoever period.

Last note on school.

When I was coming over there was a lot of talk of caning in school, but when I got here I forgot about it, being so wrapped up in everything else. Well, a few weeks ago our French teacher came to class, late, and the place was not swept... though I had been trying to sweep with my feet the large trash because there is no broom or bundle of sticks in the classroom. So he came in and said it was unfit for teaching and he would come back only once it was clean.... then he left. A few people looked for a broom, the prefect tried to rally the people who were supposed to sweep that day (we do have a chart) and, though it was slow, progress towards sweeping was being made... however when the teacher came back in the place was still a mess because we had just found a broom and were just beginning to sweep, i mean one person was sweeping and the other 51 (yes, my class is 52 students) were sitting, talking, rapping, reading, sleeping, staring, laughing, etc. so he was furious that it wasn't done and he marched us all to the caning man. He began with the sweepers- boys twice on the buttocks/back and girls twice on the hand. Some of the girls were tearing up at the prospect of it, and some were telling me to go back. I think there was a general interest in how I was taking it, if I was brave or chicken and if, ultimately, the man would hit me. As it turns out, fortunately for us all, day students were exempt because we are not expected to sweep, though somehow my name had been on the list for that day, but I had been foot -sweeping, as I mentioned, and the guy said he didn't want Obama getting mad, so I was ultimately exempt, with the other two day students. I don't really want to go into the morality of it. The way it was done or if it was deserved or is the right way to punish even when it is deserved, or if it is ever deserved to be hurt or how someone can do that to a child in the first place. All i know is that I was stony calm the whole time, not afraid, just disgusted, in my stomach a knot of tension.


I would like to take a moment to clear up some things that have since evolved ... mainly, my family situation.

When I wrote what I wrote way back in August, I was very disturbed and thought I had all the information,which I didn't, so let me reintroduce my host family.

My Dad did not move to South Africa, the trip he took there was only a few days. I really like my host dad, though we do not have many opportunities to really talk because his schedule and my schedule are directly opposite. But I can see he is a very benevolent and hard working man.

In the house also live the two younger girls, Abena and Afia who go to Junior high, as well as older Afia who is attending a college french course... she actually lives about an hour away with her family (her father is my Dad's older brother) but because of classes she has been staying here. To the left is her and her sister Abena at a wedding we went to. We definitely get along, though we may be very different in nature, and she has taught me plenty already just by being herself. We go clothes shopping together, and last night we went to the High Vibes Festival at the National Theater. It is an annual four day music fest of highlife artists from around west Africa- we heard bands from Ghana, Liberia, and Guinea all playing highlife, which is a bit like jazz meets reggae... maybe? Brass and drums, traditional and drumset, some used electric keyboard, base, guitar and vocals. Twi, French, and English songs mostly- it was very cultural and enjoyable.

We got matching dresses for the wedding....

My brothers, Ken, Bush and Kwesi are great. They are older, maybe 30s and are always willing to talk, take me places when I need, or tell me how to get somewhere.
this called Juxtaposition, With Clouds.
















This was at Mole National Park, on our trip to the north.
So, I will leave you now and though I always say this, I'll try to be more consistent in my writing.
i have changed my comment setting because I heard it wasn't working so you can try it again and leave me questions.
Much love to all, and I hope you are all peaceful and well.

Time in Cumulonimbus clouds

Under the raw sun. Sweat. Dust. Bags of water are perfect for squirting people with.
Your face has changed, they said when I came back from my trip. It's the sun I said, I am not made for this climate you see.

I'm sitting in my tv room with a bowl of rice with tomato stew- it is not too late, but dark outside, getting mentally prepared for heading back to school after a week off. My sisters, of a sudden, jump up and run out... i listen... it is raining- oh, for joy, i love the rain, I remember days of JCSchool when we would hear the rain and ditch class and feel it on our skin- oh, and my sisters, oh they love it too, i'll follow them outside and dance with them. I go out. The rain is gentler than it sounded in the house. My sisters have dissapeared. Halfheartedly I look up... then notice my sisters have gone to hustle in the laundry that was drying. They readily dodge out of the water, armfulls of sun-stiff cloth, back toward shelter. So I walk over, the pulse of my excitement as washed away like the rain, and I grab the rest of the clothes.... and they are already back by the tv, and I can still hear the lullaby sound of plinking on metal.
This is an allegory. when there are two different wave lengths, I am so often on the Other One.

Hands. When I see my hands I am reminded that I am different. Yes, sometimes i don't notice, i forget I am white, forget they stare because of my skin, forget how oil and water act in a confined container... then I see my hands and... well... But too, they get the brunt of the action, and they are good hands- if soft, soft compared to the hands I am shaking. One night I am grinding tomato stew for dinner- we are making boiled yam which you dip in this hot pepper/tomato sauce and eat with sardines or other fish. I knick the tips off the peppers, small peppers, hot peppers, one of them is not good, so I break it in half, rinse it in the bowl of water that the vegetables are sitting in, some of the seeds come out, the bad part is gone, I toss the rest in and move on to the next pepper. Maybe a few of them were half bad, so I have opened a few, the juice mixing invisibly with the water, and I grind- something I am getting better at- add onions and then tomatoes, soon I am finished. Then I feel a tingling in my hands, my fingers, my thumb. It intensifies, a burning, a stinging, an inescapable heat in all of my fingers... I remember the peppers. oh god, it was the juice, now seeping into my pores, unwashable, intolerable, and yet... waddaya gonna do 'bout it? The feeling went away by morning...

Yesterday, Fufu time came and I offered to pound it. So I pounded and pounded and pounded, I am getting better at it though still find it... just somehow strange, and yes, hard. When I was finished, my sister came and took over, I looked at my hands and there were three ripe and red blisters, the skin hanging off, stinging at the touch of night air. I have not had true blisters since doing the monkey bars in 2 grade! Then and hour later my sister was out doing laundry, I was sitting with her thinking my hands hurt too much to touch water... then she said how oh she had blisters too from the fufu and how they stung stung stung. Realizing that she had no choice in her suffering, and I was just sitting there, I took over the rinse bucket, and you know, it hurt for the first few shirts, and then the pain just went away, but you know how far the gesture will go. I realized that it will be nights like that, after a good work we sat down to eat freshly killed and roasted pork (my dad was having a party and so it was for them but there was soooooooo much we all had our fill) and playing pool with my brothers- I am getting better at it- almost won a few times- that these were things I would remember and miss.

Generally life is just slower here. People are not focused on doing things, going places, accomplishment, action in the same way that I never thought I was but and am realizing that i am, as a product of western culture. Obviously I can't generalize all Ghanaians, but from what I've observed, apart from school, and work, things are laid back. And honestly sometimes I can't stand it, but have realized that that is something I am learning about.

Ok down to the real stuff- the week off.
So all AFS exchangers- 5 German volunteers, 6 Belgin students, 6 Americans (students and one volunteer) and one Dane in a bus. Driving through Ghana. What did we do? We sang some good old Lion King, gave the truckers behind us a good puppet show with some socks Adam had in his bag (and little faces Sharpied on). Then I sprayed him with my water- perfect timing, he was telling a story or something, you know, with people's attention, and was taking a breath and BAM- right in the face. I had been having urges ever since I started drinking that sachet, so they all knew someone was gonna get it.... but justice was made- the next day at the breakfast table no less, Silka casually saunters behind me and, pulling my shirt away just totally soaks my back. In exactly the sort of way that looks like you've been sweating for all the pigs that can't.

Watched a fetish priest- this old withered woman all powdered in white dust and wearing some cloth that sometimes didn't really stay up and there was some sort of red liquid on her... was it her own blood? Was it the blood of the other woman dancing with her? No, I later found out it was the blood of a SACRIFICED CAT. TIA right? We saw how beads are made, saw how shea butter goes from fruit to nut to butter (and our sweet Dane, Sophie, bless her, dips her finger in with everyone else, but instead of rubbing in on her skin she ate it thinking it was butter, you know, butter, that stuff I dream about sometimes). We thrashed rice, and I tell you, I know why people invented combine harvesters. That was actually one of my favorite parts becasue I have reallly always wondered how rice is harvested. we saw wild monkeys, on the "safari", ate PIZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA at this really nice break from life here- a resturant owned by a Belgian dude, and it was damn good. So, if you ever find yourself in Tamale, stop by Sparkels, and if it is on a monday or a tuesday you'll even get a scoop of free ice cream (unfortunately our group was toooooo big... yes it was a VERY sad moment).
saw how kente cloth is made... got really sunburned... drove wayyyyyy too much...on those bumpy potholey unpredictable impossible for sleeping on roads that make you say TIA every time you are lifted off your seat- stood behind a waterfall- I mean at the last moment realized it was something I couldn't miss, got one of the Belguins to join me in stripping down and climbing behind under the downpour of white water. There was this one seat, directly in the falls and sitting there the world becomes nothing but the cold pounding on your head, the water in your eyes, blurred images of trees and people waving that we have to go but nothing matters when it is just you in the element, laughing at the feeling of being crushed but not diminished, laughing at being released from the hot, sweaty predictability of the bus, at being in Ghana, at being free and alive and the water seeps into your skin, mouth, eyes, refreshing and cleansing, and then you slip down to the shallows and retrieve the garments that almost kept the whole experience from happening and follow everyone back to the car.

The clouds, oh my, the clouds sometimes when the sun is low and there is lightening flashing- enormous white and orange pillows in the sky, towering and softly melting, shifting and flowing into some other shape, shade... Somehow the clouds are truly majestic here.

I will try to stay more consistent with my posts, sorry it took me so incredibly long.

Best hope and wishes and love to all and, of course, thanks for reading. If anyone has specific questions they would like to have addressed in my posts, please just leave me a comment requesting so.

School, Sea, Sunset, Somnambulation

Well finally a shot of my sisters... from the left, Nana, Afia, Abena, though we call her Mina. This is the only shot I have of all three- and now Nana is living in Koforidua with her mum. We were swimming, obviously, in the front... Mina and Afia go to school alllllllllllll day, they leave 8am get home 7pm, or later. They are in Junior high, and granted it takes half hour to hour to get to school depending on traffic, but still...!

Below is my front yard, with the pool as you can see and my house... if you walk in that sliding door behind the fence, there is a lovely breezeway that is kept very clean for visitors. I have enjoyed teaching the girls a bit how to swim, or just encouraging them to feel comfortable in the water. Last I went swimming was in the evening- Afia and I made a fruit salad- pineapple, pawpaw (papaya), banana, orange- and we ate it while we swam, and the sun went down...

In some places dusk is merely sunset. The lifegiving ball of fire sinking in the sky slowly melts below the horizon and the haze becomes cool, or it is not witnessed because of the hanging clouds and only the dissipation of the light admits a shadowed world. But here, dusk is a time of its own. I began to notice it first when I was taking walks on the train tracks behind the house towards evening. As I was ambling I looked skyward and saw what was perhaps a bird above me, then another and another, and as I kept my eyes up they were filled with hundreds of small black reflections flying overhead. And as I looked closer I saw that, of course, they were bats. So I saw them again the next night and the next, always they come as the sun departs, though once the light is gone they have dispersed and I see none. Always they fly from the South, fluttering like funereal confetti on a current. And then that same current carries a most achingly beautiful voice, as though from the same far off gathering as the confetti, as though from the spirits of the other world are calling through a doorway, briefly opened each night when the sun is at just such a place, singing the praise of God, chanting the evening call to prayer. I have never lived in a place where I could hear proof of Islam each day, a few times a day, and always at this time of evening. So I floated on my back that day in the pool and watched the bats from the silence of the water, the strange and eerie silence of submersed ear drums, watched the light go, a few stars penetrate the light and dust, watched the black bodies of the desperately flapping bats move from south to north above me, watched it and then raised my head to hear the low, deep voice coming from nowhere and everywhere, coming from the human and the superhuman, weaving the fabric of the night around me with ancient melodies.


And these are my team mates, plus some Germans. From the left- Adam Streeter, whose blog is also definitely worth reading and can be found by looking at my followers. Anna Martinez who is doing the lovely video footage and is also attending Achimota School with me. Me... of course the one shot that had everyone in it and smiling I had to have my mouth all weird... then Meredith who lives in Tema, maybe an hour away with traffic.... don't know if she has a blog. Then our German friends Laura and Anne who stayed in Ghana in 2005 for 6 months and have made it back almost every year to visit and vacation. I sure hope to do the same!

This picture demonstrates a few things- first, the roasted plantains that she is selling- those are everywhere, though I actually haven't tried them prepared that way yet. The soccer ball on the umbrella: Ghanaians love soccer, though, this being Not America, they call it football along with the rest of the NA world. Ok, if you click the picture, and read the advertisment on the wall it is for Ghaliwood, which I got a kick out of. Have not see it yet, true Ghaliwood, but I'm looking forward to it. Then if you look behind the Ghaliwood signs, you see the green wall with half of another add for VEGA that has been posted over- well if I zoomed out the entire wall would be green and advertising VEGA and this would be one of many monotone walls advertising either a food or cell phone company.

oh. my. gosh. where to begin!!!!!!!!!!?

where did I leave off?
The Belgians, American and Danish girl came in dazzled and frazzled and tired and shocked, and it was finally I who was the "experienced" one to give advice and all.... a good feeling. Unfortunately most of them are living far away, up in other regions of Ghana so I won't see much of them. Except the Dane- she goes to my school. Schoool. SCHOOOOOOOOOOL!!!? what? I'm still in school? I'm supposed to be learning practical things as well as a new culture? I'm a teenager?

Let me back up.

We went to school when it started, last week to get our uniforms, pick our subjects and pay our fees. However that day only entailed waiting and walking around and waiting and then finally picking our subjects- even though we changed them again, just today. Then we waited for the rest of the week to be called by AFS and told that we would be going back to school to actually begin.... but we waited all week and it was only today, Tuesday the 22nd that we finally started school.

The campus is incredible. Absolutely beautiful. Built in 1927 by the British, Achimota Senior High School has a timeless and almost placeless feeling. Novelistic imperial British tropics. Could be India, could be any time in the 20th century, one could turn the corner and see some proper Missionary/Military wife in a sweeping white gown reading Dickens under a parasol... writing small notes in her journal about the red dirt and shining faces, the enormous black scorpions and breathtaking trees. How did those first people see this same land? Before it was over run with industrialization and media, before it was mostly Christian, and before the red dirt was paved over? Before the air was made thicker by smog, and before natives spoke English, the later of which is a simple way to say a lot of things.
There are immense trees over the whole campus, and wide open lawns in front of the tall white washed buildings. The buildings with blue shutters and a constant two feet of red dirt smudged around the base, some of which are dorms to house the approximate 1500 boarding students, some of which are our classrooms and others of which house the teachers and administration. The only real mark of the era is the large billboard between the boys dorms and the girls dorms reminding students that engaging in premarital sex can lead to HIV/AIDS.

Today we went to school late and finally got our uniforms and figured out our classes and got our books and were left with less than two hours to go to class, which was a nice amount of time to feel apart of something but not get overwhelmed. So, first impressions... the kids are as shy of us as we are of them... and since there are three of us obruni girls, at first it was easy to stay apart, but now that we are all in different classes (a conscious decision) we will each begin to blend into our own groups. I have chosen the Vocational Visual Arts track (vs. General arts or Science) because I am excited to do classes like textiles and General knowledge in arts that will give me more of a local taste- will be, hopefully, traditional Ghanaian, or at least West African. The class I came into was Economics, and I really like the teacher- he had taught in Missouri for a year and had also hosted an exchange student. But when we were going around telling him our names, and let me note that when a student is speaking in class he/she must stand, though most kids just sort of half raise their tushes from the wood bench, this one boy stood and said his name... well he was really tall, I mean tall for any standards and especially Ghanaian because most people here are fairly short, and so the teacher looked at me and said "Afia", because I had also given them my local name, "would you like to marry this sort of man?" well. I will leave you to imagine just how red my face was and just how loud that classroom became with hoots and hysterics. Welcome to Class 2V2. (Form 2, Vocational 2). My class prefect told me that ours is one of the notorious loudest classes in the school... which is fine by me because they are loud with laughter. So for now that is school, and I will post some pictures when I download them. Oh just a word about the assistant headmistress....I'll just say she is the stereotypical scary headmistress that you do not want to see after the first day. My friend, Marie, was debating about whether to go to form 2 or 3 (form=grade) and the woman was like, well if you want your name to appear at the bottom of the exam sheet every time, laugh laugh laugh, go to form three, but I won't change you around unless they demote you because you can't keep up ... laugh... well, Marie, bless her, said no, I think I can do form three thank you. (I'll keep you posted).
It is true that they post our exam results publicly for all the school to see.... great. and for the dress code. One pair of stud earrings is allowed. No bracelets, no necklaces, no second earrings, nails must be cut all the way down, no polish, no makeup, no hair clips, only in a pony tail- not down, not braided, not a bun, only pony, she kept saying it, only pony, only pony. The girls here actually are made to shave their heads from the very first class of school until they graduate high school. Sandals must be brown, nothing inbetween the toes (like flipflops) and no closed toes. No rings. No food in classrooms, not even in our bags, though they were willing to make an acception for us as day-students to bring tightly sealed completely concealed snacks for break time. Lunch is after school at 2:30- break is for a half hour at 11 and that is the only time we may use the restroom as well. Our uniforms must be washed and pressed... Yes. Dress code is tight, but overall I am more or less excited about school. But somehow over the past month I feel like I've grow so much I am out of school- I am beyond school or something, so it felt weird at first having to get back in that mindset. This summer has been so extraordinarily long and filled with new experiences from climbing a multi-pitch in Yosemite to visiting DC to everything about here I just couldn't believe that I had to go back to SCHOOOL.

This past weekend was by far the best I've had here... On Saturday I had another drumming lesson and learned my new favorite rhythm, then went out of Accra with my YES friends and an AFS volunteer to a beautiful park called the Aburi Botanic Gardens where we were toured around and saw trees planted by different presidents and even Queen Elizabeth. The place was made into a park in 1890 and has sections for herbal medicine research, conservation, and then the trees that we were toured through. Once I upload my pictures I will speak more of the Gardens. So we got home around evening and less than a half hour after I got back my brothers decided to go out so I spent a nice night drinking pineapple juice, listening to the music, admittedly feeling awkward at times... at a little spot on the side of the highway near the sea.
The next morning I got up to go with the same volunteer to the International Central Gospel Church, or ICGC. It was quite a church I must say- first it was big, hundreds of people all decked out in their Sunday Best, live band, ushers in suits, a big choir, even a balcony, and everyone was singin' and dancin' and and fillin' up that whole huge building with glory and praise. Then we went to the beach for the first time...

The beach. the beach. sandy expanse of untarnished white swept up by a crystal blue sea and elegantly swaying palm trees shading your personal haven...right? Warm water with gentle waves rolling around you and bright fish darting between your legs- It's the tropics after all.
WRONG.

Labadi beach is a touristy spot and hence a money making opportunity. Bars line the beach, with shaded tables to sit at (and pay for) very crowded- people selling things from bathing suits to carved wooden statues to mini drums to little Ghana bracelets to pirated DVDs...
I was so excited to be in the ocean that I just started running, jumping, splashing into the sea, feeling the perfectly chilled water and there- oh, is that seaweed, huh, why no, its a plastic bag. And that there- it's a ice cream bar wrapper, and that and wow- it really is dirty... then a whistle. Silly girl has gone flitting and prancing into the red flag zone. Ha, count on me to do such a thing... but truly it's hard to tell because most of the beach is red flag. In fact the area where we can swim is very small, like a hundred feet from white flag to white flag (though I'm a terrible estimator). But at least there is a lifeguard. Many Rastas, many Obrunis, many locals, music blasted from everywhere so loud that even when you are swimming you can be dancing... not my idyllic lie-on-a-beach-and-read place, but interesting in a people watching/meeting sort of way... and I did enjoy swimming, especially when it was later and the waves were really crazy, powerful but close to shore so still safe...
and then there was Eid, the Muslim holiday celebrating the end of Ramadan, as well as Kwame Nkrumah's birthday celebrations..... but I will wait until I have my pictures and some more time.

Personally, I am just riding the tide, starting school is the main thing on my plate, and having to get to school by 6:45 tomorrow. I have not felt real homesickness since DC, though I think of home and people- you all- often, especially when look at the night sky.

As always, that this may find you in peace.

by the way, this had nothing to do with sleepwalking, don't worry, you didn't zone out... but I'll be doing that soon... if I don't cut short all the things more that I want to say and instead sleep.