The day after being diagnosed with dysentery I went for an eight mile hike through the jungle in Aburi. I was feeling a million times better by the next morning, but the group was a little concerned. After the hike a girl said, “Damn girl, you are a trooper. To have the shits and still be down for a trek like this… I’m impressed!”
The beauty of the jungle cannot be communicated with justice. The colors can be named, the denseness compared to places known, but the sounds, the skipped heartbeats from rustled branches, not knowing whether human or animal… this cannot be shared through words.
I imagined the trail would be much like a national park – widely beaten by guided groups, scenic overlooks crowded with vendors, maybe even signs pointing the way. The trail was more like a whisper, if that makes sense; skinny, wide enough to walk single file, one foot in front of the other. The vegetation formed high walls pressing against both shoulders. This was no tourist trap. (we hoped it wasn’t a trap…)
Animals (we hoped) seemed to creep by our sides, unseen in their thick habitat. Wandering through uncharted territory, guessing where to go when the path split, there was a united sense of uneasiness. We knew there were other people around more interested in us than the scenery.
Our first encounter was with a man squatting, trying to enjoy his morning BM. We were quite startled, but he seemed mostly amused. Approaching him, it looked like he was resting – his machete by his side, peacefully staring towards the horizon. It wasn’t until greeting him and walking past did I notice his pants pulled midway down his lean legs, butt glistening with morning dew. It would have been awkward to warn the person behind me; instead I just snickered as I heard each “Hello, ohh!” down the line in our group of 20. He kept his smile and we kept our eyes straight ahead.
Next we stumbled into a Rastafarian hideout. A wild-haired, friendly-faced man strolled towards us with open arms. I noticed his scrawny legs first because he wasn’t wearing any pants. His baggy shirt was just long enough to cover anything that could’ve possibly dangled from underneath. If pants are too constricting I would imagine underwear would be unbearable. Not that I was looking…
He and his friend welcomed us and explained that we took a wrong turn and the path ended there. He would gladly show us where to go, but wanted to play a song for us before leaving. A girl who had hiked the trail before later explained that we were going the right way, but they were protecting their marijuana farm. They must’ve been high because the song, while very much appreciated, was absolute crap. I thought for sure they would ask for money, but they turned out to just be good-intentioned, ganja-growin’ men of an ultimately peaceful faith. I would’ve liked to hang out longer.
These are the types of experiences I was hoping to have here.
While it was a thrilling encounter it left us increasingly alarmed, realizing this was not a tourist-trodden, marked trail. The moments of silence after parting with the Rastas seemed to be a moment of groupthink – collective mental images of being attacked in the jungle.
Thankfully that didn’t happen, but I was prepared with my pepper spray.
When a herd of long-horned cattle came rushing from behind, forcing us onto the high banks of the road I for sure thought someone was going to get gored. I thought I was covering all bases by bringing pepper spray and band-aids, but I was not prepared for running with the bulls.
I managed to escape yet another frightening incident by deciding to throw in the towel early. A small group (me included) broke off to head back to Accra instead of continuing the hike through botanical gardens. Shortly after we left, the bulk of the group was directed into the office of some sort of sketchy tour agency. They threatened to arrest everyone for trespassing and not paying for the hike. A verbal confrontation followed – we are sick of being taken advantage of – and the man demanded payment saying that he had done us a favor by not hiring men to rob us while on the trail. Apparently he frequently does that to keep people off the trail without his guide services. Our weariness wasn’t misguided, which doesn’t make me feel any better.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
A member of your group has dysentery. Stop & rest or continue ahead?
The Oregon Trail computer game is my only knowledge of dysentery. All I know is the person always died if it was decided to move ahead.
Today really tested my cajones. I started the day totally motivated – ready to take on the frustrations of Ghana. I am woman, hear me roar! I went for a nice run, did some squats, and ventured out with a plan. First on the list – registration: ask around for the registration office; find it, no one there (top floor, no elevators, legs cramping). Everyone goes on break 12:00-2:00. Thanks for the heads up (after waiting 45 minutes). Also find that the most important course I need is full. I’ll find a way around that, but frustrating since we were told to wait to register until after attending a lecture (which the professor didn’t show up for this week). Motivation meter: still strong.
Decide to head to the public health clinic to make sure I’m not dying. As I walked up I could tell the clinic was in poor condition, but I was proud of myself for having the independence and courage to handle all of this on my own. The clinic was packed with people – some in shocking condition, sprawled across the floor waiting for help; a young girl with a high fever, struggling to stand and in a state of confusion. I understood why some students brought their own needle kits. I started to cry.
No signs, no friendly faces, just stares from a dark, blurred mass.
“Hello? Please Madam, where do I check in?” I asked the first nurse I saw. She was rushed, overwhelmed, and didn’t have the time. A grunt directed me to a small window.
“ID,” the woman at the window demanded, “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t say the words. Just tears came out. Instead I rubbed my stomach. She seemed amused. “Room 6.”
Outside of room 6 was chaos. I knocked on the door, hoping the receptionist had taken pity and I would be seen soon.
“You put your form in the box,” a young woman directed me. I looked down and let my sheet fall to the overflowing box, along with my motivation, independence, and courage. The line snaked around the corner, undistinguishable from the many other doors and lines. A nurse came out of room 6.
“Excuse me, Madam. Hello, I’ve placed my form in the box. Where should I go now?” I asked calmly and politely.
“PUT YOUR FORM THERE AND WAIT! I SAID WE HAVE MANY PEOPLE TO SEE!” she barked, and started ranting in Twi.
“I’m sorry, Madam. I just don’t know the process…” my voice trailed as I choked. She paused as a tear rolled out from under my sunglasses, and walked away.
I waited three hours, wavering through emotions. The line had not moved. Rather, I had not moved, but the people around me did. No process seemed to be in order – Room 6 opened, someone exited, and someone from the line sprinted in and closed the door. Groans from the group made me believe people were simply cutting the line, but nothing was said.
“Oh my God,” I thought, “I can’t hack this. I can’t do it. I cannot do this,” and started hoping for a sickness worthy of ‘forcing’ me back home.
In need of air I walked outside and away from the clinic. I can’t do it.
On my way back to campus the program director called – she heard I had been directed to the public clinic. “I waited awhile and had to leave,” was all I could muster. She told me she would have her driver pick me up and take me to the private hospital.
I was relieved, but also frustrated with myself. I’m not the soldier I hoped was inside.
As I waited for the driver I wrote in my journal.
‘The best worst experience of my life’ was the header.
“Every day is a life changing experience. Why is each day making me feel like a weaker person? I yearn for the cafes on the shaded sidewalks of luxurious Buenos Aires and comforts of home. I’m here in search of where I want to go after. It sickens me that I’m moving in the direction of extravagance…”
Since writing this my health condition has improved, along with my perspective. I don’t want to give a sullen impression. Please don’t worry about my mental state. I have been stopped in my tracks at the friendliness and welcoming from many Ghanaians, and paused breathless in wonder at the beauty surrounding me in sight and sound. I’ve looked around and said, “This is where I need to be.”
Speaking with other students, they’ve had many of the same ups & downs. It has a lot to do with getting used to the pace. While time moves quickly, everything is done slowly. Used to the busy agenda at home, it feels like vacation. I’m sure that sounds nice, but it’s not relaxing because we feel we should be accomplishing something.
It’s fantastic to wake up and think, “What do I want to do today?” The possibilities are endless when I think about it: I need to stretch my legs, maybe upload some photos, play the harmonica, maybe I’ll start Arabic today…
Today really tested my cajones. I started the day totally motivated – ready to take on the frustrations of Ghana. I am woman, hear me roar! I went for a nice run, did some squats, and ventured out with a plan. First on the list – registration: ask around for the registration office; find it, no one there (top floor, no elevators, legs cramping). Everyone goes on break 12:00-2:00. Thanks for the heads up (after waiting 45 minutes). Also find that the most important course I need is full. I’ll find a way around that, but frustrating since we were told to wait to register until after attending a lecture (which the professor didn’t show up for this week). Motivation meter: still strong.
Decide to head to the public health clinic to make sure I’m not dying. As I walked up I could tell the clinic was in poor condition, but I was proud of myself for having the independence and courage to handle all of this on my own. The clinic was packed with people – some in shocking condition, sprawled across the floor waiting for help; a young girl with a high fever, struggling to stand and in a state of confusion. I understood why some students brought their own needle kits. I started to cry.
No signs, no friendly faces, just stares from a dark, blurred mass.
“Hello? Please Madam, where do I check in?” I asked the first nurse I saw. She was rushed, overwhelmed, and didn’t have the time. A grunt directed me to a small window.
“ID,” the woman at the window demanded, “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t say the words. Just tears came out. Instead I rubbed my stomach. She seemed amused. “Room 6.”
Outside of room 6 was chaos. I knocked on the door, hoping the receptionist had taken pity and I would be seen soon.
“You put your form in the box,” a young woman directed me. I looked down and let my sheet fall to the overflowing box, along with my motivation, independence, and courage. The line snaked around the corner, undistinguishable from the many other doors and lines. A nurse came out of room 6.
“Excuse me, Madam. Hello, I’ve placed my form in the box. Where should I go now?” I asked calmly and politely.
“PUT YOUR FORM THERE AND WAIT! I SAID WE HAVE MANY PEOPLE TO SEE!” she barked, and started ranting in Twi.
“I’m sorry, Madam. I just don’t know the process…” my voice trailed as I choked. She paused as a tear rolled out from under my sunglasses, and walked away.
I waited three hours, wavering through emotions. The line had not moved. Rather, I had not moved, but the people around me did. No process seemed to be in order – Room 6 opened, someone exited, and someone from the line sprinted in and closed the door. Groans from the group made me believe people were simply cutting the line, but nothing was said.
“Oh my God,” I thought, “I can’t hack this. I can’t do it. I cannot do this,” and started hoping for a sickness worthy of ‘forcing’ me back home.
In need of air I walked outside and away from the clinic. I can’t do it.
On my way back to campus the program director called – she heard I had been directed to the public clinic. “I waited awhile and had to leave,” was all I could muster. She told me she would have her driver pick me up and take me to the private hospital.
I was relieved, but also frustrated with myself. I’m not the soldier I hoped was inside.
As I waited for the driver I wrote in my journal.
‘The best worst experience of my life’ was the header.
“Every day is a life changing experience. Why is each day making me feel like a weaker person? I yearn for the cafes on the shaded sidewalks of luxurious Buenos Aires and comforts of home. I’m here in search of where I want to go after. It sickens me that I’m moving in the direction of extravagance…”
Since writing this my health condition has improved, along with my perspective. I don’t want to give a sullen impression. Please don’t worry about my mental state. I have been stopped in my tracks at the friendliness and welcoming from many Ghanaians, and paused breathless in wonder at the beauty surrounding me in sight and sound. I’ve looked around and said, “This is where I need to be.”
Speaking with other students, they’ve had many of the same ups & downs. It has a lot to do with getting used to the pace. While time moves quickly, everything is done slowly. Used to the busy agenda at home, it feels like vacation. I’m sure that sounds nice, but it’s not relaxing because we feel we should be accomplishing something.
It’s fantastic to wake up and think, “What do I want to do today?” The possibilities are endless when I think about it: I need to stretch my legs, maybe upload some photos, play the harmonica, maybe I’ll start Arabic today…
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
HOW TO CALL AND SEND NICE THINGS!
Hello my friends,
I'm sure you would all like to reach me. I have a cell phone that rarely rings. I was overcharged for it, so please help me use it. I also have a fun polytonic ring tone.
dial 011+233+024 6888 740
To send nice letters or packages:
Kaci Tucker
ISEP-University of Ghana
PMB L4
Legon, Accra
Ghana, West Africa
I'm sure you would all like to reach me. I have a cell phone that rarely rings. I was overcharged for it, so please help me use it. I also have a fun polytonic ring tone.
dial 011+233+024 6888 740
To send nice letters or packages:
Kaci Tucker
ISEP-University of Ghana
PMB L4
Legon, Accra
Ghana, West Africa
Obrunis for Obama
Many city centers and hotels had viewing parties for the inaugural ceremonies. I attended one at the WEB Du Bois Center. It was nice, but also a bit showy.
The surrounding mood was joyful, the crowd elated that a black man can hold the most influential position in the world. I was interviewed by a local radio station asking how I feel as a white American woman having a black president. My response is that, yes it is wonderful we are overcoming racial divides, but the showiness of the occasion also demonstrates a racial divide. Am I proud to have a black president? No more proud than I would be for having a white, brown, yellow, red or female president.
A compelling candidate should not be reduced to a description.
I did buy a bag plastered with Obama. Why? Supporting Obama is the popular thing to do here (and in the US, evident from the sales of Obama vs. McCain cups at 7-11) and perhaps it will help with bargaining lower prices. Also, I like finding vintage items in my Grandma Marie’s house and someday someone else might find it pretty cool. I got one for Whitney too!
The surrounding mood was joyful, the crowd elated that a black man can hold the most influential position in the world. I was interviewed by a local radio station asking how I feel as a white American woman having a black president. My response is that, yes it is wonderful we are overcoming racial divides, but the showiness of the occasion also demonstrates a racial divide. Am I proud to have a black president? No more proud than I would be for having a white, brown, yellow, red or female president.
A compelling candidate should not be reduced to a description.
I did buy a bag plastered with Obama. Why? Supporting Obama is the popular thing to do here (and in the US, evident from the sales of Obama vs. McCain cups at 7-11) and perhaps it will help with bargaining lower prices. Also, I like finding vintage items in my Grandma Marie’s house and someday someone else might find it pretty cool. I got one for Whitney too!
Laundry day - maybe tomorrow
We were notified that laundry facilities would be available in the hostel, but that students rarely use them. I assumed everyone was too lazy to do it, or it was in a dangerous, secluded area. Ahhhh no – there is a room with large sinks. Finishing the laundry cycle at home with all modern conveniences rarely happens!
I decided to give it a go, though; a very humbling experience. I tried to watch the young man next to me to figure it out, but he caught me looking when he was washing his underwear.
Damn foreigners. (that would be me)
After letting them dry in the sun (while I napped from exhaustion), I brought them in and put them back in my dirty clothes bucket. My clothes were streaked with yellow soap from not fully rinsing, and I should’ve thought to wipe off the rack before laying my ‘clean’ clothes on it. The streaks of dirt kind of counteract my toil.
{Exasperated sigh}
I’ll master this way of life – after I figure out how to get to the beach!
I decided to give it a go, though; a very humbling experience. I tried to watch the young man next to me to figure it out, but he caught me looking when he was washing his underwear.
Damn foreigners. (that would be me)
After letting them dry in the sun (while I napped from exhaustion), I brought them in and put them back in my dirty clothes bucket. My clothes were streaked with yellow soap from not fully rinsing, and I should’ve thought to wipe off the rack before laying my ‘clean’ clothes on it. The streaks of dirt kind of counteract my toil.
{Exasperated sigh}
I’ll master this way of life – after I figure out how to get to the beach!
Thank you, Whitney, for the anti-diarrheal
Jinx, again.
I tried to contact the nurse Saturday night when I was pretty sure I had malaria or typhoid or cholera or contracted something terrible. Unfortunately she (Whitney) was living it up in Vegas. We should still probably talk though... I can't find my insurance card and the student clinic isn't open. The bright side is that I'm not hungry, so that's good.
I’m pretty sure my current state is due to the 1.5L of impure water I drank. I didn’t think the cap was sealed, but why be paranoid, right? This could’ve been avoided, but if I don’t learn by making little mistakes I’m living too cautiously. The high fever, chills, body aches, cramps & headache confirm that I can’t drink the water.
I've heard worms are hard to get rid of. Let's hope that's not the case.
I tried to contact the nurse Saturday night when I was pretty sure I had malaria or typhoid or cholera or contracted something terrible. Unfortunately she (Whitney) was living it up in Vegas. We should still probably talk though... I can't find my insurance card and the student clinic isn't open. The bright side is that I'm not hungry, so that's good.
I’m pretty sure my current state is due to the 1.5L of impure water I drank. I didn’t think the cap was sealed, but why be paranoid, right? This could’ve been avoided, but if I don’t learn by making little mistakes I’m living too cautiously. The high fever, chills, body aches, cramps & headache confirm that I can’t drink the water.
I've heard worms are hard to get rid of. Let's hope that's not the case.
Lost in a land without directions
Asking directions doesn’t help much either. Whether in the bank or on the street, a nod or quick point is the most you’ll receive.
During the campus tour, a student asked the guide which direction was north. “Well, it depends,” she said. “On what?!” was our agitated response. After hours of walking in the hot sun, dirt covering our sweaty bodies, and no word yet of what classes will even be offered for the semester, we were a little on edge.
“Well, some people call the Main Gate north, some call it south. It gets confusing so we just use landmarks.”
When I got separated from the group I called Rose, my guide, and told her I was by the house with the monkey.
During the campus tour, a student asked the guide which direction was north. “Well, it depends,” she said. “On what?!” was our agitated response. After hours of walking in the hot sun, dirt covering our sweaty bodies, and no word yet of what classes will even be offered for the semester, we were a little on edge.
“Well, some people call the Main Gate north, some call it south. It gets confusing so we just use landmarks.”
When I got separated from the group I called Rose, my guide, and told her I was by the house with the monkey.
Some Descriptions
Many students came here in search of making a contribution to mankind or to have a taste of a vibrant culture. Some feel let down in a way, stuck with the upper class.
Back to Madina – I wish I could offer pictures. It’s not that I don’t feel comfortable taking out my camera, it is more doing it with a huge group of foreigners. It seems somewhat like objectifying or exploiting the subjects, who are not trying to be a part of the Travel Channel. They just want to sell their goods so they have less to carry home and a little more to put on the table.
The women are beautiful subjects, wearing fitted dresses of bright colors and patterns, sometimes with a baby wrapped to their lower backs, and perfect posture from working with heavy loads balanced atop their heads.
I picked up some key Twi phrases (a popular tribal language) to bargain with the sellers. It’s a game here – with banter, laughter, teasing and some disapproving ‘tsk-tsks,’ but always ending with genuine smiles and thanks from both parties.
The children are the most amusing. Some are very wary of our unfamiliar white faces. The young girls smile brightly, glad to accept our coo-ing. The young boys either stand sheepishly, refusing to look up completely, or run over and try to snatch a lock of hair or at least get a pinch. Although the stares can be intimidating, it’s refreshing to lose the confines of being politically correct. The majority of people here are black and I am white. Is it really offensive to describe someone by skin color? It’s not a definition, just a description.
Tro-tro: the least expensive form of transportation I’ve encountered. Imagine a first timer on the New York City subway during rush hour in the Times Sq. station, but without AC or signs.
Tro-tros are small vans crammed with sweaty irritable people and driven by men who don’t like to stop completely. A ‘mate’ is also on board, who shouts indecipherably the general direction of where they are headed, or just uses hand signals. I assume the ‘pointing up’ signal means north, but since cardinal directions are entirely subjective (explanation below) I still don’t know where that is. In a land where waiting seems to be the main pastime, the tro-tro defies what is expected and is completely overwhelming.
Back to Madina – I wish I could offer pictures. It’s not that I don’t feel comfortable taking out my camera, it is more doing it with a huge group of foreigners. It seems somewhat like objectifying or exploiting the subjects, who are not trying to be a part of the Travel Channel. They just want to sell their goods so they have less to carry home and a little more to put on the table.
The women are beautiful subjects, wearing fitted dresses of bright colors and patterns, sometimes with a baby wrapped to their lower backs, and perfect posture from working with heavy loads balanced atop their heads.
I picked up some key Twi phrases (a popular tribal language) to bargain with the sellers. It’s a game here – with banter, laughter, teasing and some disapproving ‘tsk-tsks,’ but always ending with genuine smiles and thanks from both parties.
The children are the most amusing. Some are very wary of our unfamiliar white faces. The young girls smile brightly, glad to accept our coo-ing. The young boys either stand sheepishly, refusing to look up completely, or run over and try to snatch a lock of hair or at least get a pinch. Although the stares can be intimidating, it’s refreshing to lose the confines of being politically correct. The majority of people here are black and I am white. Is it really offensive to describe someone by skin color? It’s not a definition, just a description.
Tro-tro: the least expensive form of transportation I’ve encountered. Imagine a first timer on the New York City subway during rush hour in the Times Sq. station, but without AC or signs.
Tro-tros are small vans crammed with sweaty irritable people and driven by men who don’t like to stop completely. A ‘mate’ is also on board, who shouts indecipherably the general direction of where they are headed, or just uses hand signals. I assume the ‘pointing up’ signal means north, but since cardinal directions are entirely subjective (explanation below) I still don’t know where that is. In a land where waiting seems to be the main pastime, the tro-tro defies what is expected and is completely overwhelming.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Why Ghana?
I don’t know. I started at ‘Why not?’ Throw any reason at me for why it might not be considered a good idea; I might have a valid, reassuring response.
I like to travel, and I have to start somewhere in order to go everywhere.
My parents weren’t convinced of the academic merits of African dance, so I had to dig a little deeper and prove to them why the University of Ghana is where I need to be. I found that while Sub-Saharan Africa as a whole is seen as the next frontier for private investment, Ghana is at the top of the charts and has been a model for many countries seeking self-governance and successful democracy. Ghana is rich in natural resources including gold, cocoa, and is on track to begin oil drilling of its coast in the later part of 2010.
The infrastructure within major cities of Ghana supporting its many industries can be attributed to good political governance. While there have been a few coups and some unrest at times, independence was just gained in 1957. It takes some time to work out the logistics of becoming a self-governing country. I won’t go into much more detail, but if you are interested in the macro-look at how Ghana has developed a system that integrates religion and traditional tribal rule successfully, and how this contributes to its success in coming years of economic growth, I would be glad to discuss it in six months J
So, armed with my mother’s courage and curiosity, and my father’s restlessness, I’m here. I will study International Business (and African tribal dance!) at the University of Ghana for this semester, and then spend two months making my way to Barcelona, Spain, from where I fly home. I expect some difficulties, homesickness, and days of lament, but when the ‘what-ifs’ square off with the ‘woulda-coulda-shouldas’ I would rather face the first.
My hopes of what I will achieve here obviously go beyond academia, but I don’t exactly know what I am hoping for. I’ll let you know as I figure it out…
GETTING READY
Although I’ll be away for about six months, packing light is important because of the labor involved in my preferred expeditions. I filled to the max a backpacker’s pack (thank you, Jack) and a large backpack (thanks, Mom). I’m sure I will have many thanks to administer for the gifts received, though hopefully not amplified for the anti-diarrheal.
I never thought I’d be able to leave the heels at home, but I must admit I feel liberated J
ARRIVAL
Leaving home was difficult this time. I don’t know who I was trying to get away from in the past, but I really miss those close to me. At the airport my Mom always gives me a card that makes me blubber like an idiot at least for the first flight. Her parting words of wisdom for this trip were very encouraging, but also to “never discount the power of your tears. They can be healing waters & a stream of joy. Sometimes they are the best words a heart can speak.”
I let my heart speak the entire first night here in Accra.
I wanted so badly to be comforted in the bosom of the very fluffy woman with a deep, comforting laugh who helped with check-in.
I’ve realized that happiness here is a decision. Things move slower than anywhere I’ve been, I stand out more than ever before (surprise), boob sweat starts by 9 am (back sweat maybe earlier, I can’t see it), and we haven’t been able to leave campus or start a routine yet. There’s really no option but to smile through it.
If you have any specific questions about the living conditions, I’d be glad to share the details, but will skip them for now to maintain readership.
DAY 1
I’ve taken some thoughts from my journal because I haven’t had access to the internet and need to recount.
I wrote about the many security lectures we had including some seemingly far-fetched stories about being robbed with machetes. The students who have been here for a semester assured us those tales were exaggerated.
I went on to write that many of the students decided to go for a drink at a spot on campus, and although all I could think about at dinner was a cold beer, I became really tired as the group was assembling to leave. Since I had stayed up until 5am crying and reading The Gift of Fear (thank you, Mr. Bahm), I decided to focus on making friends some other time.
I woke up this morning (Day 2) to tales of the group being attacked on the way back from the bar. Although it was a group of 20 students, three men were bold enough to hide in the tall grass in wait for the foreigners. They approached the group from behind, carrying a gun and (jinx) a machete. Two girls lost their belongings; our entire group lost a sense of security. Thankfully, the attack was not physically violent. The University has expressed their deep sorrow over the unfortunate event and is doing everything in their power to calm our unrest and make us aware of services provided for our safety.
We worked with a wonderful counselor tonight and refuse to let fear keep us captive or alter our perception of the incredibly friendly Ghanaians.
On a lighter note, I finally borrowed some shampoo/conditioner to use. To illustrate the conditions here, that was a truly luxurious shower!
Still no internet – sorry folks for the long wait.
Finally, we were released from campus activities and ventured (as a group) into the city. We took tro-tros (description to follow) to the Madina market. The contrast of areas in Greater Accra is astounding. On campus we are secluded from the conditions around us.
I don’t know. I started at ‘Why not?’ Throw any reason at me for why it might not be considered a good idea; I might have a valid, reassuring response.
I like to travel, and I have to start somewhere in order to go everywhere.
My parents weren’t convinced of the academic merits of African dance, so I had to dig a little deeper and prove to them why the University of Ghana is where I need to be. I found that while Sub-Saharan Africa as a whole is seen as the next frontier for private investment, Ghana is at the top of the charts and has been a model for many countries seeking self-governance and successful democracy. Ghana is rich in natural resources including gold, cocoa, and is on track to begin oil drilling of its coast in the later part of 2010.
The infrastructure within major cities of Ghana supporting its many industries can be attributed to good political governance. While there have been a few coups and some unrest at times, independence was just gained in 1957. It takes some time to work out the logistics of becoming a self-governing country. I won’t go into much more detail, but if you are interested in the macro-look at how Ghana has developed a system that integrates religion and traditional tribal rule successfully, and how this contributes to its success in coming years of economic growth, I would be glad to discuss it in six months J
So, armed with my mother’s courage and curiosity, and my father’s restlessness, I’m here. I will study International Business (and African tribal dance!) at the University of Ghana for this semester, and then spend two months making my way to Barcelona, Spain, from where I fly home. I expect some difficulties, homesickness, and days of lament, but when the ‘what-ifs’ square off with the ‘woulda-coulda-shouldas’ I would rather face the first.
My hopes of what I will achieve here obviously go beyond academia, but I don’t exactly know what I am hoping for. I’ll let you know as I figure it out…
GETTING READY
Although I’ll be away for about six months, packing light is important because of the labor involved in my preferred expeditions. I filled to the max a backpacker’s pack (thank you, Jack) and a large backpack (thanks, Mom). I’m sure I will have many thanks to administer for the gifts received, though hopefully not amplified for the anti-diarrheal.
I never thought I’d be able to leave the heels at home, but I must admit I feel liberated J
ARRIVAL
Leaving home was difficult this time. I don’t know who I was trying to get away from in the past, but I really miss those close to me. At the airport my Mom always gives me a card that makes me blubber like an idiot at least for the first flight. Her parting words of wisdom for this trip were very encouraging, but also to “never discount the power of your tears. They can be healing waters & a stream of joy. Sometimes they are the best words a heart can speak.”
I let my heart speak the entire first night here in Accra.
I wanted so badly to be comforted in the bosom of the very fluffy woman with a deep, comforting laugh who helped with check-in.
I’ve realized that happiness here is a decision. Things move slower than anywhere I’ve been, I stand out more than ever before (surprise), boob sweat starts by 9 am (back sweat maybe earlier, I can’t see it), and we haven’t been able to leave campus or start a routine yet. There’s really no option but to smile through it.
If you have any specific questions about the living conditions, I’d be glad to share the details, but will skip them for now to maintain readership.
DAY 1
I’ve taken some thoughts from my journal because I haven’t had access to the internet and need to recount.
I wrote about the many security lectures we had including some seemingly far-fetched stories about being robbed with machetes. The students who have been here for a semester assured us those tales were exaggerated.
I went on to write that many of the students decided to go for a drink at a spot on campus, and although all I could think about at dinner was a cold beer, I became really tired as the group was assembling to leave. Since I had stayed up until 5am crying and reading The Gift of Fear (thank you, Mr. Bahm), I decided to focus on making friends some other time.
I woke up this morning (Day 2) to tales of the group being attacked on the way back from the bar. Although it was a group of 20 students, three men were bold enough to hide in the tall grass in wait for the foreigners. They approached the group from behind, carrying a gun and (jinx) a machete. Two girls lost their belongings; our entire group lost a sense of security. Thankfully, the attack was not physically violent. The University has expressed their deep sorrow over the unfortunate event and is doing everything in their power to calm our unrest and make us aware of services provided for our safety.
We worked with a wonderful counselor tonight and refuse to let fear keep us captive or alter our perception of the incredibly friendly Ghanaians.
On a lighter note, I finally borrowed some shampoo/conditioner to use. To illustrate the conditions here, that was a truly luxurious shower!
Still no internet – sorry folks for the long wait.
Finally, we were released from campus activities and ventured (as a group) into the city. We took tro-tros (description to follow) to the Madina market. The contrast of areas in Greater Accra is astounding. On campus we are secluded from the conditions around us.
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