Dramatis Personae (Ghana)

As it stands at the time of posting:

 

Dramatis Personae

 

These are the people whose names and faces I remember so far. Keep in mind that I’m horrible at guessing ages in general, and that everyone is generally nice (if not friendly). MOPC = method of physical contact, which almost every boy has, and each one’s is unique.

Moses – He’s called the actor because he is so outgoing and dramatic, and a really nice guy.; he’s our “secret weapon” when it comes to taxis because he always manages to negotiate a lower price, and enjoys doing so. He’s one of the older kids, but I’m not sure how old. I think that I’m going to become good friends with him and his brother Daniel. MOPC is to continually do the traditional handshake, easily twenty times in a row.

Daniel – Moses’ brother, who looks like, and acts like, Chris Rock; I don’t even know if he knows who that is. When I first met him he was wearing a button-up shirt that got switched inside-out a few times during the day, just randomly. He so far has needed help with angles, but he does understand them fairly well. No  MOPC I can recognize.

JohnBu – One of the smaller kids who always wants to be carried (MOPC), but is old enough to walk. He whines a lot, and the other boys hit him, in a sort of chicken-and-egg cycle. Very wiry.

Frank – a smaller kid, but a little disconcerting; he has the build of a midget (and is surprisingly stout for his age) and the face of a 26-year-old. Aggressive when it comes to things that he wants. I found out later that he has dwarfism, and is actually ten but looks to be about five. He also wants to be carried all the time (MOPC).

Edward – an older boy who my friend sponsored, now a sophomore in high school. Probably the calmest, friendliest person I’ve met so far, he really likes math and especially business.

Awuly – probably about ten, he has a habit of hanging off me and putting himself in a headlock that honestly cannot be comfortable (MOPC). He comes up to my side, takes my arm and puts it around his head (which is hip-level for me), similar to what would happen if he hugged me and I actually put my arm around him – but then he sticks my arm like it would be if I had my hand in my pocket, then hugs me as tightly as possible. If you manage to find a partner to try this with, you’ll find that this exerts a surprising amount of crushing power. The weird thin is that he’s very deliberate about this whole ordeal, and I do my best to avoid it.

Abraham Lincoln – yep. In the flesh; of a young Ghanaian boy, specifically. He’s supposedly smart, but very violent and demanding. He loves to be read to even though he never pays attention. MOPC is to either lay across my lap, or force me to restrain him while he tries to maul this one other boy whose name I don’t know.

Leon – I’m not sure what his whole story is, but he’s not in school and doesn’t have a job. He doesn’t stay at the orphanage, but spends his free time there (all day, every day). He was separated from his parents when his papers got stolen and is looking for some kind of work; he wants me to buy him a watch. I’ve been warned about him by a multitude of people, in terms of trusting him, so I’m not sure if any part of his story is true and am not giving him the benefit of the doubt. He reminds me of a large number of the “troublemakers” at Garfield.

Daniel  – one of the older boys and a great football player. The day before I arrived he had been awarded as the champion of the All-Ghana Orphanage League; this is quite an accomplishment considering the popularity of football here. My friend and Auntie Stephanie discussed the possibility of him joining a club as the next step in his education and his soccer career; it’s my understanding that these clubs would be like the Cascade swim team except with a small educational component. He only like female hip-hop artists.

Okorse – Also one of the older boys, he conversely only likes the male hip-hop artists. He and a few of his friends took me on a short walk my second night at the orphanage; other than that I don’t know that much about him. His MOPC is a fist pound followed by a sort-of wiping the back of his hand under his chin (that’s our particular handshake).

Nicholas – My friend from the outside, who is the cause of a bit of drama now and again. Besides getting me in trouble with one of the Aunties, he somehow not only figured out where Andy and Laura were living but showed up at Laura’s house one night for what he said was help with his homework. She, too, got in trouble for this, and next time we saw him she firmly told him never to do that again. Other than that, he’s very smart, probably the smartest person I’ve run into so far. He’s only thirteen, but when he sat in with me during tutoring on Monday, while I tutored boys the same age as him he completely understood everything I was teaching; we got to talking at the beach, and he has already decided that he wants to pursue a career in agriculture (he says that he’s fascinated by how you can grow the plants to feed people and make money – his words). He absolutely loves swimming.

Andy – one of the Projects Abroad volunteers, from England. He’s been in Ghana for a month and a half already, but in the Volta and Ho regions. He feels extremely comfortable here, clubbing all the time (my general impression) and giving out his phone number to quite a lot of people. Nice guy, funny, eighteen, and Buddhist. I haven’t yet asked him why he chose this particular trip, but he’s the only other male volunteer.

Laura – As I said before, my saving grace. She’s very easy to talk to, adventurous and helpful – and this is where I stop making observations about her character in favor of providing facts, so that you, reader, can discern her character for yourself. She has been in Accra with Projects Abroad since the Wednesday before I arrived, but showed up to the orphanage the day after. She knows the area very well already (not the are immediately around the orphanage, but she knows where the markets are, how to use the trotro, etc) and is going to help me get a phone and find the market [today]. She, too, is taking gap year, but not by choice; and while probably the first thing that’s going to pop into your head when you read that is, “Oh, she didn’t get into the Uni she wanted because she didn’t do as well as she hoped” I assure you that is definitely not the case. For those of you who don’t know, you get into Uni in England based on what your teachers predict your grades are going to be (great argument for not ticking them off); Laura was predicted three A’s and a B (in the class she needed an A the most), and so she was not accepted to the school of her choice, a dentistry school (again, for those of you who don’t know, dentistry is one of, if not the absolute, most respected and challenging field of medicine in England); but after lots of hard work, and practically living at the library, she pulled all four A’s – and since her school was known as having an extremely rigorous education with usually accurate predictions, she actually made the newspaper. Other important things: she wants to visit the U.S., again, but more than just New York this time (although she did love it last time). More on her later, since I think we’ll be going to ChurCheese every day (she says we have two weeks to try everything on the menu)  and because she’s reading my blog, so I can’t say anything nasty about her yet.

Emmanuel – A soft spoken boy, probably thirteen or fourteen. Exceedingly nice, and perpetually smiling a soft smile, his MOPC is to put his left arm on either my bicep or over my heart, and hold it there while we talk. What makes this interesting is that his left arm twitches  often, which caught me by surprise the first time; apparently he has epilepsy.

Atsu – Spongebob kid, since I’ve only ever seen him wearing a Spongebob shirt and similarly yellow shorts. I helped him with his math – he has tests coming up this week, but he knows his stuff, the only problem is that he does not sleep (he’ll wake up and study from one to three in the morning because that’s when it’s quite – supposedly). His MOPC is to walk next to me with his arm around my waist. Really nice, loves sports.

Sandy – another Delta flight attendant, I met her on my third night here. She’s been visiting the orphanage for a year and a half, and we got to talking about travel in general. She’s adopted one of the boys but is having some issues getting him into the states because they can’t get a birth certificate.

Auntie Stephanie – The absolutely and unusually friendly Auntie who watches the library until 4 PM. She has the most expressive face I’ve ever seen (every little part moves, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen the same expression repeated) with the biggest, warmest smile.

Dela – the mute, slightly touched girl. She will always latch onto me (hand hold of death) when she sees me, probably because I let her. However, I’m beginning to understand how to communicate with her, and how to interpret her mannerisms and the parameters of her world. She points to everything, and grabs using the claw of death (forefinger and thumb, with enough crushing power to seriously bruise something, so I keep her away from the small children). Usually she’s just content to just hold hands indefinitely.

Germany – one of the three Projects Abroad volunteers who has been here longer than me, she’s from Berlin. She works with in the younger boy’s house, feeding and bathing them in the afternoon. I don’t know specifically how long she’s been here but I’m the first male volunteer that she’s seen. Very nice, seems to be very honest and hardworking.

England – the second Projects Abroad volunteer, who I believe is from Cambridge. She had some sort of a mainstream business job that she quit after one year to volunteer at this orphanage. She focuses on watching the infants.

Denmark – another Projects Abroad volunteer, who has been here for three months. I know absolutely nothing about her.

Jasmine – a new Projects Abroad volunteer that arrived with Andy and Laura, she’s from India and I haven’t had the chance to talk with her.

Ghana: Day Three

Ghana: Day Three

Last night was the best sleep I’ve gotten in days, which is saying something because it lasted approximately three hours and was full of crazy dreams (those could be the “night terrors” that come as side effects from taking the Mefloquin, but these aren’t actually scary, just really trippy). Additionally, I woke up sick again. My mouth still really hurts (more), my nose is running nonstop, and my right ear is still plugged. I’ve been sneezing and sniffling ever since I woke up.

Three more nights of this and I’m going to end up in seriously compromised health; we’ll see if I can’t nap today, but I doubt it since I still think I’m on for the beach with Nicholas at eleven o’clock. I might go get some breakfast from ChurCheese, depending on who is around (they have a huge American breakfast for 15 cedis).

Don’t get me wrong, I am glad that I’m here, but I’m not having fun yet. Yes, I’m blogging nonstop, but that’s not really fun nor social. My friends have only been free after I’m done tutoring, when I’m tired and approaching the end of my day. I am definitely enjoying myself to certain degree, but it’s not fun yet, and that is the distinction that I’m working to change by a) hanging with other volunteers, going to the beach and just doing things, and b) continually trying to devise a [better] way to sleep.

So right now I’m in limbo. These are the variables that will decide whether or not I return home early: how sick I get, which also relates to how much sleep I get; how my social life, both within the orphanage and without develops; and whether or not I can find a way to be more helpful. As it is, this morning I didn’t help the kids get ready for school because I was just so fatigued.

My plan right now is to just suck it up; I don’t need to complain about anything, seeing as my life is still great, and I now have new opportunities with the arrival of the new volunteers. I’m simply putting this out there so that you, reader, can better understand the choices I make and why I make them.

I’m going to try to back to sleep for a bit.

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I have three places in my room where I blog, which is saying something considering the size of the space I have to work with. The first spot is the vantage point, sitting up on the top bunk; it is the closest to the window, and hence my previously favorite spot. The second spot is in bed, either sitting or laying, with which there is less space to comfortably blog but it’s where I previously wrote before bed. Now I have combined those two into the new spot – on the floor. This floor is only slightly less comfortable than the bed, and I cannot stretch out ll the way, but there is much more room to breathe, and sit.

It’s at this third spot I wrapped up the earlier woe-is-me section, shut off my netbbook, and fell into a peaceful, restful sleep for four hours.

Hallelujah.

I woke up with a significantly less runny nose, less painful mouth, and both my blocked ear and my general fatigue was gone. Three more nights of this and I’ll be invincible.

And so I woke up at 10:40, threw on some shorts, and met up with Nicholas; but not before getting yelled by an Auntie for inviting him into the Children’s Home – apparently outside boys are not allowed to visit, which makes all sorts of no sense if half the community was watching the football game on Sunday.

We left, and headed to the tro-tro stop; I still don’t completely understand how they work. You wait, possibly for a certain color tro-tro (they’re just really beaten up vans – ours was white both to and from the beach which is why I think color matters), make a few hand signals back and forth with the drivers without saying anything, and wait for a bunch of them to drive by; then you crowd on (“crowd” being the operative word), give the driver your money (0,25 cedis per person) and get delivered to your destination. It seems fairly straightforward (I watched Nicholas) except for the crazy hand signals and picking the van; in other words, I’m not trying on my own any time soon.

But we made it to the beach! You pay one cedis per person just to get access, and then you have to buy something at the beach-front cafe (we got cokes) before swimming. Apparently that was the tourist beach, because I saw white people there; Nicholas said the place gets packed on Sundays. It was generally fun, burning eyes, throat and all, but swimming among the routine pieces of trash took little getting used to; but overall, like I said, fun (and it was great to get soaked).

Now I’m back and finishing this up before I go back to the library. I was there a bit ago, but no one is back from school yet, which strikes me as odd – not that I’m complaining.

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I’m tired, which I feel sort of bad about because it’s not like I’m really exerting myself; granted, tutoring wasn’t easy. Auntie Stephanie, by far the best person every (read her excerpt in my cast list), left around four today, and I inadvertently got the job of holding down the fort for an hour, juggling both the kids and Dela (guess who found out the name of the mute girl) until Laura showed up – and then not much changed until I talked to Frank about the rest of the week.

The rest of the week. Right now, that’s such a nonissue for me; it doesn’t need to exist and yet it does – something abstract image to be dealt with by people who know how best to paint it. The point I’m at right now is far removed from that ideal: there are so many new things everyday – not just experiences, but rules, gossip, people and opportunities – that I  have my hands full finding time to breathe, much less plan. It’s not like I have a busy schedule – quite the opposite – but mentally my day is overflowing.

The point is, Frank and Laura and the children keep on making plans at me (which I greatly appreciate) but all I can manage is semi-coherent assent. As it stands, the rest of my week looks like this:

Wednesday: I’m going to breakfast at ChurCheese at 10AM sharp, and I’m honestly not going to get up until 8:30 at the earliest (I realize now that there is no way possible I’m going to be able to get up at 4 to help the kids get ready for school, have a day, and go to bed at 11, with either my current health or in this heat, if I want to be functional and pleasant). After that, some group involving Laura and/or Frank is going to head over to MTN to help me get a phone, and then Laura is going to take me to the internet cafe (which is supposedly cheap enough that she watches full episodes of 90210 on the regular).

Thursday: Some of the Projects Abroad people are going to an Irish pub in the evening, and they need the token American. Not actually, but it’s worth a shot (no pun intended); Laura said it would be alright if I joined them, and I would get to meet a bunch of the other volunteers.

Friday: Frank is taking me to some sort of golf activity around one in the afternoon; since he’s the guy who runs the library, I’m inclined to follow his lead (and it sounds fun). I’m not sure if I can bring other volunteers; I get the feeling that that’s not going to happen but I’ll ask.

Saturday: Laura says that a bunch of volunteers are going to the coast (or something I’llt clarify later) that’ll be really fun, and again I should be allowed to join them.

Sunday: I could either still be on the coast-thing or watching Daniel’s game, depending on the time conflicts.

How this, and my conversation with Frank, relate to the rest of my day is just that I simply slipped in a little something about escaping the little people (“Laura and I were going to get some food”) per her suggestion and off we went to ChurCheese for my breakfast, lunch, and dinner all rolled into one. This time, though, there were plenty more people, the service was much faster, and the tv was showing some soccer game. The only problem was that I couldn’t remember what I had ordered last time, and accidentally ordered it again – except this time was about three times spicier, now only slightly less incendiary than “The Soup That  Shall Not Be Named”. After a similar routine of taking a bite, drinking lots of water, and shoveling in the chips, Laura said that she’s not going to let me order anything spicy anymore – excellent idea, in my stomach’s opinion.

Laura was nice enough to give me a ride back in the taxi she had grabbed to go back to her house; we decided that ChurCheese was a repeat experience, hence tomorrow’s breakfast plans.

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This is that part of the blog entry that I probably shouldn’t be writing, but I was advised to write the truth; and I believe that this is such an integral part to how things work around here that I can’t just not write about it. I will keep these observations as objective and unbiased as possible, and let the reader decide for themselves what is really going on.

The first incident in this theme was that of Andy at the front office. Long story short, he had asked if Nicholas (my friend from outside) was a child in the orphanage, and the woman sitting in the front office just ignored him completely; he continued to ask, when a Ghanain woman poked her head in to say hi, and this woman immediately looked up and asked, “Can I help you?” When the woman left, Andy asked again, with no avail, and then asked if there was a roster of all the children; to which the woman said yes, Andy asked if he could see it, the woman said no, Andy asked why, and the woman said, “Because I don’t want to! What are you even looking for?” Andy repeated his original query and the woman just exasperatedly went off about how no, there was no child named Nicholas, why would he think that, of course there was no child named Nicholas here, etc. to which Andy said, “Okay, that’s what I was asking!” walked to the door and added, “You know you don’t have to be so rude” and the woman just started again, “Oh thank you! Thank you so much! Thank you for that.” This is as best I understand this incident, relayed to me by Andy; he went on to claim that the staff, at least the administration, s racist and mostly extremely unpleasant to deal with in general.

The next point was just a simple conversation with Germany (I still don’t know her name, but she seems really nice now – I think the earlier issue is precisely what I’m going to outline here, since I met her when she was dealing with the special needs boy). I got to talking with her about the orphanage, and how her day was going; and then, “doing my research” I just brought it up that I heard that the staff and the volunteers don’t always get along. She confirmed this, and went on to explain how a lot of the Aunties don’t care as much as they should, especially since they’re getting paid (this last fact surprised me, I’m not sure why). For example, they know that Germany takes care of the handicap kid, and so they specifically don’t – they don’t clean him (which since he soils himself is an arduous and wholly disgusting task), and I’m not sure if they feed him. Her main complaint, though, is that she’ll be working with the kids, trying to deal with absolutely all of them, and the Aunties of the group she is working with (the younger boys) will be napping  th entire time (whilst on the clock). She confirmed that in her opinion, the staff does seem to be at least a little racist, and they and the volunteers are often at loggerheads.

These are the things that I’ve been told, and I’ll have to see how they develop. I have been the recipient of a colder treatment by the Auntie’s than that of other Ghanaians, but to be fair their job is neither easy nor rewarding, and the whole of the volunteers come from living situations much better than anything I have seen so far. The two questions I’m dealing with now are:

 1) At what point does a logical and completely understandable jealousy of the volunteers that they come into contact with on a daily basis combined with not only the fact that none of these volunteers are black, but moderate culture clash, result in something that could be undeniably be considered racism?

2) At what point do I actually care about whether or not they’re racist? I would be if I was in their position, and not only is anything I can do going to change their mind, but whatever their basis for the way they treat us is, at the end of the day, their choice.

It could very well be they only like people who actually significantly help; like my friend with the cribs or the woman I met earlier tonight, Sandy (a Delta flight attendant) who had adopted a boy out of the home. In this light, it makes perfect sense; but no college kid volunteering here will be able to match that level of contribution or even close, and if that is the basis of the problem there is no recourse that I care about enough to take.

Ode to the Morning Walk with a Mute Girl

Ode to the Morning Walk with a Mute Girl

There is something Zen about insanity:

Everything is something, and nothing is

Everywhere is somewhere, and nowhere is

Everyone is someone, and no-one is.

These are not delusions, but facts;

Realities suppressed and rejected,

Superseded by a jury of “peers”

Could not be further from the truth

For those who know, watch, and listen.

It is their reality, their world. They find

Beauty where we see none; they find

Horror where we see joy. They find

Friends where they can, when they need

Support.

They exist, and we exist. Those are our facts.

We do not communicate well, and at the same

time we do not need to speak

to understand each other.

“Good Causes”

“Good Causes”

There is nothing inherently wrong with mission trips, volunteering abroad, or building houses in such-and-such impoverished country; but where the issue arises is when people think that they are saving the day by “sacrificing” their time for these causes. There are so many things wrong with that mentality, and this topic seems to arise enough, that it warrants being explained in detail.

Primarily, there is no physically possible way that a scrawny teenager on a mission trip is going to be able to do more (close to, or even ballpark amount of) work per day than any of the big, burly natives who undoubtedly have more time, energy, and experience building houses. Don’t get me wrong – I was that teenager once, scrawny and all. The city was El Maizal in El Salvador, and I went with my friend’s church group as a part of Episcopal Relief and Development. I actually went twice, and both times we spent a few days sightseeing and the rest working- digging, wheelbarrowing and dumping. This was all necessary for laying the foundation for more development, and it felt like good, honest work that the inhabitants would appreciate; I realized, later on, that the “construction workers” we were staying out of the way of could have gotten our job done in half the time. When I asked about this, I was told that the trip was never about building the houses; it was about building the community and connection that the group had with the town. That really stuck with me, and I realized that that is the important part about all these trips abroad.

That’s not to say that someone can’t do some serious good while they’re abroad – it happens all the time. But that’s the result of a much longer commitment, and the travelers/ volunteers usually have more appropriate positions while they’re their; or maybe they are bringing donations or business. The reason why I wrote this, though, is because of all the people who think that just because they’re going over for a bit to do whatever, they’re awesome. It’s not that easy to help others this way; and that “precious” time that you’re donating is that of an infinitely more privileged middle- or upper-class lifestyle, complete with disposable income and leisure time (the definition of which changes drastically when you throw a Third-World country into the mix).

My solution is not to try and find a longer, more expensive trip, or even to donate your allowance to charity. It’s much more simple: allow the trip to change you. Don’t go forth with an unshakable devotion, staunch morals, or any kind of self-righteousness – you can get those while you’re there. Go forth with an open mind, and learn about the situation and how to help; and in the spirit of teaching men to fish, when you come back from your trip, teach other people what you learned; don’t be the Third-World’s savior; be their messenger.

Ghana: Day Two

Ghana: Day Two

There are a few things worth mentioning.

One, that I’ve had to “break into” the building three times. As  mentioned yesterday, my room is inside a guest house of some kind; and my neighbor, who I rarely see, has the only key to unlock the door. Two details: he insists on locking the door when he leaves, which like I said is at complete odds with my schedule; and the lock is an actual bolt, not just a handle lock. So not only have I had to break into the building three times, I’ve had to break out if it as much as well. Here’s how that works: the door is actually a set of double doors, and the fundamental flaw in bolting double doors is that if both doors are loose, there is enough give to open them simultaneously. That’s a handy fact when you’re on the inside and can see the latch keeping the fixed door in place; but when you’re on the outside, trying to get in, there’s a few more parts to that equation. Specifically, two broken deck chairs (as a stepladder), one partially dismantled window (I removed a plane of glass, temporarily), and one really dirty arm (the window sill above the door was, is, and forever shall be nasty). Throw in some amused children to complete the picture, and you’ve got yourself my morning and evening routine.

Two, roosters. Specifically, the ones that start cock-a-doodle-doo-ing at 2am, and continue, right outside your window, every five to fifteen seconds (I timed it), indefinately. Having that begin, after a heat-and-Mefloquin-induced night of vivid dreams, tied up in the kevlar cocoon,  is not a pleasant morning.

Naturally, I got up at 4:45 AM. Not that I have any right to complain about the time – everyone here wakes up at 4, does their chores, showers, and the kids leave for school at 8:07 (they said), come home, do their homework, play, and everyone seems to be in bed by 8:30. So really, I’m in a timezone somewhere far, far away; the point is, though, that waking up at 4:45 AM after lots and lots of travel just physically hurts – I’m going to try to eat something but no promises about keeping it down.

Regardless, my morning was productive. I managed to rig the mosquito net in such a way that it regains most of it’s effectiveness, and then proceeded to devise some exercises that a six-foot-two person can do in a five-by-three space. I’m predicting that I’m going to be working out a lot, since a) between the hours of 8 until 2, there’s nothing to do, b) the only way I’m going to be able to sleep is if I physically exhaust myself, and c) I’m probably going to end up shirtless occasionally, seeing as it’s still hot. After these shenanigans, I decided to see if I could help at all with getting the kids ready for school; I arrived in time to dry off some of the younger boys who were showering, and to help sweep the grounds.

Sweeping the grounds is another one of those totally new things for me; not that I haven’t swept before, it was an integral part of my old job at Swanson’s. What was new was watching all the kids do it; first because they spread out in an unspoken but organized fashion, then because they totally focus on the job, then because they do it really quickly and effectively, and finally because they use a gigantic brush made out of what I think are small palm leaves, dried and tied with shoelaces or ribbons. This is a clever invention in that not only is it easy to make, but it sweeps better than most brooms I’ve seen – and you can use them as a giant pair of tongs, by separating the the leaves and grabbing the trash with them. Another unique aspect of these brooms is that the bundle will loosen as you work, so you have to continually stop and pound the leaves back down (it’s hard to describe, I’ll try to get a picture).

After volunteering, and having the boys teach me how to sweep (I’m still not very good, apparently) I ventured back to my room to rest until the boys had gone to school, and I could walk around the area outside the orphanage in search of breakfast and adventure. It’s 8:45 now, so I’m going to leave soon – I’ll be seeing my friend again this morning in a bit, and then I’m truly on my own here. There are international volunteers coming today, from what I’ve heard, who work during the week and stay at the Salvation Army. Most of them are European, and I might end up befriending them.

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I’m sick. I’ve been sick for a few days, but I was hoping it would go away before I left; it hasn’t, and instead it’s slowly getting worse. I’ve never had anything like it before – it’s almost like the right side of my head is malfunctioning. It started a few days ago with a canker sore on the underside of my tongue (which is honestly annoying enough), and now there are some on the bottom right side of my mouth and one on my gums on the right side. I’ve been brushing religiously, and i rarely eat junk food. It’s gotten to the point where I’ve tried lancing them with a gum strengthener soaked in hand sanitizer, which works really well but I have yet to decide if that’s actually a good idea. I’ve been sleeping on either my right side or my back so that it doesn’t spread to my left side (I think it’s just a nasty cold, since my lymph nodes are inflamed on the right side) and this morning I woke up with my right ear and right nasal passage plugged. If it spreads or gets much worse, I might end up having to return home early.

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I am not, by nature, a poet, but rather, by nature, I am inspired. When this happens, I write. Apparently. You have to understand, up until the end of the school year this year, I’ve never been happy about writing anything (Deathssay, the first thing I enjoyed writing, I’ll post later); and yet now I won’t shut up.

The reason for this revelation is because I went on a walk this morning. As walks go, it was fairly mundane – just a stroll around the orphanage; however, I wasn’t alone. In fact, the walk wasn’t my idea or even really my choice. As it happened, on my way to breakfast, I ran into a mute and slightly touched in the head girl, whose name I still don’t know, but with whom I embarked on a fantastical journey through the orphanage. I still haven’t had breakfast.

And this is all the explanation I’m going to give for “Ode to a Morning Walk with a Mute Girl.”

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There is an extremely vocal goat outside my window.

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I finally managed to leave for the bank, to change my currency, and ChurCheese, for lunch. This being my first real foray into the city, I learned a lot more about my surroundings. The first thing you notice, that I should have been more careful about, is that every guy wears slacks – not just jeans, nice slacks. With dress shoes. Ah well, if they couldn’t figure out that I was a tourist before I’ll be easily identifiable now (ha ha).

The next thing is that there is a type of beauty in this sparse, dry, open area – a lot of the flowers, trees and bushes in the estates near the orphanage are blooming in full color right now; there vivid pinks and yellows, fruity reds, purples and oranges, and even the greenery seems to thrive.

Finally, there are about four times as many taxis s there are cars. Taxis are everywhere – and they would be very popular if not for the trotro, a sort of bus that I have yet to experience.

Of course, when you’re wandering around noticing things for the first time, things are bound to notice you – enter Nicholas. As I’m walking down the street, this Ghanaian kid with a sachet of water (very popular here – not always good for tourists) falls into place walking next to me. He’s a bit wiry, wearing a Spain soccer jersey, and the first thing he asks me is if I’m a footballer, and I say no – he says that I look like one. He plays all the time – and oh by the way, where are you staying? I tell him at the orphanage, and we get to talking about that; apparently he has a bunch of friends there (as later find out, the orphanage is a sort of community center, especially since they have satellite tv). It turns out he’s waiting for someone to show up at the orphanage around three o’clock, and is just killing time until then. What about school, I ask, since that’s where almost the entire orphanage is right now; that, and I passed one cross the street from orphanage with children playing football (you know what I mean) in the courtyard. He told me that he actually has two days of midterms, and gets out of school early – would I like to go to the beach with him tomorrow, around 11? Being me, adventurous, foolish, or whatever, I say yes, and tentative plans are formed.

Meanwhile we traipse to the bank, with Nicholas asking directions of random passer-bys, change some money, and make our way back up to ChurCheese. It’s completely empty, which is slightly disconcerting, but we sit down anyway, and when the waitress comes over I chat with her about Ghana, this being my first time and what foods she could recommend; I still don’t know exactly what I got but it was good, and cheap. Nicholas got a chicken something (it’s typical for tourists to take kids out to lunch) that he shared with me, also good; and the rice that came with both our meals (they were out of chips) was borderline addictive. Keep in mind that ChurCheese is like a more full-service fast food joint, think Marie Callendar’s or Applebee’s but with a gigantic playpen. For some reason, our service was crawling (I think we waited easily 15 minutes for our food, and we were the only people there) but Nicholas and I talked and watched the plasma tv on the wall that was playing the top ten South African music videos (the number one spot went to some song by The Parlotones with a great music video that I’m going to check out).

Post-food found us back at the orphanage, where I immediately ran into my friend, turned around, and saw the rest of the crew that had come over from the hotel. My friend gave the tour, again, and everybody just absolutely swooned at the toddler’s house (it’s really hard not to, I do every time). I got to talking with one of the crew (who I think was actually the boyfriend of one of them but lives here) and he told us that there had been some issues with orphanages selling babies, into labor or any of that category of horrible outcomes; that’s why I was originally asked for those police & medical reports.

We finished up the tour pretty much at that point, but not before my friend introduced me to two of the volunteers that were here with Projects Abroad. I don’t remember their names, but I do remember their countries (Germany was feeding the kid in the wheelchair, England was playing with the toddlers under the tree in the courtyard) and their generally cold shoulders. I used to be sensitive to people generally showing disinterest in you from the moment they meet you, but it’s still a little disconcerting; more so when you’re gambling your social life on them.

At this point it was around 1:30, so my friend and I headed to the library so I could begin helping kids with there homework, a task that I later found involves less math, science and reading skills than a loud voice and the ability to physically restrain a large number of children at once. I began by helping Dwuly with his multiplication tabled, which he actually knows fairly well; and then moved on to helping him with his reading, which is not particularly easy when they have a heavy accent and a lisp. And when they primarily mimic you; I guess that’s more normal than I thought, but a lot of what would happen when I read with the kids is that they would try to perfectly mimic what I said, without even looking at the page. I’ll have to think of something a little different for tomorrow.

But here’s where things do a total handstand – Frank, Andy and Laura. Frank, to the best of knowledge, helps out in the library and is a really nice guy; I think he invited me to go golfing with him on Friday which would be totally random and really, really fun. He’s looking for a netbook, so I’m going to have him take a look at this model eventually.

Andy is one of the two “new” Projects Abroad volunteers. He’s been in Ghana for about a month and a half, in the Volta and Ho(?) regions, but I think he just got into Accra. He’s an eighteen-year-old Buddhist from England and loves Bob Marley and giving his number out to random people (he listed off everybody in his phone book, which was amusing).

Laura is, at this point, my saving grace. She and Andy showed up during the tutoring session and helped out/ saved my life, and we got to talking a bit. She’s nineteen, from England, and here with Projects Abroad but on her own – she’s actually taking a gap year, which makes me really excited, since now I realize I’m not the pariah of the academic experience. The reason she’s my saving grace, though, is because she offered to show me around, take me to the beach and get a cell phone – and just generally hang out, a pleasant and welcome surprise after the other two Projects Abroad volunteers. I’m still to sure what Andy’s doing, but I’d like to hang with him too.

That evening i showed Laura where Celsbridge was, and she had a chicken sandwich with chips and I mooched off her, but not before I had tried my luck with ordering the goat pepper soup. Yes, the goat pepper soup; take three parts “indeterminate mass of bones, meat, and what I think were intestines, most likely from a goat” and two parts “peppers from hell, or paint stripper, whichever you can get your hands on first”, and throw it all in a blender. Serves one foolhardy tourist. I have never, and I promise you, never, tasted anything so spicy in my life; it was good, but after the third sip it felt like it was eating through my stomach lining (just to clarify, that’s not a literary device. It did actually feel like it was eating through my stomach). Hence, Laura was nice enough to let me eat some of her food, and satiate the lava monster in my intestines. Pleasant visual.

We got back after I stocked up on some water, and the rest of the night was uneventful. Andy and Laura left abut ten minutes after we got back, and I spent a bit talking to Okorse, Daniel (the soccer player, not Moses’ brother), and a few others. Daniel actually invited me to his football game on Sunday which I eagerly agreed to attend; and we walked down to the end of the block to look at this street vendor that sells something having to do with movies (Like pirated dvds on steroids, they advertise as being the best collections of a certain genre or theme with up to 3000 minutes of footage. Slightly dubious). Finally, Leon and I ended up talking (he wouldn’t let me go back to the room and go to bed) which is when he told  me his story, which I unfortunately didn’t fully understand; I might get him to e-mail it to me, since from what I could understand it’s a good story if it’s true.

Then I escaped to my room, lay down, and promptly fell asleep.

Sweat

Ghana: Sweat

I am no stranger to sweat. I am not the kind of person who has cause to sweat every day, doing hard physical labor full time or an intense workout routine; and Seattle, this time of year, apparently has hail. At various points in time, however, I have sweated in the past – I used to participate in a crew team, and before and after that I was involved in Aikido. It’s a very simple process: a human is subject to a relatively high amount of heat, or they physically exert themselves to a point where they induce a higher heart rate, or they even could be subject to extremely stressful circumstances. It is an inherently beneficial process, both cooling the body and purging the system of waste chemicals. I am no stranger to sweat.

Let me clarify further: I am no stranger to physical sweat. The heat here in Accra (80 degrees when we landed at 7:45 this morning) goes hand in hand with wet, smelly clothes that begged to be changed. It hits the unwary traveler before they even get off the plane, a sort of welcoming party that hugs you and won’t let go until you’re underwater or back in the air. That is not to say it’s unbearable by any means, it’s just noticeable; a typical human can adapt to it. Let me clarify further: I am no stranger to physical sweat.

There is a kind of sweat, I realize now, that I am alien to, completely, irrevocably, a sweat that I was born without, raised without, and never had cause to know, for which I consider myself cursed a hundred-fold and blessed infinitely. This is the sweat of the soul, caused not when you stand underneath the sun, but when you stand in the middle of an encampment of deserted children and you realize, maybe for the first time, maybe for the hundredth, or thousandth, “what is.”

This is the sweat for which there is no shower, no clean clothes, no breezy salvation; this is the heat that makes you deliberately earn your new clothes, ones that fit better and cool you off just a little bit more the next time; nothing store-bought or mass-produced but instead deliberately handmade, carefully knit, meticulously sewn.

This is the sweat to which I am virgin; this is the sweat that creates the first stitch.

Ghana: Day One

Ghana: Day One

[6:17pm, Sunday, November 7^th]

Okay, now that I’ve gotten “Sweat” out of the way I can tell you about the rest of my day, from the time that the plane touched down until now, and probably through the rest of the night.

The plane landed safely. This may seem an arbitrary and unimportant detail in my journey, but trust me when I say that without it there would be a serious problem; but fortunately my journey was free of serious problems, and even moderate and minor ones (except for the taxi fare, apparently paid in gold); I chalk this up to the distinct possibility of some more exotic expiration that gets me in the middle of the trip. Better notify REI.

Let’s skip to the part where we caught the taxi, or in financial terms, where the taxi caught us: leaving the airport. The first thing you notice when you step outside the airport (if you use the forbidden side doors that we had to ask really nicely to be let out of so we wouldn’t be trampled by…everyone) is that the airport itself is one of the tallest structures in the immediate vicinity. It is a vantage point – which is saying something because it’s no more than four stories on a hill. I counted five skyscrapers – seven-story buildings – on the way to the orphanage, and a plethora of small walled communities (not “gated-neighborhood” walls, concrete “let’s not get robbed” walls), open space, and burned refuse. In my limited experience in temperate Third-World countries, this is the signature, what I expected from the rural areas – not necessarily from the country’s capital.

My next tourist thought was, “Ghana is not a pretty country.” I admit, that thought crossed my mind a couple times. Here’s the first major issue with that judgment: Ghana is not a hilly, verdant landscape replete with middle-class homes in nice neighborhoods, nice sidewalks (or sidewalks at all), copious amounts of lakes and streams, public art, and a visible, solid infrastructure. For those of you who don’t know, that’s Seattle. Ghana is not pretty, in my opinion, because my definition of a pretty city turned out to be Seattle. Whether that’s because I am predisposed to like Seattle, or because that’s where I feel safe, my definition of beauty will have to change a little bit more – which is not a bad thing. I’m not saying that I’m going to decide that Accra, specifically, is a beautiful city when I wake up tomorrow – I’m just saying I need to better define my criteria.

Enough self-righteous self-wronging. We arrived at the orphanage; we forgot to check the price ahead of time and was hit with 15 cedis fee (todays exchange rate is 1.4 cedis per dollar) when the fee usually costs less than ten. We unloaded the bags and the fun began.

First, we dropped our bags off with Samul (all spellings are phonetic estimates, with which the accent doesn’t help), a young boy at OSU who watched them while we paid a visit to the head of the orphanage, a stout Auntie (as all the older women are called) who after neither asking for my medical note (one of the requirements) or background check, nor asking/telling me what my duties were, gave me a room (the room?) for a rate I have to discern. The room in question is exactly that: room. Roughly 6.5x5x10 (w,l,h; in feet), I have enough “room” to stand, lay straight on the bed, and sit on the upper bunk (next to where I crammed my stuff). Yes, there’s a bunk bed, which takes up more than half the room; a mini, mini fridge (electric icebox?), which isn’t cold but serves as a great end table for one of my bags; and an upright fan to serve as my air conditioning. It’s broken, which is why I know the fridge isn’t cold – so now I have the windows (3×1.5, w,h, in feet) open letting in the cool night air (about 75 Farenheit). I’ve never felt safer, though, since I’m in the inner sanctum of what I think is, in fact, a guest house – the walls are about four to five inches of concrete on the inside, closer to seven for the outside wall, with burglar-proof windows and two currently bolted hardwood doors. I have a key, which is the only reason I haven’t termed my room “The Cell.” I was thinking more along the lines of “Emerald Fortress” – not because it’s protecting the guy from the green city, but because the only light in my room is a dark, vibrant green that makes everything  bit trippy. Yes, my Emerald Fortress is nigh impenetrable except for its Achilles’ heel, namely the light switch being outside the door, enabling a switch-happy kid the ability to render the Emerald Fortress into a normal, boring one. On a side note, I managed to st up some clothesline and my mosquito net using one string of rope, the doorknob, and a bedpost – not quite MacGuyver, but the point here is that I’m sleeping on the lower bunk, hanging the mosquito net from the upper bunk. This reduces the overall efficacy of the net by roughly 130%; for those of you not familiar with new math, we minus 90% because the net is against my skin (not so great for keeping those bloodsucking festerpools off my skin) and the other 40% because I’ve effectively cocooned myself into smothering immobility (I’m thinking they made this net out of kevlar – great if the mosquitos are packing heat, no so great for moving, breathing, or surviving).

So I got my room! While they were preparing it (I’m not sure what exactly they were preparing) we gave bread and fruit to the collection of boys who had gathered around us, and this is when I stopped thinking and started learning. If you only notice one thing about the youth here, it will undoubtedly be that they touch. Everything. I had the contents of my pockets examined, and then returned to me; I shook hands, gave hugs, held kids, gave piggyback rides, and carried little ones around with me; each one probably a hundred times over. While you’re standing and talking to someone, they’ll just keep on shaking your hand (which for the record goes broshake-handshake-snap) for minutes. All the kids come and touch you, even though they don’t know you – I was constantly holding hands. As I found out later, if you at ll bend down, sit down, or squat, you’ll induce a dog pile. I say “induce” because it borders on being one of the laws of physics – probably even more reliable. What’s fascinating about the whole thing is that touching is almost subconscious here; whereas in America we try to not touch, anyone or anything.

We began by dropping off our bags at the office, and then toured the infant’s house. These children are by far the cutest things you’ve never seen, hands down; but they are in these moldy cribs (by no fault of the orphanage – they have gotten some new ones in thanks to some serious fundraising, but not quite enough) with torn mattresses. We then visited the younger boys’ (6-12) house, and stopped by the older boys’ (13 and up) house where they were getting ready to watch the Manchester vs. Chelsea soccer match (soccer is BIG here – I’ll probably end up getting a lot of practice). Finally, we took some of the boys and went to…

…Celsbridge, one of the places (specifically a cafe) that will end up being one of my staples outside the walls of OSU. See, I don’t get fed here. I completely understand this, since the food should be saved for the children, but that leaves me with the following options (as best I understand them):

Celsbridge (the cafe): open air, very relaxed, this place is about 300 feet straight out of the front gate and specializes in meat. Well, supposedly. We ordered chips (fries), two sausages and one beef something-or-other; they were out of beef so we ordered kebab; turns out they were out of kebab, so we got the spicy chicken – and when I say spicy chicken, I mean a little chicken and a lot of spicy. I don’t believe I’ve ever tasted meat that was so searingly spicy before – I’ve done hot satays, I love kim chi, and I do like wasabi, but this was completely different. Good, but definitely an acquired taste; and speaking of acquired tastes, I was introduced to the joys of Malt soda, a barley-based carbonated energy drink, supposedly healthy and tastes like it.

Churchie’s (the pizza place): the second best pizza place, and where I think I’m going for breakfast tomorrow morning. Limited options, remember? It’s out the gate and to the left, down the street an indeterminate distance.

Novatel (the hotel): where the crews lay over, also known as one of my two lifelines – the other being the the American Embassy. I don’t know how to get to either one, yet, but I intend to find out. the reason they’re on this list is because they supposedly have the absolute best pizza, ever. I may have to check that out.

Frankie’s (the greasebucket): a hamburger and pizza place that was warned in earnest against visiting.

The Mall (…): It may or may not be close by, but it’s definitely overpriced. Still, I might stop by and get something to snack on.

Street Vendors (the natural selection): I’ll try these out when I’m ready to expire in the most grotesque display of intestinal fireworks. I think they serve goat, might be fun to try. Once.

The other building of note is the bank, where I’ll be changing my money tomorrow; out the gate, take a left, walk a bit, take another left, and walk some more. People here are reeeeal precise, let’s hope that doesn’t apply so much to the money exchange.

And after seeing all this, and learning all that, and meeting all of them, I retired to my room at one in the afternoon to blog, take a shower, and pass out.

Ghana: Prelude

The man next to me on the flight is a very nice Ghanain gentleman from Connecticut by the name of something I can neither spell or pronounce; the reason I know he’s nice is because he didn’t get upset when I poured my orange juice into his lap.

Yup. Let’s backtrack a bit.

I was raised on travel. My mother is a flight attendant and my family has been taking me places since nine months before I was born. People always ask me if I can remember all the places I’ve ever been to; “unfortunately” I took a lot of my trips before I started remembering things (which some would say was early last year, but they can just hush up) so the answer is no. However, I do remember just loving to travel. In the course of my blog I’ll try and throw in as many of my past trips as I can, and I welcome questions, comments and what-the-heck-were-you-thinkings.

However, to stay topical, I’m going to skip straight to the part where I’m taking a gap year before going off to college next Fall. More on that later, but what’s important is that my mom told her friends my plans; and one of them, a fellow flight attendant, suggested that I volunteer at the OSU Children’s Home (orphanage) in Accra. Apparently this woman and her entire family have been volunteering there for a few years, and love it (this includes her children, all of which are younger than me); I was eager to say yes. This would be my second time to Africa, first to Ghana; and I would be there, virtually on my own, for a “good cause.” (I’ll explain this in another blog). It would also be one of the longest amounts of time I’ve stayed in one place. Overall, it sounded like a great idea…

…especially the part where I try some new things. See, besides the “first time to Ghana” and “longest on my own/ in one place” aspects, this would be my first time setting foot in an orphanage. I used to babysit this one kid, Patrick, and he was great. He was everything one looks for in a babysitting job: very energetic, very smart, and very friendly – and there was only one of him. I am not, by any means, a kid person. Sure, I love their cute antics and I seem to get along with them well enough, but I don’t like messy, needy, disruptive, violent, disrespectful, and/or deliberately disobedient people at any age, much less when they each have the energy capacity of a small city. Also, I’ve never been much of a physical contact person, that just is what it is (but I’m getting better). I’m surprisingly okay with the poverty aspect, but the orphan part is totally emotionally incomprehensible for me (as I wish it were for most people). On top of that, I’m not sure about the prevalence of AIDS over at that particular orphanage and that never makes anything easier.

So why an orphanage? And why just jump right in to one in Ghana, rather than building up to it? I’ve been asking myself that for a while, and ‘m not particularly fond of the answers I’m coming up with. Yes, I want to travel. To Ghana? Sure. “Sure”? Yeah, I stopped looking at alternative ways to spend my November when this trip was dropped in my lap. But what about the orphanage aspect? Well, I like to try new things that would normally put people outside of their comfort zones. So you’re just going for your own personal experience? Isn’t that minimizing your goodwill? I just don’t know. In my personal opinion it’s hard to completely selfishly donate one’s time, but it is not impossible and that gray area is where I tread now. I wouldn’t be as worried if I knew that I could make a positive difference; but I’m inherently of the opinion that I can’t bring anything to the table they don’t already have (again, read my “Good Causes” post).

Fortunately, I’m [hopefully] going to be tutoring the children who attend school, and while explaining things to others has never been my strong suit I can only hope that if I take things slow and approach the job with the level of passion that I feel towards education, I’ll be able to make some sort of lasting positive impact. Isn’t that everybody’s goal for life in general though? This sort of normalcy is inspirational.

Now back to the land of the here and now, or more accurately then and there: leading up to the trip was a combination of jealousy and excitement from all of my friends and family, with a liberal dose of apprehension from the latter (I love you guys). I, surprisingly, was nonchalant about the matter. I typically try to never fret about a trip, because I like to have no preconceived notions about my experience, since they provide a digression from flexibility and opportunity. That being said, I took that notion to the extreme, to the point where my parents were questioning my resolve more than once. Not that that was an issue; I welcomed the opportunity to go over the trip with the people that have my best interest at heart; but when one of these opportunities takes place two days before the trip because I still have an untouched shopping list, that’s excessive. Try telling the people at REI that the trip you’re stocking up for leaves in 14 hours (I think they’re taking bets on my survival rate).

So I eventually get packed (true story) and during this whole time I’ve been in contact with various people for making arrangements, or at least going through the motions and faking the rest. I got my visa application sent in (rush mail and rush processed because I left it a little longer than I should have), e-mailed the head of the orphanage, and continually checked in with the woman who would be taking me over and introducing me to everyone (my mom’s friend). She was very helpful in suggesting gifts & donations to bring over, of which I only got my hands on clothes, cards and books (NOTE: if you’re reading this and at any time wish to support OSU Children’s Home, they could use anything having to do with soccer, any vitamins, and diapers, as well as clothes and books. They are in dire need of more cribs as well their current ones are moldy); she was also great help in the nonissue that arose when I heard back from the head of the orphanage. I was out of town the weekend before the trip (see my blog posts about DC) and get an e-mail that Saturday (seven days before I leave and ten days after I sent it) that says I need, among other things, a police background check. For those of you who don’t know, that is a seven-to-fourteen-day, roughly twenty-dollar endeavor that is typically performed by an employer and must be done through the mail (or online for a higher fee). Three days and two police station scavenger-hunts later, I figure that tasty tidbit out. Hence, a dilemma; so instead I begin writing a letter of credence that I thought might suffice; I end up not printing it when the woman tells me that this hasn’t happened before and they won’t turn me away for not having it. Hence, the nonissue is left unresolved.

And with all that travel preparation, on the morning of Saturday, November 6th, 2009, my dad drove me to the airport to catch the 6:15 flight to Lord-only-knows-what (but I intend to find out).

And so it begins.

Wow. I’m actually blogging.

So first off, I want to address the name of the blog, “We’ll see where this takes me…” I chose this name because the main point of this blog is to serve as an online journal for me while I take my year off before going to college, with text and pictures, and more text, and more pictures. I’m travelling, mostly, with my newfound freedom, and right now it looks like I’ll be out and about from November to the end of February (with the chance of travel in October, and the even smaller chance of travelling up until next June or July – but one can hope). The point of the title of the blog belies the sense of “I have a plan, but I’m flexible – I’ll go where the wind blows” because that’s sort of the ideal I want to live with for my year off. Yes, I’m a naive kid just out of high school, and yes, I set lofty goals. But I’m going to be careful – I’m being supported by my wonderful family and friends.

Being said, this also serves as a great starting point for search & rescue (I’m not planning for that to be an issue, but isn’t that the point?). Anyway, my first few posts on here will be of the last couple months and will cover everything I’ve been doing since the end of school.

Now, the disclaimer: I am not a shy person, and I love talking to and getting to meet new people – AND I ALSO LOVE FEEDBACK! If anyone reading this has any suggestions, questions, comments, anything, please let me know. You could recommend new travel destinations, recommend good travelling jobs, or critique my overuse of commas (or any other grammatical fallacy). Really, I’m grateful in advance.