bad days

Bad days are bad. It's true. Regardless of where you are, no one like a bad day.

Bad days in Africa -- are terrible.

Sometime it's showing up to an event and no one is there. Sometime it's planning to leave for some where and no tro is there. Sometime it's riding on a tro and it's, all of a sudden, not going anywhere anymore. Sometime, it's sitting inside a tro with loud Ghanaian music/drama and you don't think you will ever make it to the end. Sometime, it's hearing a baby's insufferable scream and you wish you were listening to the shitty music/drama instead. Sometime, it's like you're somehow caught in your own drama and people are screaming at you and you wish they were never been born. Sometime, some assholes who should have never been born are touching you and screaming at you and all you can do is try not to punch them in the face.

Bad days are fucking terrible here.

It feels like an emotional assault. That a tidal waves had just hit and destroyed the barely held together fragile mental state that you have worked so hard to maintain. And no one is there to help you put it back together.

In Ghana, I am a white lady, a China, a Japan, a Korea, a woman -- an object of fascination and whatever the fuck. I am stared at, shouted at, grabbed at. I am constantly being harassed. Do you know what it's like walking down the street for even just half a block, having people calling you all kind of names that they think are appropriate for you, basing on your look alone. In America, it's racism, it's sexism, it's sexual harassment, it's ignorant, it's crude. Not here. And I can't get too angry. Just ignore them, they say. They are just playing, they say. I can't fight back. It's not culturally appropriate. They're really ribbed, they say.

Bad days are personal.

Some volunteers smile and joke back. Some volunteers give sass. Some volunteers are numb. I don't seem to have found a technique yet, and so I cry. To myself, to other people. Out of anger, and sadness, I cry because I can't do anything else. I cry because it feels as if I've lost the game. I cry because I've lost my cool and gave the the satisfaction of knowing that they have gotten to me. That they have broke me. I cry because  I feel broken.

Bad days are ugly.

I can feel a bit of myself rot away every time I walk away while still hearing the laughter and mockery behind me. A little more bitterness creeps up. A little more hate invades my heart. Misery is not without company. I can feel myself drowning anger, hatred and sub consequently, sadness. I see myself wishing that I was out of here. Maybe I should just give up. I hate these people, their country and their stupid self sabotage way of living and so-call culture -- the very barrier that keeps them from understanding me and my reason for being there. I am a loathsome monster of rage.

No words to soothe my pain, to calm my anger, to appease my sadness. I hate myself and all around me. I blame myself and all around me.

Bad days are seriously bad.

10 months mark - cream, soap and bee.

Somehow, it seems that every time I start to write a new blog post, I never come close to finish it, let alone publish it for the public eyes.  And that is going to be my excuse for being such a crappy blog keeper… every time.

I would also like to blame the lack of internet, but at this point, that’s just beating a dead horse, and I’m no weirdo who likes to abuse dead animals so I digress.

One of the most common questions I get from my friends when I get to talk to them is, “How’s Ghana? Anything crazy/exciting happened to you?” and most of the time, my answer is lame and dissatisfying, “Ghana is fine, nothing crazy has happened.” And I want to take this time to explain myself. Guys, I guess I could say that at this point, I am used to being in a country where, for instance, everywhere you go, there are goats and/or sheeps around. Villages, towns or cities, they are there. Everywhere. Sleeping under parked trucks, laying the middle of the open road, crossing the street, stuffed under seats on my tro, standing (fearlessly) on top of vehicles because the space under the seats is occupied, maybe by some chicken. You can’t go anywhere without seeing them, and it is very real and hilarious.

But, for Ghanaians, this is all too common. This is a part of their daily lives as far as they can remember. There is no humor in seeing a baby goat standing on top of a bench in someone’s court yard crying for its mom who is 3 feet away and also doing the same cry. They don’t care for it, and naturally, as I have no one else around to share the laughs, as well as having seeing these sights too many time, I too, become accustomed to it and unimpressed. So when someone asked me if I have seen anything wild/weird/crazy, truth is, I probably have. Like the time when there was a pack of sheeps stopping in the middle of a high trafficked road to eat some spilled grains while completely blocking traffic but no one seemed to mind. Instead, cars and motors maneuvered their ways around them so they don’t hit the sheeps. Hilarious because just a few hours before that, a 24 seaters car body checked me and no one was concerned that someone was hit but they would rather go out of the way to not hit a sheep. And that is too, no longer a surprise for me, so when I’m talking to you, I also forget to tell you about it.