Everybody Loves Pho.

I’ve been on an Anthony Bourdain bender lately. The snow is burying up the city, the trains aren’t moving and kids aren’t going to school. Snow days have been Tony days. If I’m not eating and traveling, I might as well watch someone else do it. I’m a masochist in that way. Both Hulu and Netflix have various shows featuring Bourdain, but the gist is all the same, mouthy middle aged white man/chef travels to interesting places in the world and eats his heart out. My dream job if there was ever one. I wouldn’t even mind being a middle aged white man to do it. But really though, I want his job.

Out of all the places that he has been to, Vietnam is his favorite place and I totally get it. Vietnamese food in Vietnam is amazeballs. I moved from Vietnam 15 years ago and could still remember what all my favorite street food tasted like, and even where I used to get them. My only regret from my trip in 2011 is that I didn’t eat enough. In America, I love me some fried chicken/chicken wings, I eat Chinese food like a fiend and I would shell out money for quality sushi, but I approach Vietnamese food like a paranoid cat to a stranger. I’m extremely picky with Vietnamese food in America. 

Now, before I go on, I want to make a clarification, when I say Vietnamese food, for all purposes I mean street food/restaurant food, not meals that you get at home. Things that you see at Vietnamese restaurants like pho or other types of noodles soup, for instance, are considered street food, not meals. People in Vietnam don’t regularly cook food like pho for a daily meal. One is because the broth alone could take up a day of cooking and two is why go to all that effort when you can just go out to the corner shop and slurp down a bowl real fast. The Vietnamese meal experience at home is very different, but I digress.

Moving on… every dish I eat at a restaurant, I can’t help but compare to its counterpart that I consumed while in the motherland. Some come close, and some are probably even better for me with healthier cooking alternatives, but there is never an exact experience. Be it the location, the person who cooked it, the person I am with — eating food at a Vietnamese restaurant in America isn’t as great of an experience for me as eating food at a Vietnamese restaurant in Vietnam. This is especially the case for me with pho (pronounce fuh). 

Growing up as a child, I didn’t eat a lot of pho. I was raised in a household that didn’t have a pennant for snacking or street food. Near our house there was a pho stall (not unlike the one below, but without the propane tank, also in a similar location) that I would pass by at least twice a day. 

They would open early in the morning for the breakfast crowd and early the evening for the late diner crowd. Typing this, I could still smell the aroma from more than 15 years ago. The essence of beef and anise mixed in with the burning wood and charcoal smell from the stove. In a way, pho was the fancy hard to get food that I only get in special occasion, and so whenever I do get to eat it, it’d be an over the top experience, the meat, the broth, the nice burp at the end when you washed everything down with a nice cold Coke. 

I distinctively remember my first bowl of pho in America, and I can only compare the experience to someone’s experience of tasting diet soda for the first time after a life time of drinking regular soda. The taste is there, but not quite the same, something is missing, but I can’t tell what it is. Even thought the pho bowls in America are bigger, there are more meat and noodles, and I can have as many bowls as I want, my palates aren’t ecstatic. Even now, after 15 years of eating pho in America, whenever I’m told that there’s a good pho place, I’m always skeptical — by what standard? I guess you could say that am perpetually chasing that feeling of the first pho love. 

Reading this article on the history and variation of pho, however, I realized that maybe my estranged relationship with pho isn't because I am haunted by the ghost of pho past, but more because I have just been tasting pho made by people from a different region from where I used to live. Simply put, I have some reevaluation of perspective to do. At anyrate, the article features an interview with people who know what they are doing and talking about when it comes to pho, and even has recipes. 

One of the many perks of living in Southern California is I don't have to travel very far for pho when I get a craving. Here's a nice bowl from a hole-in-the-wall down the street from my home in LA.

Since moving to Boston, I have had pho twice and neither was anything to write home about, so I haven't been too keen on grubbing down more pho, or actively seeking out a good place. Though I know it's out there. Without my noticing, pho has become steadily and increasing known, accepted and love by the population, if not the world. I know very few people who have never had pho. When I was living in Ghana, I was told that there was a pho restaurant in Accra, the capital city. Pho in Africa! Who would have thought!? My homie, Tony Bourdain went to New Orleans for food, drinks and debauchery but had pho for breakfast — got Vietnam on his mind! Macklemore loves pho as much as he loves thrift shopping, probably, and his friend loves it so much, he did a Kickstarter project to make a video about it.

It makes me feel so good and proud when I see people having love for my culture, or any culture, in a positive way. It makes me want to share with them even more things that they didn’t know to really solidify this love. 

A lot of prints about pho would say that it’s Vietnam’s national food, and I really want you to know that it’s not. You can find it everywhere in Vietnam, but it doesn’t represent all of Vietnam. So since you already spent some time reading this blog post on my feelings about pho, why not catch my next post on the other amazing noodles soups that Vietnam has to offer. It’d only be good for you, I promise. 

Up next, Bun Bo Hue! 

Day by the Roadside.

Five months ago, I was stranded in the middle of the road between Bamboi and Wa. I was still five hours away from where I wanted to be. Hot, thirsty, and alone, I really thought that day started out so well. 

I had a successful training session the day before at the In-Service Training and a good night with all the PCVs who were there. I didn’t have to worry about getting up at the crack of dawn to waddle through the chaotic murk of Kumasi station to find a car because there was a Peace Corps car heading toward Upper West, and I had a seat on it. The ride was smooth, Aikin the driver was wonderful, I was in good company with one of my good friends. We garbed and carped while speeding through the Wa-Kumasi road with the optimism that I could make it home early that day. I was definitely sad when we reach the car’s last stop, Techiman. It was time for me to get on my own. 

Anticipated to spend a few hours waiting for a car to Wa, I felt absolutely in luck when the first car glided up was shouting “Wa, Wa, Wa!” The prospect of me getting home before dusk was looking good. I hopped in, found a seat by the window. The car wasn’t crowded. The road was empty. And soon enough, we were approaching the mid-way point, Bamboi. Wa was 3 hours away. Thing were going smoothly.

The mate began to collect the lory fare, and I was happy to pay. Since I have never taken a car from this point before, I wasn’t sure of the cost, but knowing the route, I had an anticipating number. So when the small boy (who was actually a young man) told me the price, I thought I heard him wrong. The cost was as if I had taken the car straight from Kumasi, and despite my protest, people were paying! Part of me wanted to shell out the money to just get home, but the cheaper part of me just didn’t want to pay that much money to go half the distance I normally would. Meanwhile, everyone was trying to convince the fighting white lady (me) to calm down and that the fare has always been this way. No it has not, damn it. It felt as if I was in the middle of a conspiracy.

In the end, I just couldn’t pay knowing that the fare was overpriced. Living on the Peace Corps allowance, I was definitely cheap, but also because I couldn’t stand being in the vehicle knowing that we were all being taken advantage by the driver, and everyone else was accepting it because they didn’t have a choice. It was not the first time this has happened in Ghana, and though I normally pick my battle, I just couldn’t give in that day. As soon as the car reached Bamboi and out of the middle-of-nowhere stretch, I decided to take my chance at hitch hiking. By this point, it was everyone’s business that the white woman didn’t want to pay the fee and wanted to get off. They were convinced that I wouldn’t be able to find another car. Jokes were made, advices were given. They didn’t think I was going to really leave them and walk the road alone. The driver even caravanned after me saying he would reduce the price, but I was already committed to hitch hiking, so I ignored him. 

I wasn’t worried when I watched the car sped up toward Wa. I have hitch hiked numerous times before. Hitch hiking in Ghana is significantly less creepy and dangerous than the urban-legend-horror-stories-American version. You never know who is going to pick you up, the interesting “big man” who wants to befriend the random white person walking alone on the road or just a good samaritan. In fact, most PCVs prefer to hitch hike because sometime it’s the better alternative to stuffing yourself in a broken down minivan for 6 hours. Better days have seen me in a AC-powered truck with working suspension and seat belts. And that was what I was hoping to find me. 

I walked up the road for about 15-20 minutes and stopped for water. My backpack felt heavy. Bamboi was still in my vision field. I opted to stop walking and sat by the side of the road, rehydrating and watching cars going by from the opposite direction of where I wanted to go. I felt like that was a recurring theme. Cars going where you don’t need to go — somehow strangely poetic when it shouldn’t be. The occasional bicyclist or motorist wheezed pass me staring. People never get tired at seeing a foreigner, even though Bamboi was a bigger town and definitely has seen its share of non-locals. We even used to have a Peace Corps Volunteer here a few months back. Still, people stared.

Big giant trucks also passed, puffing out massive black clouds of polluted smoke ignoring me. The cars that zoomed by showed no interest in stopping. The sun was getting higher and the heat rose. Sweat began to soak through my cap. The cooled water gave into the heat and became warm. I began to feel that maybe I was about to run out of luck and started to doubt if I was going to make it home. The day didn’t feel so great anymore. 

Yet I wasn’t worried about it. I wasn’t afraid that I couldn’t find a ride, or panicking about not making home. I had no idea what was going to happen next, who would come by and pick me up but none of that was a pressing concern. All I felt was that moment. It was long and endless but it wasn’t terrible. I felt calm and okay, and as I mentioned before, strangely poetic. I thought that if I could gather my thoughts together, I would write about it so that’s how we got here.

I woke up this morning thinking about that morning. It was almost exactly five months ago give or take a few days, and taking in where I am now, it felt like a completely different world. Surreal and ephemeral. As I was sitting there watching the empty road, I had no doubt that the long moment was going to end, and even though it wasn’t enjoyable to say the least, I knew I was going to miss it, and I do miss it now. 

Eventually, after about an hour and a half, a truck stopped. The driver was a young man, I couldn’t pronounce his name, but he was polite. I always imagine how strangely sorry I look to Ghanaians when they find me on the road. Sweaty, dehydrated and tired — completely contradicting the popular belief that foreigners have money and can afford anything, like their own car. If my new friend had any inquiries, he kept it to himself as we drove in silence while I took in as much AC air as I could. 

While attempting to make small talks, I learned that my friend has accomplished a lot for a person of his age. Coming from an affluent family, he studied abroad in Hong Kong, and therefore, didn’t make the assumption that I was Chinese (this won him points). He spoke fluent Cantonese from the time he was there, and is preparing to studying for another degree. I was impressed by his experiences and felt relaxed. His questions weren’t invasive (do you have a husband/boyfriend?) and he let me fall asleep when the conversation died out. He even apologized when the car broke down and we had to stop to fix it. We reached Wa promptly, I caught a car to my village and the rest, I assume, was typical because I couldn’t remember it. 

In Peace Corps, we were told “Days are long, weeks, months and years are fast. Two years would go by before you know it.” And whoever they are, they were right. Some days blended together, and the week went by in a blink of an eye. The routine I had made my days automatic and the things I did mundane, even if I did them in a “special African environment”.  So it was experiences like this in Ghana that made the longest lasting impression on me, that I think about the most when I think about the last two years and are also so hard for me to explain when asked the question “how was Africa?”. Days in which I had no anticipations of outcomes, days that were special because they only happen once in your life, moments that felt like a lifetime but felt fleeting when they ended. There were no lessons, no punch line, yet I remember everything. They are so hard to let go, but maybe I want it that. When I think about these days, these moments, I’m sad because I know that I can never repeat it, even if I return to the same place and sit on the same spot. 

Feelings and dealing.

Five days left in the village, and I am not good at saying good bye. Especially when I don’t know when I will return and know that nothing will be the same when I do. My coping mechanism is avoidance, and I have been doing just that. Avoiding thinking about leaving Goli with Vivian, Peter and Hope the dog, who is now familiar with me enough that she follows me to my house and sleeps outside. Avoiding answering the questions like “when will you return?” Avoiding thinking about how I am not going to see that cute baby, Bismark, growing up into a cute boy. Avoiding creating more memories because it feels like my heart my burst if I do. Lazy days sitting under mango tree watching goats bleating and pigs wallowing are dwindling down to no more, and I don’t want to think about it.

As I am approaching the end, it feels as if I have just begun. But of course, I can’t stay. This place has been a home, but I have another home I need to return to as well. Responsibility, expectation and hope are waiting for me and disappointment if I don’t show. I am also avoiding thinking about that. So I have been keeping myself busy, distracted, and that works very well during the day when my mind is running back and forth between programming and planning for Peace Corps. But at nights, I tossed and turned for hours. My mind then runs back and forth between the things I spent the day avoiding. For two years, I slept 12 hours a night and barely any these last few weeks. As difficult these moments are, they are also fleeing by. Days feel shorter even though nights drag on and mornings somehow is worse. I try to avoid noticing that too.

All my feelings are mumbled jumbled into a heaping pile of insomnia and anxiousness, and a man is hammering something loud right next to my ears and another man is blatantly staring at me while I try to sort out my thoughts. Maybe today isn’t the day for that stuff.

Sunday Funday: Awkward and Probably Offensive

Two interesting things happened to me today that was worth to make a blog post about: Penis enlargement and racial profiling Dickhead. These two things don’t, and wouldn’t, have anything to do with each other in term of relevance, except that they both happened to me today.

First, penis enlargement.  (Quotes are 90% accurate on the account that my short term memory isn’t great, but I tried my best to remember and recall every single juice details).

I hitched a ride with a friend into the main road. It’s normally is a five minute ride, and I often make random chit chattery just to kill the time. Before we started, he got a phone call. Lots of laughs took place. After he hung up, he casually explained to me the nature of the call, as you or I would do when you are with company after a phone call.

Friend: “My brother was just calling because he wants to increase the size of his penis.”

Me:  “Hmm…wow that is… is that possible here?”

Friend: “No, it’s not. He wanted to know if he could use some herbs to increase the size, but you cannot. His wife is complaining that she does not feel him when he goes in. She gave birth sometime ago. And I said, eh, that the wife should go to the clinic, there is medicine for her, but not for him.”

Me: “Well, it’s understandable that after she gives birth, she might… Medicine for her? What kind of medicine? To reduce the size of her vagina?”

Friend: “There are some medicines for the lady, after they give birth, you know, because of whatever reason, or she doesn’t sit correctly after the birth, that she could insert inside to reduce the size, so the man can feel when he goes in. So I said, he can’t increase his size, but she can go and get the medication. For me, eh, after my wife gave birth, I complained because I didn’t feel when going in, and she got the medication and inserted.”

Me: “And now you are fine?”

Friend: “Yes, now we are fine. “

Me: “Well, that’s good. I think if there is really a way to enlarge the penis, I think everyone would do it already.”

Friend: “Well, my own is not big, but I know what to do with it. If a lady complains that mine is small, then she should also try to reduce the size of her own (vagina) to fit me. Some women, eh, they do it too much, and then it would pain them when the man goes in.”

Me: “Do what too much? Use too much of the medicine”

Friend: “Yes, inserting the medicine too much. Like if you only need to insert 2 or 3 times a month, and they do it 5 or 6 times, the size is reduced too small, and the man will pain her when he goes in.”

Me: “So they overdose.”

Friend: “Yes, you have to play with the lady before. African men, some of us don’t know how to play with the lady and just go in. You have to play with the lady so you don’t pain her.”

Then the conversation took an awkward turn when he started talking about his sort of mistress, and we reached the road when I had to catch a car.

Some days, I literally wear dirty sacks as clothes and still get hit on left and right with marriage proposals. Some other days, I am virtually a sexless creature for projection of sex stories, but maybe this has nothing to do with my ping-pong sex appeal and more to do with trust and integration? I would like to think so.

I also think that I learned something super valuable today. Did everyone know about a pill that you can insert to shrink your vaginal wall? What? I for sure did not. That feels as safe as a pill that enlarges your penis. Never mind, I actually don’t know how I feel about all of this. Give me a feel years to think about it.

Second, Dickhead.

Then I took a trotro to Wa, looking forward to some electricity and internet time, but before I quite made it to my destination of both, a car pulled up to me on the street and a man waved for me to come over. As a personal rule in Ghana, I don’t submit to summons, since that is a Ghanaian habit that I find rude and annoying. I promptly ignored the man, even as he sent a street seller to tell me to come over. Yeah right, dude. Finally, he got out of his car and walked over to me. I’m just going to go ahead and call him Dickhead.

Dickead: “Can you read?” And showed me his I.D. It said “something something Immigration Office.”

Me: “Yes, okay? What can I do for you?”

Dickhead: “Who are you with?”

Me: “American Peace Corps. Do you know it?”

Dickhead: “Yes, I know most of the Peace Corps workers. But I haven’t seen you.”

Me: “Well, maybe because I live in the village, but I have been here for two years.”

Dickhead: “Have you come to our office?”

Me: “No. I never needed to.”

Dickhead: “Do you have the paper work to be here?”

Me: “I don’t have anything with me right now.”

Dickhead: “Bring them to my office tomorrow.”

Me: “Uh… that’s not going to happen.” Dialed Peace Corps.

So today was a Sunday, and I went to Wa to spend the night so I could go to another PCV’s site for a program early Monday morning. I had no desire or intention to return to my site for my “paper work” and decided to call my Safety and Security Officer instead. While I waited for my SSO to talk to Dickhead on the phone, I realized two things.

1.       I am awfully arrogant against Ghanaian authority under America’s auspice.

2.       I was being racial profile as an attempt to get a bribe.

The first one is a natural Fight or Flight response. In time of possible harassment, I mostly Fight, because I know that they are in the wrong, and I am stupidly stubborn in the face of danger or challenges. In this situation, I knew that I did nothing wrong, and Peace Corps would have an answer for whatever questions are being thrown at me. Dickhead was in plain clothes, and to me, did not look like the kind of guy who would work on a weekday, let alone a weekend, so for him to do actually do his job and question a “questionable character” without any interior motive was obvious not plausible. He wanted to intimidate me, and honestly it wasn’t his fault that men of any size don’t scare me, especially sleazy ass mother fucker. I even enjoyed it a little bit when I handed him my phone so that my SSO could talk to him about me and my reasons for being in Ghana.

The second realization was a lot more obvious. I am Asian. To 99 percents of Ghanaians, I am Chinese. Within recent time, there has been a lot of problem in Ghana concerning illegal Chinese immigrants doing illegal gold mining. Despite Chinese engineers building roads throughout Ghana and business men all over the street of Accra, in general, the Chinese don’t receive very good receptions from locals. People watch a lot of Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan pirated DVDs and have gotten in the habit of shouting racist ching chong noises as imitation of a Chinese language when any Asian person walks by. Sometime I don’t know if they love or hate Bruce and Jackie.

Right before Dickhead found me on the street, I was walking behind four white women who were obviously tourists base on their short shorts and skimpy strap tanks. He didn’t stop them. He stopped me because he probably thought that I was illegal and would give him a hefty bribe to get out of a sticky situation. You can’t blame him really, it was Sunday, church was just finished, he probably was hungry and wanted chop (Ghanaian English for both eat and taking bribe).

Too bad he picked on the wrong Asian and got an earful (and probably a new asshole) from my SSO, who seemed to know everyone in the rank in the Immigration Office. I tried to show him my Peace Corps I.D and a copy of my Passport that I happened to have in my bag, but he wanted to see my visa, which was in my actual Passport. I told him that he could drive me back to my village in his private car and we can get the paper or otherwise, he can eat my dick (okay I didn’t say that second part).

At this point, after talking to my SSO, Dickhead realized that he wasn’t going to get lunch money, so he slowly backed off. To save face, he continued to tell me that I should carry my info with me, or at least the copy of my visa. He even mentioned that he had met all the Upper West Peace Corps volunteers in an incident almost two years ago – when I wasn’t around. We settled and parted ways.

I don’t know which was my favorite part, that I didn’t have to fight my own battle, or that a money grubbing official got burned trying to get some grub money. I was mainly confused as of why he thought a small Asian woman would be an illegal immigrant gold miner. But there is a fair chance that I always look like a boy. I was a bit surprise that I was not upset at the situation, but I think it is due to the fact that at this point in Ghana, being upset about these things would just make me sweat more.

Then I went and finished off season 3 of Park and Rec. I just started the show 2 days ago. I don't have season 4.

I tried to climb a mountain.

Happy New Year, I spent the last two weeks of the year in the village for a taste of Ghanaian holidays, which everyone spent day drinking and all night dancing. All activities I would be glad to participate any day, except that I am a boring white person at site so I drank water and was in the house by 6pm instead.

In the mean time, there’s a lot to catch up, so let’s talk about the last couple of months of 2013 going backward.

TANZANIA – Kilimanjaro and Zanzibar Facebook albums here -->https://www.facebook.com/chau.d.ngo/media_set?set=a.10102061219785854.1073741828.3324650&type=3

I came back from a whirlwind 14 days in Tanzania with my friends Heather and Chris, two other PCVs. Heather and I needed a vacation and Chris was doing his Close of Service trip. We couldn’t really think of a better way to spend our times than trying to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, the tallest free standing peak in Africa. (Google it). So with minimal planning and maximal optimism, we headed to Tanzania with high hope, figuratively and literally. After the getting over the fact that I forgot my credit card and left our guide book (which was a bunch of pages about Tanzania that we ripped off from a real guide book) back at the office before we even left the country, we left Ghana for Tanzania.

The flights were uneventful, airplane food weren’t too bad, and I drank a lot of ginger ale before stealing a blanket. Heather and I arrived at 3am and slept at the airport for 6 hours waiting for Chris to come in so we can head to Moshi and meet up with our climbing company. Jetlagged and delirious, the first day was a blur. I think there was some talk about mountain and safety and other things. I managed to catch a cold on the way over and started some annoying cough. Fueled by excessive optimism, I was hoping it would go away by the next day when we start the climb. False, but we will get to that later.

The next morning, we enjoyed some scrumptious free breakfast, which was great because I couldn’t recall the last time I had some real breakfast food with fruits in Ghana. I was secretly hoping that we could have stay at the diner forever and didn’t have to do the climb, but sometime, hope falls, and by 8am, we were heading out to start our great adventure. (But not before stopping by the pharmacy for some cough medicine because my cough didn’t go away as I had hope.)

We saw some monkeys on the way to the base of our route. They were pretty cool looking; regular monkey faces with bushy black and white tails. We later learned that they were called Black and White Monkeys. Neither surprising nor unfitting. The second we got to the base of the mountain, it started to rain, and I immediately missed Ghana’s dry and warm weather. We had a packed lunch that was better than a middle schooler’s and began our walk to the base afterward, with me wearing everything that I had on since I was already freezing, a great foreshadow of the days to come.

We learned upon our arrival to the base of the mountain that it was currently the raining season in Tanzania, which explained the wind, rain and my shivering. It probably didn’t help us that we have been living in Ghana’s perpetual summer for the last 2 years. Regardless, we set out aiming for the top.

I have never really gone on a real hike or mountain climbing before, so signing up for Kilimanjaro was nothing less than a nosedive into the deep end of the pool, (I also don’t know how to swim, so there is a pun somewhere in this sentence), but the first day didn’t turn out too bad beside some serious soaking sweat on top of the rain water. Our first night at camp was great. Our cook fed us some great cucumber soup to battle the cold. We ate and joked and called it a night. I felt on top of the world while still at the base of the mountain, full of adrenaline and cough medicine.

The next day was cold. This might have been a bias recollection because no one else acted like they were cold except for us. It was probably our Ghana life style catching up, but no matter, we geared up for a long day, 5-6 hours of some up inclines. Since I wasn’t listening during the briefing, I didn’t know what to expect really. It was my approach to the mountain, and I don’t regret it. We had in some a good few hours of trekking through the rain forest. Chris, Heather and I followed our guide, Cash through some ups and downs, practicing the mantra, “pole pole” which mean, go slowly. We played some 20 questions along the way. Things were going great. I felt better about my coughs.

Then the rain came on our parade, and the rest of the time weren’t so great since it involved steep, muddy inclines. But eventually we made it to camp, shivered, and did some more 20 questions. If there was one thing that Peace Corps Volunteers know how to do best, is to be able to entertain ourselves in any situation. We learned a lot about each other that day. My shoes also broke and ceased to be water proof. Our third day was a short hike, but somehow I didn’t feel too great. I guess being soaked in cold windy weather didn’t benefit my lungs, so snots started to happen, and my cough got worse. But I wasn’t too worried because the sun came out for 10 minutes and some of our wet stuffs were dried. Optimism was still in the air, but I took more drugs to hold my body together. Beside being cold, I recall Chris and Heather doing just fine.

Everyday, our head guide, Casper, took our pulse and oxygen level to make sure we felt okay from breathing to pooping, and I was still doing fine. The fourth day was a long day, and after making it to camp, I didn’t feel okay anymore. My cough medicine was officially not working, and I’m pretty sure I was single handedly responsible for waking up the whole camp with my coughing for the last 2 nights. The hike had been long, and somewhat enervating. We went up to 1599 feet and I experienced many first, walking on snow, walking in the snow, feeling really cold in the snow ect… The scenery was beautiful and if I wasn’t too out of air I probably would have take more photos.

We made it to camp, and I spent most of the night in my tent coughing, which was not a great sign. Caspar wasn’t pleased when he learned that I had a fever and was at 48% oxygen. After receiving oxygen and spending another night coughing. I was still ready to continue, but it wasn’t going to happen like that. So marked the day when Chris, Heather and I parted ways. They continued on their climb while I headed out for a quick descend route. We spend some few minutes taking goofy pictures with the porters and the guides. I tried to take in all the sceneries of the highest place I have ever been albeit the fog was already rolling out. Then we headed out to Umbwe route, a much more intense but quick route that serious climbers would take to get to the top. Normally they do it in 4-5 days.

Cash was my guide now, and we had my porter with us whose name I could never remember but whose shoes I was wearing. He sported pink crocs in place of shoes and was still a much much much better hiker than I would ever be. Umbwe route was pretty much hours of steep rock walls on top of each other. It was suppose to take us between 5-6 hours to descend, but it felt like I was there for an eternity slipping and sliding on rocky edges praying for my ankles. It rained the entire time we descended, which made the rocks wet and slippery and the moss dangerous. Cash slipped a few times, but would just stick out his tongue like a 5 years old who knew he did something mischievous and continued out. I slipped a few times and would poke every rock twice with my stick before putting my foot on it in case the damn thing is loose and decided to roll away while under me.

We were on the edge of the mountain for several hours as the rain slowed us (me) down significantly. I never thought I would see the rain forest. Several times, I contemplated asking Cash to play 20 questions with me because I was so bored of thinking to myself, but he was shy and so I didn’t it. So while him and the porter chit chatted occasionally, I found myself missing Chris and Heather’s company and wondered what they were doing.

We finally made it to the rainforest, which was the lower part of the mountain, and I was pretty excited. At this point, my shirts have been soaked and my shoes and socks were thoroughly wet, and I was looking forward to a shorter and less dangerous walk down. But Umbwe was a hard route for a reason. Even on the lower part, the walk was steep. The path was lined with small rocks and pebbles that rolled under your shoes, add rain water made slipping much easier. So we “pole pole” ourselves, and spend another eternity down some steep paths. I hated this last part more than the rain/snow/cold i endured the first 4 days. It was even more aggravating when Cash kept saying, “not long” until we reach the end.

When we finally did reach the base of the mountain, because of the rain, the car could not pull up to pick us, so it was an additional hour to get out to the car. This time, instead of pebbles, our enemy was wet mud. Pole pole.

By the time we made it to the car and down the mountain, ten hours had passed. That’s twice the amount of time that Caspar said. Somehow I was glad because if it was only 6 hours, and I was feeling the way I felt, I would have feel even more pathetic. My legs were done for the week. One day going down Umbwe hurt me more than 4 days up Lemosho.

The car took me back to the office, and I was a sad sigh. They wanted to send me to the hospital for my cough, but I just wanted to go back to the hotel. So after washing 4 days of mountain smell off in the shower, I spent the night and the next day watching Bollywood music videos recuperating.

I could have taken the time to explore Moshi, except that my cough was so bad that it was embarrassing, and painful. I went into a store to buy some gifts, and after suggesting that I should drink tea with honey, the owner took matter in her own hand and spoon fed me a honey straight out of the jar. Yes. She didn’t even let me hold on to the spoon. Then her neighbor ran over with some fresh ginger and wanted me to chew on them. She peeled and cut the ginger in small bitable bits and offered to send some with me. I bit into the ginger. It was painfully gingerly, but it helped, so I did it again. As suspected, every African woman is a sassy, loving and resourceful caretaker. I love it so much.

After that, I bought some heavy duty cough syrup that knocked me out and spent the rest of my time in my hotel being drowsy.

Chris and Heather surprised me by descending one day early and looking as tattered as a bunch of people who just climbed a mountain. After some needed showering, we regrouped to inspect Heather’s various war wounds that she collected after I left.

Both of her big toes were in trouble, and we decided that the toe nails might have to go. She was also partially blind at night because she accidentally left her glasses on the mountain, but that’s her story, so you’ll have to read her blog.

We spent the next day walking around town search for rooftop bars so we can drink and have a view of Kilimanjaro while getting Heather drunk enough that we can pull her toe nail out without too much pain. The original plan was to punch her really hard in the face while ripping the nail out, but this isn’t prison, or Boon Dock Saints, so in the end, we opted for just giving her a lot of whiskey shots instead. I lined up our medical tools, which were: a Leatherman tool, septic wash, antibiotic ointments, gauze and bandages. Chris blasted some music and was being zero help besides taking a lot of pictures. We soaked Heather’s drunk feet in warm water, and I played the most serious game of doctor yet.

We later learned that in this scenario, you should just let you body heal itself and push the toe nail out on its own, but we still had a few travel days left, and this toe nail was already off of her toe. It was that bad. Amputation was that needed. And so half a small bottle of whiskey in, I pulled the nail out in one yank, and all was well.

We decided not to touch the other nail because it was still intact, albeit hurting.

Chris said this was his favorite part of the time, albeit he just summit Kilimanjaro.

The rest of the trip was much less gory. We spent most of our times day drinking, and parted ways when Chris left for America and Heather and I went to Zanzibar. We bare our pale bodies to the sun for the first time in two years hoping not to blind any by stander, and pooled our money together for beers because we were that broke. Then as we were leaving, we asked a person whom we thought was just a tourist to take a picture of us, hoping that he wasn’t upset that we interrupted his beach whaling time. He didn’t mind, and even ushered us to sit for some cold drinks, then showed off his wallet by charter an expensive taxi ride back with us. We joined the taxi and after several scary speeding moments later, declined dinner invitation and rushed back to our lodge. But thanks to the free taxi ride, we had enough money for street meat for dinner and nothing but good memories from this trip.

That was probably the best vacation I have ever gone on to, even though we were so broke that we couldn’t even afford one can of beer at the airport. Luckily, an American couple overheard us talking, struck up a conversation and bought us 2 rounds of beers. Then when we got back to Accra and couldn’t find a cheap taxi, a Chinese expat invited us in his taxi and dropped us on the way. I couldn’t even lie and say that because Heather and I were such clean and fresh looking girls that we got this treatment. We weren’t. Maybe on better days. So overall, Tanzania was a blast, Hakuna Matata all around.

Creative cooking.

For the past few weeks, my usual lunch provider, my counterpart's wife, Vivian, has been out of town. Normally, she doesn't get to go anywhere much because she's always super busy with every possible household chores and then some. (My counterpart, Peter doesn't help much either. Wither her being gone, there were left two people who had to cook to feed themselves. I can't really speak for Peter, but I was quite ready for the challenge of not starving without her. It's a challenge because I opted to not buy a gas stove when I first came to site. There were several reasons behind this. - I wanted to eat Ghanaian food cooked by Ghanians. - The sparse food produces in Ghana did not inspire any culinary inclination in me, I simply didn't know what I would of could make. ( I hate/don't know how to cook beans, eggplants, okra...) - And figuring how to lug a gas cylinder and stove top back to site was the furthest idea from fun, and then having to commit to the task of refilling the gas cylinder every few months also did not appeal. So I bought a coal pot and called it a day. It was really my lucky break that Vivian loves to feed me and is an amazing cook. So for the last year and a half, I would buy the monthly food products, and she would prepare lunch for me everyday. During training at homestay, my host sister provided me with considerable amount of Ghanaian food, but Vivian's cooking allowed me to learn more about all the local cuisines made with local ingredients -- eating soup made from bush leaves, flowers, ect... Otherwise, I probably would either slowly desiccate or get MSG poisoning from overloading on ramen, or just have terrible acne. With that system in place, I had a routine. Regardless of what I was doing, lunch is serve at around noon or 1pm, and I would never be hungry afterward. Lunch is my favorite meal in Ghana because Vivian would feed me to the point that I can't walk straight or have to stand slightly bend forward. She always wants to make up for my lackluster breakfast (popcorns) and dinner (nothing). It used to take me 45 minutes to light the coal pot and the idea of making a meal died with every dead match mounting in piles. Slowly, I started to get better at lighting the coal pot, and would be able to make hot water for tea without losing the entire morning trying. That allowed me to sporadically cook now and then -- still just ramen though, nothing serious. But with Vivian gone, I had to step it up. I stocked up on enough veggies that would not rot for 4-5 days without a fridge and other miscellaneous carby things that I generally dislike but still tolerate like bread and pasta. (Though I look forward to the day when I never have to eat bread ever again). Every morning, I made a fire, boiled water and cooked creative dishes from the 5 ingredients I have available. I managed to have soup, pasta salad, moringa omelette and only ate real ramen twice. Eggs were my main proteins but a PCV friend recently went to Germany and brought back some summer sausages, and I put some in every meal and they were delicious! Summer sausages, what a treat! It had been really fun cooking this way, pretending sometime that I was going camping somewhere in the wild, playing house by myself (I live alone afterall). Ghana has a lot of ingredient that I normally would not opt for back home, but my taste buds have changed over the course of times, and green peppers, bread, tomato sauce found their way into my bowl more often than I though. Probably due to hunger and limited options but I'll go ahead and call it improvement by circumstance. Maybe I can even put that on my resume... The year and a half spent watching Vivian cooks also allowed me to learn a lot about Ghanian cuisine and nutrition, which is good for me when talking about health and nutrition to other community members as a part of my job here. It has been strangely fitting, cooking for myself with a coal pot, to how I had imagined my Peace Corps service would be. Except that, I probably could not manage to do this while actually do other work at the same time. I had to constantly tending fire and cooking during the day time, and by the time I finish and want to rest, it's night and the day is gone. Eating Vivian's food is definitely more authentic, but I enjoyed the autonomy of cooking for myself a lot more than I thought. PCVs talk a lot about the lack of vegetables and fruits in meals, but I enjoyed the pleasures of greens in the form of moringa "the miracle tree", and shea oil (the very same ingredients that makes your lotion or anti-aging make up so expensive is actually used to fry my yam chips and other fried things here.) I think my eating habit is a lot better here than back home (no late night Denny's chicken wings and banana split run -- but I miss it so...) and I hope it sticks when I return in seven months. In the mean time, summer sausages is my latest and greatest cuisine crave. Feel free to send some my way. They don't have to be refridgeratd and is good with everything. What!? So Brilliant! Chau Ngo P.O Box 5736 Accra North, Ghana West Africa.

A good week.

Around a year ago, I made a list of all the potential projects I could or would do in my village. There were 8 or 9 things, counting that if I shoot for the moon and fail I'd still land on the stars. I have 5 and a half of the things on this list crossed off right now and the ambitious Asian in me wishes for recognition and a solid pat in the back.

Even as I am bragging about the things I have done, I know that I have not changed any lives. Compare to much much much better Peace Corps volunteers, my projects are small fries. People might remember me because I am the first foreigner they see, or that person who keeps talking to everyone about how they shouldn't poop in the bush or sleep outside without nets, but there is nothing that I have done for them that couldn't have been done by anyone else. Talking about my Peace Corps service like this is not a way of fishing for compliments – it's a reminder to myself to keep my ego from inflating from all the praises I received for the small things that I do.

Anyhow, last week, my Alternative Break Goli Youth Workshop finally came together. I got a small grand of 385 cedis (about 195 dollars) to fund a 3 days workshop during the school break for the JHS students in my community. I named it Alternative Break in honor of my main college involvement. After the grand was funded and per some students' request, a 4th day was added for ICT teaching – mainly to give my kids the opportunity to actually use a real computer. We have no electricity in the community and they learn how to use the computer almost entirely through a text book. The other 3 days, we cover Life Skills, Health and Food Security.

About only 13 students ended up making the workshop out of my original 20. Some took the opportunity of break to travel and find works and couldn't attend. But I guess that was a silver lining because the extra money for materials went into making the 4th day happen. The smaller group also allowed for me to have better control of the environment so in the end, I guess I still win.

But I couldn't really run 4 days of workshop without any help, so beside my local counterparts, some volunteers in my region also came and helped out. That was one of the most amazing thing. My village has never seen more foreigners before and all of a sudden, a bunch of white people are just roaming around – shock to the system I'm sure. I would like to think that my friends had a great time helping facilitation and sleeping on my floor. And I was also amazing to have some many people in my big empty house at the end of the night. Made me imagine what it could have been like if I had housemates.

The fund for my grant came from PEPFAR, which is money for HIV/AIDS awareness, so tried to focus a little bit more on HIV education than the other subject. I planned to have an HIV awareness mural and a play performance for my community on the 4th day, but we ran out of time. But my students went above and beyond and decided to commit to an extra 5th day to do the mural and the play – without me having to feed them! So on the extra last day, we met up again, and even though only 6 or 7 students showed up, (mostly girls, yay!) we managed to put together an amazing HIV awareness mural.

Initially, I wanted to have the students come up with their own idea about a mural, but that proved unsuccessful, so we decide to have another copy of the one I did when I was still a trainee (a smiling yellow condom holding hand with a smiling AIDS ribbon, it is a goofy as it sounds). I think some of you might recognize it. The great thing about this is when we did the first mural, we would joke about how that would be my main project, painting a smiling condom in all 10 regions in Ghana. So, two down, eight to go.

Not only able to paint an awesome mural, my students also put together a great play for the whole community. I had to ask them to scale back several time and focus on just HIV because they had wanted to act out everything they have learned (malaria, nutrition, hygiene, open defecation...), and we simply just didn't have time. Five condom demonstrations and one flip chart of nasty STI infection symptoms later, the community was buzzing about what they have heard or seen. My students, the newly crowned peer educators, could not wait to do it again and it felt wonderful to see such motivation.

So that was one of the busiest week of my Peace Corps service, and a great learning experience in term of being responsible and in charge of some sort of an operation, as small scale as it was. By the end, I was completely pooped but it felt great. This workshop ended on such an unexpected high note for me that I feel so much more confident in beginning more projects that I have been thinking about. Most of the time, the fear of failure holds me back, and maybe this is a late realization 18 months in, but in Peace Corps, I do what I want, and it's great.

Love in the Peace Corps is a wonderful and long lasting thing. Just ask my friends. Heart break in the Peace Corps is craptastic on just the same magnitude. Sad. Alone. Third world country. Crap. And that's all I am going to allow on this blog.

A vacation, a funeral and a wedding.

We recently had a funeral in my village – which really isn’t an uncommon thing since funerals happen here all the time. Generally I tend to avoid giant social gathering such as these because if there is anything I love more than getting my wisdom teeth remove is being the local attractions for drunken men and women from out of town. The man who passed away was apparently someone I knew, and by descriptions I thought of a particular old man, so I thought I really did know the deceased until I saw that old man still alive and well hanging out under the mango tree and realized that I didn’t know who died after all. Regardless, I made the decision of leaving my living lair and venture into the funeral grown to pay my respect – and to find out who died.

Peter, my counterpart, met me at the funeral ground and guided me near the open coffin viewing. I circled the deceased, stared at his face and his picture, racked my brain to find the slightest recognition in this person who had already crossed into the other world – and nothing came up. I learned that he was the brother of the first old man whom I thought had died, but even then, I still didn’t recognize his face. Sometime, it’s incredulous how well my counterpart reads me, because after we walked away, he turned to me and said, “you still don’t know the man, do you?” and there was no point for me to lie.

Later, I followed the crowd to the burial ground; a perfect rectangular cement box was made inside a hand dug pit that holds the coffin. Men gathered around to help the family lower the coffin into the pit and the three cements slaps to cover it. Witnessing all this gave me hope that the latrines that we are building can also be just as secure.

Two months ago, went to home to America for a vacation from Peace Corps. On one of my flights between Barcelona and Philly, this old hipster dude laughed at me couldn’t believe that I chose to have vacation in America. I just smiled and shut up because I didn’t want to tell him that all you can eat buffet, flushing toilet and cold cold beers are definitely a vacation from my regular eat-poop-drink options. There were certain things that I didn’t miss in America: the DMV (my license expired, and SoCal traffic, but seeing friends and family and late night drunk burritos really made up for them. Things were a bit strange in the beginning, I forgot how to deposit a check and every time I saw a white person I blatantly stared, so it was awkward to be in a public place. But about two weeks in, I missed Ghana, and I guess it was a good thing because if I didn’t miss it, the next 9 would be terrible. My latrine grant was filled while I was in the states too so that was a great motivation to go back and do work.

This time last year, things were starting to get a little rough in Peace Corps for me, but today couldn't have been any more different. I took a bath and combed my hair to attend one of my Peace Corps friends’ wedding. He had been here for about 2 years and made the decision to married his Ghanaian girlfriend, so we gathered together and helped him put up a wedding. Some vows and beers later, we are now waiting for it to get dark to have a bond fire celebration. This and next month, a lot of my friends here are going to finish their service and go home to continue their lives somewhere else, and it’s kind of a bitter sweet feeling being the person who stays behind watching them leave, (even thought I will be doing the same thing in 9 months). So the wedding has also been a good time for me to see some of these friends one last time.

Work wise, my latrines work is slowly starting after a long hibernation of waiting for fund. My community is excited for the supplies even though each of them is only receiving some portions and will have to cover the rest themselves. Nothing makes my day better than sweet small Ghanaian elders telling me in broken English that they appreciate me – an ego booster, even.

As usual, these have been the more exciting moments in my Peace Corps life, unless you count those great goat moments. I’ll try to be more interesting next time. Until then, feel free to send me post cards, small packages of candy or love letters.

Tess May.

Grandmothers also always cry.

Tonight feels somewhat familiar. 16 months ago, I was getting ready to leave home to Ghana for the first time, nervousness, excitement and relief were some of the emotions that came about. As I am packing to return to Ghana after some vacation tonight, the same emotions also returned.

Though I know this time what to expect in Ghana, where I will be, who will be there, and what I will be doing, somehow, I am still hesitating of whether or not I want to return there. I hope this is a normal feeling, like, before every "life adventure" one has doubt. Returning to Ghana is a continuation of my current life adventure, and therefore, it's okay for me to have doubts as I did 16 months ago. Knowing where I am living, who is there and what I am going to do might provide some security but also so intimidating. I have work that needs to be done when I get back, can I really do and finish this after all? Will I have enough time to even do all of that? And what if I fail?

I missed Ghana while I was gone. Between multiple giant meals everyday this past 3 weeks, I thought about my house, my little children, my students who are actually adults, my adults who have been my family and even the stupid goats that shit in front of my house. All that have been normalcy for me, and I wasn't ready to outside of it. So even though the food was copious and scrumptious, I am looking forward to get back.

My family is sad once again that I am leaving them, and that in turns makes me sad, which in turns makes me have these feelings. However, I know what hesitation I am feeling right now will pass once I am there again, being stared at by everyone, center of attention to all. Who wouldn't miss that, right?

You've got a friend in me, or other lines from a Hallmark card.

Three days ago I turned 25. Four days before that, we found out that one of friends in the Peace Corps passed away from a brief illness.

Needless to say the news was both shocking and painful for all of us. I still don’t really know how to formulate what I have been feeling in the last week into proper thoughts and expressions – so this blog post might be a pathetic attempt, please bear with me.

None of these feelings is about me. When you find yourself in a situation in which you are the third party witnessing lighting and thunder happening in someone else’s world, life ceases to be about you.  I am not sad for myself. I am sad for my friend Dani who was taken away from this world so unexpectedly and on some levels, so unfairly.

Since the moment that I was told that she passed away, the one year of us knowing each other replayed in my head. What she was like the first time I met her. What she was like the last time I saw her. What we promised to do together the next time we see each other. I was hoping that they made a mistake. That she was just in a real deep sleep, a coma, and she would wake up eventually, and we will all be free of grief. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t believe it. She was impressive, and now there’s a hole in our lives.

I couldn’t cry for Dani and that was shit. I have shed tears over much lesser things (ex-boyfriends) and she deserves all my tears, but I had nothing. I know she would have cried for me, and for that, I am forever guilty. My heart hurts for her, and I hope she understands.

·         Peace Corps did a press release about her, you can read it here. https://donate.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=13-641-017

In one of our last conversations, we talked about our hairs, how I really admire black women’s fros while she wished for the Asian smooth locks. We both agreed that we will trade hair in our next lives, so here’s hoping that she has silky strands and live pass a hundred in the next one.

It was also during this time, that I learned to appreciate my Peace Corps family even more. Just three weeks ago, we had an All Volunteers Conference, and I got to meet everyone. I wrote about the interesting characters I met in the last blog. I returned to site looking forward to run into them at a sub office or work on a project together in the next year. Dani’s news brought us together again all too soon, but I was glad once again that they were there. Everyone got together to put on Dani’s memorial service, and it was impressive to see what we could accomplish as a whole.

My birthday was in the midst of everything. I was looking forward to have a good birthday this year only because I like the number 25 and felt that this was a milestone. Plus, entering the quarter life, who doesn’t want an excuse to drink? But I also did not want to make my friends feel that they were obligated to celebrate with me while they were grieving for Dani. It felt improper. But some of my closest friends made it clear that they were there for me as well. We had a small celebration. I didn’t pay for a single drink or food. Ate everything I wanted for the night, and went home at a decent hour. I had pants on. It was all very classy. To be cheesy, I am overwhelmed by love. I couldn’t appreciate these people more if I try.

To end all this babbling, I guess I’m just so glad to be in Peace Corps right now. I am going home to America in one week to visit, part of me isn’t ready for it at all, and I am probably going to cope with it through excessive food consumption. You are free to join me then.

And finally, a shameless plug in about my latrine project – donations are tax deductable. https://donate.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=13-641-017

Something about Self Reflection

This time last year I swore in as a Peace Corps volunteer, hyperventilated and eager to leave the realm of training to enter the real world of the “toughest job I’d ever love”, completely self assured that I would no doubt make my marks, big or small. Now, as I am sitting here fatigued with some unexpected sickness, the thought of another year to go really poses the question, can I really make a mark at all? And it made me sad.

We recently had an All Volunteer Conference in which everyone single Peace Corps Volunteers in Ghana gather together for some fun socializing time as well as learning about the new tricks and bits of the development work world. It was during this time that I realized I am not as an impressive Health volunteer as I thought I was. It’s not a self pitying statement. I know what I have done, and most of them don’t fit under my sector’s category. My peers’ passion and motivation really leave something to be desire in my work.

I have been going through some rough spots lately, but it's nothing out of the ordinary in term of the rollercoaster of emotions that that us PCVs experience through out our service. My discoveries above only added to what I have been feelings, self-hate and doubts, and my response to it has been massive consumption of alcohol under the name of fun. However, as I make it to the otherside of debauchery, I realized something.

I am not an A student, and that’s okay with me, and I think Ghana has changed me.

In saying this, I can say that the most fruitful of my Peace Corps experience has been about self realization and discovery. Every project I have done, I have tried my best. Some worked and some faltered and some are on the edge. I can only live and learn from my mistakes and try not to be so hard on myself. A year ago, I would not have been able to think this way, and I think this is a sign of my growing up. Scary.

Getting further into this, I can say that I couldn’t have gotten to this point without a network of support by the friends I have made here in the last year – incredibly interesting characters from all the corners of America that I otherwise would have not met living in Southern California half of my life. They have gotten me through some rough spots and embraced me with so much love one person, whom otherwise could have been a total stranger to me a year ago, could give the other even as we all live as least 5 hours away in any direction.

And for those who really knows me, I don’t talk openly about love or feelings this much, or ever. So really, Ghana has changed me.

I guess to sum it up, I’m still glad to be here, warts and all.  

... And now for the sponsor's portion: I am currently helping my community build 146 individual and shared latrines. We are at the funding stage waiting for supplies to proceed. I am looking for donation for the project from anyone under any amount. If you are reading this, and you don't even know me, it's okay, I will forgive you for just $5 or $10 or more.

https://donate.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=13-641-017

i'll shut up for today, here are some pictures instead.

This time last year, I was enjoyed being fed a ridiculous amount of good food because of Lunar New Year, and navigating the unnecessarily confusing Houston high way systems --was still pretty fun.

Now I'm pretty sure I won't get that food anytime soon, and Houston is really, really far away. Instead I'm reminiscing about the last 11 months of my life remembering the good parts and forgetting the bad, while considering raw ramen as a great mid night snack.

A friend of mine mentioned that my blog posts have been quite depressing, and she was worried. I want to clarify that my babbling on this reflects the 35 or 40 percents of my experience. I keep good days in my heart, and I write about bad days to get them out of my system.

As me and the twenty something people in my group are reaching our one year mark, we are also reaching on mid way point. For some of us, this is the high/low emotional point -- happy that we made it this far and sad that expectations didn't reach. For some, it's the realization of our self and the work's limit, and the fear that we are running out of time.

I am one of them. Within the last month, I have experienced hope, frustration, disappointment, satisfaction, bitterness, and happiness. One followed the other, not seamlessly but somehow still fittingly. Things didn't go well, but somehow it worked out in the end. Something seemingly so easy to accomplish somehow turned out to be impossible.  My ego is bruised and failed plans hurt me tremendously, but somehow, I also recover more quickly. I can't stay angry for long, and it's easier now to admit faults or make apologies. Don't dwell on no shit is going to be my new motto.

Anyhow, I could spend the rest of this post talking about why I experienced those feelings this recent month, or I could let you see the better outcomes for yourself and make your day. I'm even going to dash (Ghanian's term for give a little extra somein' somein') you 3 more months (so that's from September, in case you couldn't do math) in pictures of my work since I've been a Peace Corps volunteer.

Hope you have good internet to load all this shits!

JHS students signing up for several different youth clubs 

the first of many Neem Cream demonstration 

steaming hot fufu and groundnut (peanut) soup for lunch -- periodically.

a little spiel about proper nutrition and more neem cream demo for some mothers, and nosy children.

women and children.
this picture is bigger because you have to find the photobomb in it. 

goats on a bench! come on, there are some GOATS, on a BENCH!

more neem cream demo at a baby weigh-in, so many crying babies that days, lawd...

net hanging demonstration at the school, and this boy showed us how he sleeps in it.
 oh , youth. 

waiting for our soaps to cool down.

one of the many community mapping that we did, "tell us where you shit!"

little gremlins who are actually my minions.

little girls with chairs on their heads. it's exactly what it looks like. 

our first ever spelling bee,
 and me.

talking about "don't be a fool, wrap your tool" in the house of God.

the dance team that represented our entire region to go to Accra and show off their skillz.
something like Ghana's best JHS dance crew, but everyone wins.

this old man practically dug this pit entirely by himself. it's 8 feet deep.

hanging posters about latrines.

hanging posters about latrines inspections.

one day, Simba, all this will be yours.

last minute strategy meeting before our football match.

drawing AIDS ribbon on people who were tested (108 tested!)

wearing it proudly!

showing it proudly!

So there you have it, my last 4 months-ish of work related things. I hope this makes up for all the downer posts I've been throwing at you this entire last year. Check my facebook if you want more!