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.

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.

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!

I don't miss America but would still like care packages.

Before I got to Ghana, I was in full Peace Corp anticipation mode, meaning impatience and anxious. I couldn't wait to leave the situation I was in then. I consciously ignore all potentials downsides of being a foreigner in a developing country. No hot shower? No car? No family? No problem. I have always liked to think of myself as low maintenance and independent, Peace Corps life is totally the life for me.

Now, more than 10 months later, as I continue to spend night after night alone in my house after dark in front of the candle lights. I've come to realized a few things or two about this life. 

Peace Corps life is still the life for me. 

I have no electricity and no running water. I live by myself and have no neighbors. My closest friends are my 47 years old counter-part and his wife. My other closest friends are the 10 years old twins who don't speak any English but like to sit on my verrendah as well as their older brother who is also just as young. I have to walk an hour by foot to the next town to charge my things. I can count on one hand the type of food that's sold in my village, and my toilet is a tiny hole in the ground. 

And I don't hate it. 

All things outside of your supposed comfort zone are view to be much more difficult to deal with, but once you get used to the rocks and pebbles of this new ground, you're in a new zone. Through humility, I still managed to have my electricity charged. Through understanding, I find trust in strangers. Through some mysterious force of nature, I find that I like kids. Through patience, I now have great toned and lean legs. Through discovery, my belly is still full every day. And through the good gracious of higher beings, my stomach has not required me to do a latrine run in the middle of the night.

Someday things are shits.

Ignorance. Harrassment. Racism. Sexism. Pure and simple stupidity. My inability to take anyone’s shit or keep my mouth shut and consequentially raise my blood pressure every time.

But this too shall pass.

Be it numbness, or surrender, or new found coping mechanism, thing don’t bother me as much anymore. I get that initial of-the-moment-high-temper-table-flipping -what-the-fuck-did-you-just-say-to-me? feeling, but it would be over as soon as it started. I dwell less on what happened, and focus more on the humor of the story—because every story involving dumbass deserves a laugh.

I was not prepared for loneliness as I thought I was.

I remember writing a post bragging about how I am not afraid of living alone, and that I don’t need to be around people or their companionship. Now I take that back. Being a lone is a physical state. Loneliness is the rougher mental part. I can sit by myself reading a book for hours, but 30 minutes of feeling isolated, left out or forgotten and I am ready to throw in the towel and want to run away to somewhere, anywhere. This usually happen at night, when I don’t want to do project planning, the books aren’t interesting, and the candles are on their last life – I would end up going to bed at 7pm.

Being alone and loneliness are two different things, and they come with the territory.

Beside married couples, all PCVs live by themselves, essentially. Some have neighbors, some share a compound with other people, some live in a giant house by themselves with lizards being the closest living things to a roommate—like me. Regardless, everyone shares the similar agenda of waking up alone and going to sleep alone. At night, I sit alone and plan my project alone. Some nights, it is as natural as a part of the job. Other nights, I exhaust my phone battery texting other people because sitting alone with my thoughts is an overwhelming loneliness. So I try to use my alone time productively, or take preventive measures against loneliness through the form of extra phone batteries.

So things are still rough, but I am not quitting. About a year and some odd months to go, but I am not seriously counting down. I don't miss America, yet. I could use more communication from people back home, but life is hectic, and I shouldn't be upset about it. I don’t want to go back yet, and it makes me sad to think about that day. All in which, I think, is a surprisingly positive result for having to live with a monthly candles budget.

P.S: In case you miss me and want to send me a well crafted care package to show that you care. Here’s a few ideas of what could go inside:

- Magazines: something maybe of educational values so I can donate to the school later-but things of current events is great. I am very out of the loop.

- Gummivites/ Fruitsnacks/ Gummy Candies: Who doesn’t love them?

-Packaged soup mix, instant soup mix, instant mashed potatoes: I love soup. And as of recently, mashed potatoes.

- General snacks: Milano cookies, Chip Ahoys. NO cheese or peanut butter flavors.

- Candles: Did I mention that I have a candle budget? Help me go nuts. Unscented or vanilla, other strong scents might catch bugs.

- Seaweed/good ramen from Asian stores: I am Asian afterall.

-Toothpaste and floss: Floss are exceptionally shitty here.

Packages are to send to:

CHAU NGO

P.O BOX 5796

ACCRA NORTH, GHANA

WEST AFRICA 

For easier packing, take things out of boxes before stuffing them inside. For easier custom search, put 'old magazines, of no values' on the packages declare list.

Thanks!

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.  

evacuation (vacation) recap

Well, this past 2 months has been a whirlwind.

Where do I begin so I don’t lose you in the end? Maybe we can go backward. Last Friday, our evacuation status was lifted, and all the volunteers in my region were green lighted to go back to our sites. About 39 days before that, we were emergency evacuated out of our homes (in the middle of the night, in my case) due to an incident that happened in the city.

Out of respect for my friends and the topic being so over-discussed among us here in Ghana in this past month, I’m not going to talk about what happened. (But I’m 100% that you can Google it.)

So long story short, we were assumed to be in a dangerous position, so Peace Corps pulled us out, and took us to sub offices where we spent the next month slumping around/twirling our thumbs waiting to go back.

I got a phone call at about noon that day, and it wasn’t until 11pm that I was picked up and carried on despite me rushing to pack in 2 hours thinking they were outside my door any minute. My poor counterpart and his wife waited up all night with me until I was picked up. The closest to any pair of Asian parents ever in Ghana.

In the beginning it was sort of cool. I mean, beside the whole we were in possible danger thing, evacuation was sort of like a mini-vacation. Got a nice ride to the office. Electricity. Internet. Food availability. An oven. Ceiling fans. And we weren’t even paying for any of it? Awesome.

stick and stone

A couple of Mondays ago, a primary student broke her wrist while doing a high jump. Though I arrived to the school just as this happened, there was no sense of urgency among the teachers who were around, so after they filled me in, I didn’t push on the subject, assuming that it has been taken care of properly. Then after about 20 mins of us sitting around our usual ‘faculty spot’ (under the mango tree), they started to have a serious discussion, and formally asked me to join. I had no idea what they were talking about, but as some started to switch to English during the discussion, it dawned on me that they were talking about the injured student.

It turned out, that the problem at hand hadn’t been taken care of at all. I found out that they simply just took the girl back to her parents’ house, and were now discussing the next step. I asked whether or not she received any medical treatment at all during this time, and the answer was, they took her to a local healer, and there was nothing he could do, which was why they took her to her parents. By this time, it would have been close to an hour since the girl injured herself—and had yet to received any proper care. Freaked out, I brought out my loud and rude self and urged that they should at least take her to the clinic, which is across the road from the school, a mere 30 feet away. Pretty sure I said something along the line of, “You are all teachers, not medical professionals, take her to the clinic! There is a nurse there!”

After another 5 mins of pondering, the group dispersed, and I am told that they would take her to the clinic. While they went to get her, I walked over the clinic since at this point, sitting idly under the mango tree lost its appeal. The teachers and the girl arrived shortly afterward, and she is about 12 years old. Her wrist was wrapped in an old t-shirt, and though she didn’t show it on her face, it was very obvious that the past hour has not been pleasant for her.

To my disappointment, the nurse didn’t look at her injury at all, rather, she gave her some medicine, and 2 shots, which I later found were pain killer. My irritation didn’t subside, so I urged them to take her to the hospital. Some more discussion in the local language went on, and the girl is picked back up on to the moto to leave the clinic. Since I wasn’t sure what they were talking about, the sight of them leaving gave hope that they were taking her to the hospital. However, I soon learned that it wasn’t true once the moto turned to go to the opposite direction.

Loud and rude again, I asked my Counter Part (CP) about what was going on. He told me that instead of the hospital, they were taking her to a bone setter in the next village. Another teacher, J, saw my disbelief, and reminded me that here in the village, not everyone has insurance or money to go to the hospital, so they go to local healers. I have never felt more useless in Ghana.

I couldn’t bring myself to go back to the mango tree, but I also didn’t know what else to do, so I just sat outside the clinic for a while. My CP left, but then came back and told me that J would take me to the bone setter. He wanted me to see what were going to happen.

1 month in. 23 to go.

If Peace Corps is a person, we would have been together for one whole month already. Alas, we are not two high school teenagers so there won’t be a movie date, so I’d just blog about it instead.

The past month has been a roller coaster of emotion.  Yes, that was very cliché, and I don’t regret it. There were tears and there were joy, but I woke up today (May 23^rd) completely positive that there is no where else I would rather be.

I’ve talked about my site, a little village in the Upper West Region, named Goli. It is about 4-5 hours away from the Burkina Faso border and positively 15 hours away from the nearest movie theater, on a good day. 

Since I’ve been here, I’ve done a lot of sitting.  Everywhere I go, stools/benches/chairs are placed under my ass without request. My legs would be tired from walking at the end of the day but my ass would be sore from sitting in the equivalent amount. Some other PCVs from my group are placed with partner NGOs, and though I am not sure how their schedule is like, I hear that it can be quiet busy sometime. As for us upper regions people, like the chicken roaming in front of our houses, we are free ranged.  That means we don’t really have a schedule and our days could be as idle or as casual as we want. Which is why it is so important to embrace small successes, when life just seems to  be passing you by meaninglessly while you haven’t done shit for the entire day, the little things in life start to look grand. And they keep you going.

My job as a Health Water and Sanitation (or at least  what I got out of training) is to guide my village to achieve a healthier living environment. And that include getting them to stop pooping in bushes and drinking gross water while making healthy life choices like wearing a condom.

I could be easy if people understand that certain of their behaviors need to change before they stop getting sick all the time. But Peace Corps isn’t ‘the easiest job you’d ever love’ (that was college) so it takes time for us to get them to that point. If you haven’t tried it, going number 2 or even number 1 in the bushes can be a very liberating experience. Old habits die hard, and some/most/the majority of the people in my village are very old.

Anyway, the one month at site has seen greats and grave. Most of the day, I sit in various places in the village and try to learn the local languages by listening to their conversation about me, and make an effort to remember their names. People know me know that I am very bad with names, and it is fortunate that most Ghanaians have English based name like Felicia and Emanuel, but add the Ghanaian accent and it’s a salad of some different sound.  Everyone is someone else’s brother or sister of mother or father because everyone in the village is in a big family so that also need processing and figuring out time.

Someday, it is extremely delightful to see grown men walking around town holding hands from the pinky (because even though homosexuality is illegal here, there is no limit to same sex interaction) or during high noon time, women would be bare chested, hanging low without a care (to the four lovely ladies who flashed me before I left, you got competition).

Other day (the entire duration of the 3^rd week at site) all I want to do is sit on my porch and read and try not to drown in my own sweat in the waves of loneliness of being the only foreigner in a 45 minutes radius by car. Or if one more person laughs at me after I’ve spoke Dagaare and greet them, I’d lose it and curse out their mothers.

Roller coaster of emotions. Didn’t I say it?

But I’ll say it again, there is not where else I would rather be. I signed up for this. Waited for it. Excited for it. And now it is all mine, and I’ve just begun. There are latrines to be build, malaria to b prevented, and talking condom mural to be painted – all in the next 23 months. It’ll be the longest relationship to date, but I’m in it to win it. 

PCV official

I guess this news is worthy of a blog post. Two days ago we swore in as Peace Corps Trainees to be Peace Corps Volunteers. Now I am sitting and typing on a computer that is for PCVs only. I sure do feel special.

Immediately after we swore in, we were given our allowances and set free on our own. Still the youngest of the PCV family but no longer babies, Ghana you better watch out.

Tomorrow I am heading direct to my site and will be there for the next 3 months. After that it's In Service Training, but we are just going to have to wait and see it I make it through July.

Anywho, sorry I'm a lazy blogger. Write me letters instead.

38

...days since i have been in ghana. a bit over a month since my last updates, so here are a few quick and (maybe dirty) facts: (please pardon the terrible internet language, i typed this up on my phone)

- I tested and passed the Language Proficiency Interview in Dagaare – which means that I am now ‘proficient’ in the language and will be able to communicate with the people at my site/village.

- Site locations were finally revealed to the Trainees after the language test. Since I already knew my region, I was not as excited as everyone else who didn’t know. Still, finding out the exact location of my site was just as fun. I finally met my Contact Person (CP), i.e: the person who is going to introduce me to my community. He’s a math teacher, and he’s hilarious.

- my site is a little remote village in the upper west region. i am the first volunteer/'white person'/foreigner to have ever been in this village. my 3 days at site conjured up an interesting combination of feelings. nervousness, proud, pressured,  loneliness, excitement, overwhelmed...  im still trying to sort them out. hopefully after the first 3 months i could tell you more about it.

- my house/living quarter is a two rooms unit inside a 3 units house. its per peace corps standard though if you know me,, youd know that i dont need much room for comfortable living so having all this living space does feel strange, especially at night when i am alone siting in the dark sweating.

- sitting in the dark sweating because my village has no electricity so i have no electricity in the house. ergo, no fan. this might confuse some people as how i can still get online and whatnot and for that i will tell you that a. i have an internet phone and b. as long as i have a portable modem i can get online anywhere with a laptop as long as there is phone service.

- yes people have phone here even if they dont have electricity.  yes it is kind of ironic.

- i just finished 2 weeks of technical training and got to homestay last night after 12 hrs of traveling in a tightly packed bus. it was still better than my trip from the Upper West to Tamale -- 10 hrs with no AC -- so yeah im not complaining.

- i also took a techinical exam at the end of training, which gave my hand a cramp afterward. lots of short answers.

- if i pass that tech exam, next sunday i will be swearing in officially as a peace corps volunteer. then we can toss away the trainee title that we have been carrying around these few months.

- if anyone has sent me a package and letter im hoping to get them this week to bring to site with me, so i hope youre excited for it becuase i am :)

- if anyone want to send me things, be it electronic of snail, please feel free to. ( i could use some new music and tv shows, hint hint)

- as for pictures, i juts updated a few from the first 2 weeks on facebook. if youre a friend, check it out. if youre a rando, dont add me.

A day in training

I can’t say that 8 hours of ‘school’ everyday for language and technical training doesn’t drain me out, nor is it the best part of Peace Corps so far, but it’s been my life for the past month and it sure will be weird to have to readjust again after training is over.

For those back in the states wondering what my day is like, I hope you’re ready to be amazed.
-           Every morning, if I don’t automatically wake up at 5 am, I’d be out of bed by 6:30. The morning bucket bath takes about 15 minutes, 10 if it’s a cold morning. If you know me at all, you’d know that I am not officially awake until at least 11am in the morning, even when I had the 9 to 5 job. Now I leave the house by 7:30 to walk to class. The last time this was a routine, I was 10 and in another developing world.
-          ‘Class’ starts at 8 am and I’m hungry by 10. 11 is ‘independent study’ time but I spend that time running home for food and if I’m lucky, I could squeeze in a little nap before 1, but that almost never happens (due to various reasons, i.e: shooting the shit with the other volunteers, nosy screaming little children ect)
-          It is debatable, but I still think that my language instructor is the best one of the bunch since he always let us have the afternoon off and or at least, chill out and study on our own.
-          Technical training would start around 3 and continue for two of the longest hours of the day.
-          5 pm slowly crawls up and that’s the end of the day. Then we would have about 2 hours before it gets dark and that’s a day for the village. During the first couple of weeks, I would just fall asleep by 7 because it gets so dark outside. Now that my body is adjusting, sleep time gradually moves back to 9ish, any later is pushing it. Remember those days when sleep time was 2am? (Last year…)
-     On Sundays I usually 'sleep' in i.e lay in bed for an extra 30 mins before getting up. Then it's laundry time, sweep my room, grooming (shower, wash hair, pluck eyebrows ect... hairs grow fast in Ghana here, bet you wanted to know that) -- all before noon of course.
-    By noon time, some/a few/most/all of the Volunteers would head into town to use the internet. It's the only time in the week we get to do so, so everyone goes, and my facebook newsfeed is swamped with updates from them.

I usually type up my blog posts before during the week to upload them online later, but I was lagging last week so now I’m rushing to type this. Sorry again for the lack of pictures. I will try to have them all next week. There will be a water fall :)

MAILS!

I get mails every Thursday. I don’t know what Christmas morning is like, but I can imagine it to be like mail day when we all anxiously waiting to see if any of those packages are for us, so send me letters, packages, inappropriate pictures of yourself in compromising positions J ect.

I can also use/in need of:

-Ramen (Shin bowls! – I miss asian food so much, this might be the closest thing I can ever come to Asian soup here)

-Non-scented liquid body wash  

-Hair conditioner ( I only packed on bottle and had to leave it behind at the airport out of fear that my bags were overweight)

-Special K/Chewy/Granola bars (people don’t snack very much here, and I’m constantly hungry)

- Baby wipes, also non-scented (I’ve realized that I can never have enough baby wipes here, or just toilet wipes in general)

- triple As batteries (I packed a ton of double As but it turned out that all my head lamps use triple As…)

- Powdered drinks like iced green tea powder or Crystal lights.

- Gummy Vites!

My address is (for the next 3 months):
 CHAU NGO
P.O BOX 5796
ACCRA NORTH
GHANA

It takes somewhere between 1 to 3 weeks for the mails to get from the states to here, but it will stay in my heart forever if you send me something. Cheesy, but I’m okay with it. Miss you all.

Meeting da chief and speaking Dagaare like a pro.

Last Sunday we were scheduled to meet the chief of Aniyasin. Being that it was a serious deal, we all got up extra early and put on our best frocks, or at least, the best frocks we brought to Africa with us. Our families were suppose to come with us, but when I headed out in the morning, my sis was nowhere near being ready to hit the road. I was worried that she forgot and I would have been the only person in the entire group who didn’t come with a family. I tried to remind her, and she just said, ‘I’m coming’ which is Ghanian English for, I’ll be back/I’m getting there/hold on.

When I went and meet up with everyone else, it turned out that no one else’s family was there with them either. So once again, there we were, 24 obrunis gathered in one spot in town for all the locals to stare.

We seriously were there for an hour waiting before things moved along. It turned out that the chief wasn’t even awake at 6 45am like we were told to meet, but at 8 am, so our families had the right idea about coming later. The second we started moving toward the chief’s house, my sister popped out of nowhere.

The ceremony was to introduce the new PCVs to the chief since we are guests in his village. There were drumming and chanting and pouring and drinking of alcohol aka terrible schnapp. There were several customs we had to follow during the ceremony, but I had already forgot about them by the time we arrived, so when the glass of alcohol was passed to me, I accepted it with my left hand without even realizing it. In Ghanaian culture, the left hand is considered a vice, and one should not be using it for any reason. So I pretty much already insulted the chief and his clan before breakfast. How am I not stoned to death already, I don’t even know.

Since Monday, we’ve been divided up into different language groups to learn the local language of the region that we are going to be at after training. I was placed in the Upper West region, which is the youngest and newest region for all the sites. The language there is Dagaare, and there are just three of us who are heading there including me so our group is small though not the smallest since there is the Ewe language group for Volta region which only has one person.

The language learning is super intensive. 6 hours a day every day. When Monday started I didn’t know a single Dagaare word, but now I know how to introduce myself and talk about my family. Crazy. Beside language we also have technical training, which I should pay more attention to and shouldn’t dread so much since it’s only 2 hours a day, except that going to this class after language training is super gruesome.  Then I go home and have to deal with my fan club, aka, the neighbors next door who like to shout my name whenever they see me regardless of the hour of the day/night. That’s definitely another post on its own. Wait for it. 

Greetings and salutations.

Our homestay began on Monday the 13^th. It was a 5 hours drive from Accra to Kukurantumi where one of the Peace Corps Offices is located.  

After almost a whole day of traveling and anxiously waiting, we finally made it to the little village where we’re going to spend the next 3 months. I was completely overwhelmed (and probably dehydrated) so much that I don’t even know how I made it through the entire event without passing out. My heart was pounding a mile a minute up until the second when I found out about my host family. Only my sister was there to pick me up, so everyone, including me, thought she was my mom. She seemed super eccentric and definitely lived up to that image (but more on that later). 

After the reveal, we had some awkward moments of sitting and getting to know each other. Of course, my new sis and I didn’t have much to talk about and at this time, I was still thinking that she was my mom. I think at one point, I asked her how old she was, and she said 50, and I couldn’t believe it. I told her she was too young to be 50. Later, I realized that she told me that her mom is 50, which makes more sense now. My sis is only 25… or so she said. She has 3 kids, and the oldest is 13 so you do the math and tell me about it.

I had two giant bags each about 40 pounds in Ghana, and even though she needed help putting it on, my sis carried one of them on her head like it was a fucking hat. And she walked the entire 20 mins walk to our house with it and left me trailing behind with my 16 pounds backpack. To put me to even more shame, a small child, probably the age of 12, took my other 40 pounds bag and propped it on her own head. She only went half way though because then we ran into Dennis, my oldest nephew who is 13, and Dennis then took the bag over with his head. Just the whole thing about people carrying a anything/everything on their heads deserve a post all on its own.

My host family is relatively small. Mom, pop, sis and 3 nephews and we all live together, and I have my own room as per requirement by Peace Corps. It’s pretty cool, I get a bed and a table, and they gave me a fan. It’s an old old old fan and needs like a 2 hours head start to run full speed but it helps get me through the night so it’s been great. Compare to some of the other volunteers who don’t have electricity or even a bright light bulb (i.e: dim blue or green light in the room) I’m living the high life. Location wise though, I guess I’m in the backwoods boondocks because it takes walking up a dirt path for 15 mins before hitting the town’s main (and only) paved road.

Back to my family, they are pretty relaxed. I joke about how we are kind of the hicks of the town because we are kind of living in two sets of bungalows and our court yard is pretty much a second road for bystanders, but I actually really like them. My sister and my mom speak great English, which apparently isn’t the case for all host families. This is not their first time hosting so they are now used to the volunteers/trainees’ antics and habits and actually have made my homestay experience relatively pleasant, i.e: not setting up a curfew, not putting too much palm nut oil in my food, not giving me too much food, not feeding me all meat no veggies.

Anyway, my sister is youthful and somewhat crazy (the fun crazy, not crazy crazy) and she thinks that I’m hilarious, which is always a plus for me.  I think it valentine’s day the 2^nd night I was there, and she wanted to take me to a spot, which is what people here call a bar. I asked Heather to come with me, and we planned to meet up after dinner. Sometime between me eating and showering, Heather had to go with her family somewhere, and for about 20 mins, I was in panic mode because I texted a bunch of people but no one else was around/available to go with me. The last thing I needed at the time was being alone in a spot on Valentine’s Day with some drunken Ghanaians. Lucky for me though because as we were about to head out, Heather came back, a total life saver moment, so the three of us set out for the Lover’s Inn Spot (not even the tackiest names I’ve seen here).

On our walk to the spot, we picked up Adam, another volunteer So there we were three obrunis, aka white people, and a local heading out for a night on the town. The spot was still empty when we got there, and my sis got us some cold Fantas to drink, and literally the second our drinks came, she paid and announced that she was heading into town for the night, but we should enjoy ourselves here.

Yeah… definitely didn’t see that one coming.

And so my sis left and then it was just the three of us obrunis sitting there outside drinking Fantas and chatting and pondering about what just happened, us being dropped by my sister who was supposed to show me the town. It was nice until a group of drunken young men came and wouldn’t leave us alone after that so we had to leave.

Since the people have been so polite to us during the 2 days we were there, it was sobering to experience this bit of negative attention. Foreigners stand out. Women stand out. You always have to watch yourself. And leave it to me to get the one family with the partying sister.