Going Home?

I’m starting to understand what people mean when they say you can never go home.

In some ways, of course, that’s ridiculous. I came home, and the people that I left behind were waiting for me. Of course I had changed and so had they, but I didn’t find that there was a rift between myself and any of my friends and family that hadn’t been there before.

Some of the changes that I had to deal with when I came home were unreasonably upsetting. While I was away, for example, Canada started phasing in new plastic bills to replace the old cotton currency, and this upset me far more than it should have. Trying to buy Canadian money on my way home from Ethiopia, I was certain that the lady at the for-ex counter was making a mistake, because I’m a Canadian, and I know that our money isn’t lime green. Except that now it is, and I’m still trying to get used to it.

Other things were pretty easy to accept. I haven’t been as cold all the time as I thought I would be. As it turns out, despite the lower temperatures in Ontario, it still feels nice and hot because of the humidity; sometimes uncomfortably so. In fact, there are times where I actually feel cold, but I notice that I’m sweating because it’s just that muggy out. It’s kind of weird, but better than just being freezing all the time.

I knew that I would miss Ghana. But I’m finding that it’s a little bit more complicated than that. It’s not as if I sit around here wishing I were back in Ghana and pining for my life there most of the time. Sure, that happens occasionally, but mostly I just feel like I miss being away. I often feel like I want to be anywhere but here, not because I don’t like it here, but because it doesn’t really feel like home… so I don’t want to be where it should feel like home. If I’m going to feel like a stranger, I want to actually be in a strange land, going on another adventure.

The things that I miss about Ghana are strange sometimes. I miss the people and the food, of course. Those things I expected to miss. But some of the things that I miss really surprise me. I miss the oppressive dry heat of the sunshine, when you feel like you’re walking into an oven because the air has that hot cooked taste to it, and the wind blows so you don’t feel sweaty, but the wind is hot too, so your skin feels sharp and tingly. I miss the awkward and difficult conversations that I had with strangers about my life and theirs, that were often downright uncomfortable because of our differences. I miss waking up with the sun and having the whole world wake up with me, and I miss coming home after a long hot day and washing off the ubiquitous red dust of Africa.

Having moved into my new apartment in Peterborough, and started my new job (as VIP coordinator at Peterborough Musicfest) I’m trying to settle in and get a routine going, but none of what I’m doing feels routine. It just doesn’t feel permanent to me. But I’ve only been back in Canada for about two months now, and I’ve only been here in Peterborough for about two weeks, so maybe it’s just too soon for this to feel real and to feel like home. Maybe it’s just a matter of time. I guess I’ll find out, and I’ll keep you posted. 

Reasons Why Mosquitoes are Way Worse in Ghana than in Canada

Subtitle: Especially when you're sleep deprived and have been doing nothing but essay-writing for the better part of a week.

Reason Number 1

Because the mosquitoes here are not like Canadian mosquitoes that are huge, slow, clumsy, and easily squishable.

Ghanaian mosquitoes are ninjas. They are tiny and silent and they will get you, but you will never ever see them.

Reason Number 2

Because with every single mosquito bite, I look at it, and in my head, I can't help but think, "I wonder if this one gave me malaria."

Reason Number 3

Because windows, doors, and other important holes in the walls here, never seem to seal.

When you don't have to engineer buildings to keep out -30 degree winters, I guess sealing these openings is not really a priority. Some places have mosquito netting, which helps, and I typically sleep under a mosquito net, which also helps. Unfortunately, in my current set up at Carmencita's, that is not possible. And even if it were, I can't bring my mosquito net downstairs to the dining room table where my essay-writing station is currently set up.

Reason Number 4

Because I may or may not be allergic to the saliva of the mosquitoes here. Unlike in Canada, my mosquito bites in Ghana have a strange tendency to leak clear fluid. Gross.

In conclusion: I am itchy.

Finally, a solution!

So, over the course of my time in Ghana, I've had to deal with a lot of marriage proposals. They came in many different shapes, sizes, and levels of awkwardness, and they were plentiful.

And the whole time, I found myself floundering around for something to say in reply.

I'm sure many of you are thinking, "Erin, why not just say no?" ...the answer to that is a little bit complicated.

I guess first and foremost, it doesn't usually work. "No" is not enough. "No" is often not actually believed (What do you mean, no? I offered to marry you!) and I end up having to answer questions like, "Why not?" and "Why don't you want to marry a Ghanaian?" which can be a little awkward.

Secondly, on rare occasions, the person asking is in fact joking, so just saying "no" really shuts them down and kind of makes life awkward.

Thirdly, since so many people ask me and they ask me so often, this must be okay. I mean... it can't be that that many people are just rude or socially awkward. This is normal. And given the responses I get to "No," I'm pretty sure that's not normal. I'm trying to navigate a whole set of social rules and protocols that are unfamiliar to me, and while to me, it seems obvious to just say "no," it seems like it's just not the thing to do here.

So, how do I handle this?

For most of my time here, I literally just laughed. I tried to actually speak as little as possible in response, and laugh as if it was a joke (which occasionally it was), and that got me off the hook about a third of the time.

The rest of the time I would say something like, "I'm already married," because "I have a boyfriend," is not actually legitimate grounds to refuse a marriage proposal. A boyfriend is just a boyfriend, you can still get married. Even with a fiancee, the fact that I'm across an ocean from them, or even just not in their immediate vicinity, means that I'm still fair game. But sometimes even that wouldn't work. On more than one occasion I've heard, "Ah, but you need a Ghanaian husband, for when you are here!" This may be because of the rampant stereotypes about white women (that we're all rich and promiscuous and only come to places like Ghana to get a tan and have a sexual adventure) or the different assumptions and values about marital faithfulness (a man who stays faithful in a relationship here is kind of like a man who voluntarily scrubs toilets at home; they exist, sure, but you don't ever really expect it). Either way, I have to laugh awkwardly and flounder around some more for a response more often than I'd like.

And don't even get me started on "I don't want to get married." Suffice to say, I've had bad experiences using this line. I've been accused of being a witch, called wicked (because women have to get married and have children, "It's in the biblical!") and legitimately thought to be mentally ill.

But I think now, as I reach the end of my time here, I have finally found the appropriate way to dodge these offers of matrimony.

To be honest, I should have thought of this from the start. Instead of trying to tell men why I can't/don't want to marry them, I should be reminding them why they don't really want to marry me.

I mean, sure, I'm exotic and attractive because of my whiteness in a society where white bodies are unreasonably fetishized, as well as my assumed wealth, but if you get right down to it, I would not be the wife that they think I would, and I am certainly not the wife that they want.

Winning phrase #1: "You wouldn't want me as a wife; I would make you wash your own clothes."

I've only had this one fail once, when it was pointed out to me that "It's just easier to do all the washing at once." Fair enough, I conceded, but I would still have my husband do all the washing half the time in that instance. This time, it was concluded that, "In that case, you need a washing machine to make it easier for you." And the man I was conversing with was nothing short of horrified when I said that that would be great, and my husband could also use the washing machine to do laundry half of the time.

Winning phrase #2: "You wouldn't want me as a wife; I don't really like to cook. You'd have to cook most of the time."

Again, I only had this one fail to immediately get me off the hook once, when it was suggested that either one of my sisters come to cook for my husband, or that we could get a second wife to do the cooking. To this I just laughed. There was nothing I could say.

Winning phrase #3: "You wouldn't want me as a wife; I would make you help take care of the babies. Feeding them, from a bottle of course, washing them, dressing them, changing their nappies. All of that, you'd have to do about half the time."

I never had any problems with this one. Just men pulling funny faces and making disgruntled, upset, and disgusted noises. This just made me laugh.

I would have also used a fourth phrase about having my own career and expecting to have the freedom to pursue it, the possibility of the whole family having to move because of job opportunities, etc, but I couldn't think of a way to condense that enough to not be a whole monologue about the status of women in Canada as compared to Ghana.

Honestly, with each of these "winning phrases" I would have loved to be right back in my awkward seat, floundering around for some new excuse, because the man had said, "Oh, that's not a problem. That's how it should be." But that never, ever happened.

Maybe by using my society's values about men's and women's roles in relationships as excuses to not get married, I'm reproducing stereotypes of foreigners being rigid and unwilling to adapt to other cultures. Maybe I'm exerting some of the power and privilege that I have because of my whiteness and foreignness and wealth in ways that I shouldn't.

But maybe, just maybe, I'm making just one of those men really think about why they wouldn't want a wife who wouldn't cook for them all the time, and why that was more important than the reasons that they wanted to propose in the first place. And maybe, just maybe, that's a baby step towards change?

Law and Order: Ghana

I had to come home early from the day's adventures on Wednesday, but I didn't quite make it on my own. I got to experience that awkward moment when you have to pull over your motorcycle to throw up in a gutter and collapse. Good memories. Some nice passersby helped me into the shade and bought me some water and helped me call Joseph (One of Doris' "children", actually her nephew, who doesn't speak English, but was the only one I knew in town who wasn't at the police station doing much more important things and could drive a moto) and tell him where I was so he could drive me home.

In other news, Doris got arrested.

We had three on Doris' moto (not allowed) because mine was out of gas, so we were going to fill a gas can to bring back to the office (where my moto was stranded) to fill it up.

Now... "overloading" a motorcycle here is kind of like speeding in Canada, in the sense that as long as you're not doing it too obnoxiously, or in the wrong places, you're unlikely to get in any trouble for it. On our way to get gas for the moto, we had to go by a police checkpoint, so there was some risk involved, but we had driven by there with three of us on the moto before (as exemplars of road safety) and had no problems. This time, the officers at the checkpoint, whom I make a point to wave at every time I drive by, signaled for us to pull over. We explained the situation to the officers, and they waved us through. Then at the gas station, the Regional Crime officer drives up in his big shiny white pickup, takes the keys out of Doris's moto, tells her to get off it, and that she's being arrested.

Doris is a very proud individual. She holds herself like she owns the place wherever she is, and she stares down and orders around everyone from waiters to shopkeepers to bankers to district assemblymen like they're school children. Still, in the face of this police official (the highest ranking policeman in the region) Doris quite literally gets down on her knees to beg him to listen to her explanation. In response, he grabbed her wrist and pullws her up to her feet before handing the keys to some underling and getting back in his truck. Both vehicles drove off, leaving us to walk back to the checkpoint, where they confiscated Doris' license too, and all officers around refused to give her a ride back into town, even though she has been instructed to report back to the police station, and they have driven off with her vehicle. At this point, we were about a 15 minute drive down the highway from the police station that she was meant to report to, so clearly too far to walk, especially in 48 degree heat. Luckily, someone she knew happened to be driving by on a moped, and she was able to hitch a ride, meanwhile Marika and I waited for a trotro to take us back to the office with our gallon of petrol.

Apparently, a friend of Doris' posted her 10,000 cedi bail for her. Upon reviving our moto, we met her at the police station where she was presumably dealing with the situation.

In the midst of all this, I was feeling lost, helpless, tired, and not a little bit frustrated. In my mind, we had just been victims of the abuse of police power, and I was being told nothing about what we would do next, or what actions could be taken, or anything. All I was being told was, "Follow me." By Doris, as she walked around the police station, and then hopped on her moto and drove away.

First we drove to a gas station, where she bought gas, and Marika and I sat on my moto, baking in the sun, while she had a seemingly endless conversation (that I gathered from the odd word of English was about her arrest) with a man who was also on a moto getting fuel. I tried to ask her where we were going and what we were doing, but this seemed to aggravate her. She told me, "What you are asking me, unless we sit, it will make me tired. How can I tell you when we are here? Just follow me." Eventually the conversation came to an end, and we made our way to the bank, where we sat down in the air conditioning, and had a chat.

I know that to a large extent it was culture shock, and the fact that my stomach was starting to hurt, that made me so grumpy about the situation, but I was so frustrated with the lack of due process involved in the police action that was taken against us, and the fact that what I considered the "proper channels" for dealing with it (i.e. testifying in court the following day, or pursuing some kind of appeal or legal action about the improper manner or Doris' arrest, the unlawful confiscation of our vehicle) were not available to us. In fact, when I suggested speaking out against the Regional Crime Officer's abuse of power, Doris told me in no uncertain terms that if we did that, she would go to prison.

As a result, I didn't really want to be a part of this process. It was clear to me that there was more that Doris wanted to do, though I couldn't understand what more could be done if she was unwilling to take any of the options I could think of. I'm still not entirely sure why we went to the bank, though Doris obviously did some business there. It's possible that she took out money in case she had to bribe people. It's possible that she had completely unrelated business to do there, I'm not really sure. At this point, I gave up asking questions, because doing so seemed to result more in Doris' anger than my enlightenment.

In retrospect, I'm sure this was a frightening and frustrating situation for Doris to be in, and I'm sure that having to explain the ways of the police world, which would have been common sense to her, to an ignorant yet opinionated white girl in the midst of this situation was more than a little bit aggravating. For example, when she showed me her arrest form that had the space "Arresting Officer" filled as "Regional Crime Officer" with no name or number, I mentioned it as if it were a problem. In my mind, it was. In my mind, the police officers are supposed to be personally identified when they act using state power and authority, so that if there is abuse of that authority, they can be identified and disciplinary action can be taken against them. But to Doris, this was ridiculous, since "When he arrested me, it was in his capacity as Regional Crime Officer, not in his capacity as his name." This was strange, and seemed problematic to me, but I kept my mouth shut. Still, I can't help but feel that it would have been easier for her to just send us home.

Sitting in the bank, Doris (rather aggressively) explained to me that she had been speaking to traffic control officers of every shape and kind at the municipal police station trying to get someone to let her off the hook, or else to take action to lessen her charges. The issue at hand was not whether or not Doris was guilty. She had, obviously, taken three people on a moto. We also couldn't really challenge why we were apprehended when so often this law goes unenforced (although we knew it was because she was carrying two white passengers, not two black ones). The problem with the situation was that instead of just getting a ticket, Doris was actually arrested. And instead of escorting her to the police station, the arresting officer left her stranded on the side of the road. I don't know what the protocol is here for dealing with this particular offense. Honestly, I don't even know if there is a "protocol" or any kind of guide for appropriate disciplinary action for various traffic offenses here. Still, the confiscation of a vehicle seems rather extreme, and the profound lack of respect of the officers was offensive to me.

My helplessness in this situation (and probably the beginnings of my fever) made it difficult for me to accept the stark differences in law enforcement here. I was frustrated and angry because I felt we had been wronged, there was nothing we could do about it, and Doris seemed to be upset with me for not accepting the situation as it was. Marika tried to step in, telling me that, "It's just a different way of doing things," but to me it was just an unjust way of doing things.

Looking back now, I still feel that way to some extent. I really do believe in the protective powers of bureaucracy in the creation of a social contract. I think that it is right for me to know the law, but I also think it is my right to know how I can expect to be punished if I break the law. I think it's important for the regulation of police power that punishments for crimes are not arbitrary. Otherwise, it is too easy for police power to be used unethically to serve personal or political vendettas.

At the time, however, I was not thinking quite so clearly or rationally, so I mostly kept my mouth shut and scowled.

It seemed to me that I could do nothing more to help, and that my presence was just making all parties involved less calm and comfortable, so I suggested that I go home.

I think that in doing so, I may have committed some kind of social faux pas.

Doris' reaction to this suggestion was upsetting. I had to take out my book and pretend to read after she finished her spiel so that I could take some deep breaths and keep my tears at bay.

She seemed very angry, maybe hurt, and generally offended that I would want to go home. It didn't seem to me that I was doing any good as moral support, even if I thought she and I had the kind of relationship that would make me a candidate to provide that, or if she had given any indication that I could see that she wanted moral support. She mocked my claim that I wouldn't be of much use to her there. I guess it's kind of like staying with a sick friend at the hospital: even though you know you're totally useless, it's still not really socially acceptable to leave. "Next time," she told me, "your friend gets arrested, you will know what you do."

So after that I pretty much counted wall tiles and went to my happy place.

After almost an hour of not knowing what was going on or why we were there, Doris said that someone told her that there was a woman in town who was  apparently "free" with the crime officer (he holds her in esteem such that she can influence his opinion, or is politically higher such that she can impose her will on him) so we would go to find her and tell her what happened. I just said okay and followed.

We drove around looking for her for about two hours, all the while my stomach ache was getting worse, and she heard Doris out and agreed to speak for her to try to convince the crime officer to let her off with a warning. On the one hand, this was a really interesting experience, seeing how the criminal justice system is navigated in a place where social networking is more important than bureaucratic protocols, but on the other hand, I was tired and frustrated, and having a bit of a pity party for myself since Doris chewed me out. Looking back, I was being pretty immature, and I wish I could go back and handle it better. But soon my stomach pain eclipsed my indignation, and I was just trying to get through the day so that I could go home. As usual, I was just driving around following Doris and standing next to her, oblivious, as she spoke to people in Frafra.

The lady came to the police station with us to speak to the crime officer, but he was no longer there. At this point, I could no longer go through the motions of being Doris' sidekick. As much as I knew it would seem like I was faking to get out of the days activities, and as guilty as it made me feel (not just because Doris would think I was lying, but also because she clearly wanted me there for some reason and I was letting her down) I had to tell her I was sick and couldn't continue. I was starting to feel nauseous and faint, so after a few dozen apologies, I took my moto and tried to drive home.

As I mentioned before, that didn't work out the best, but I did eventually get home, and after a nasty 12 hours or so, I did also eventually feel better.

I learned later that the crime officer had been at the Regional Police Station (not the municipal one where we had been) just outside of town, so Marika and Doris, and this lady (who was some kind of "Hounourable" political figure) drove there and made their case to the crime officer. Apparently, in the Honourable Lady's version of events, one of the white girls was sick and was being driven to the hospital, and on those grounds, Doris was let off with a warning, her moto was returned to her, and she and Marika and the Honourable went out for drinks and guinea fowl.

They called me and invited me to come, Doris mentioning that "I am free, so you don't have to be sick again," which really hurt my feelings, actually. I refused as politely as I could, reminding them that I was actually sick.

And that was my day.

Full of culture shock and ethical dilemmas and illness: all of the things that they warn you about when you are going to a third world country, or really any country that could be considered another "culture."

What does it mean to be clean?

When you think of something being clean, what does that mean to you? I'm sure you have lots of ideas about it, just like I did. You probably imagine something spotlessly white and shiny.

Does hand sanitizer make your hands clean?

Not according to Doris. At first her skepticism about hand sanitizer seemed like ignorance, and I'll admit, I laughed (although that was largely due to the high pitched exclamatory noises that she likes to make, and the wildly expressive faces she pulls).

But really... what does it mean to be clean? And why am I so attached to my own cultural conceptions of cleanliness?

Hand sanitizer is supposed to clean your hands by killing 99.9% of germs, right? So is that what it means to be clean? To have all the germs killed? I thought so, and tried to explain this to Doris. She had a variety of responses.

"If you pour hand sanitizer on an ant, will it die? Isn't the ant more poisonous than germs?"

"If you go from air conditioned room to air conditioned car to air conditioned room and pour that on your hands, it will make you clean! But if you drive in the dust on a moto and you have grease on your hands and you pour that on your hands, they will still be dirty. Ghana dirt is stronger than Canada dirt!"

But is being sanitary the same as being clean? I can put hand sanitizer on my hands and be fairly sure that subsequently eating with them will not make me sick... but I can also be fairly sure that I will still have dust hiding in the cracks and wrinkles.

This issue came up talking about water too.

"This is borehole water! It is cleaner than the purewaters!" (500mL sachets of filtered and treated drinking water).

I tried to tell Doris that the borehole water may be very clean, and void of chemicals that sometimes give the sachets a bit of a flavour, but that it has bacteria in it that my body's not used to, so it might make me sick.

"It will not make you sick! It is clean. Your purewater will make you sick. When you taste it, it has things in it. It is not just water, not like the this thing."

"Your body will be fine. It can't even hurt solmeias." (Frafra word for strangers/white people. Like the Twi "obruni")

So, giving into peer pressure (since Marika had some) and boss-pressure (?) from Doris, I drank some of the borehole water, and lo and behold, it didn't make me sick.

In my head, the whole time, I was wondering, "Why is this clean? Couldn't it have some kind of contaminants? Could I get a parasite or cholera or something?"

But why am I afraid of whatever contaminants might be in the water from the ground, and from nature, but I have no fear of chemical contaminants that might be in my industrially treated water? Why do I trust one and not the other, when they are both, in their own ways, "clean" and "unclean?"

Why, even after having tasted the borehole water and suffering no adverse effects, am I still buying purewater instead of drinking the borehole water for free?

Clearly I have culturally rooted ideas about what makes things clean for me to eat and drink, and clearly they are pretty deeply embedded. But they are such common-sense assumptions... truths that I never really questioned, that I find I don't entirely know why I think one thing is clean and one thing isn't.

The same can be said for people here, though.

I've tried a few times asking Ghanaians why they sweep the outside, and all I can ever get as an answer is, "so that it will be clean."

Every day, my host sisters get out their brooms (usually early in the morning) and sweep all the leaves and twigs and rocks and berries out of the compound, and sweep the dirt so that it is smooth. While I admit, it is more aesthetically appealing this way, and occasionally bits of rubbish are also swept up in this process, it's hard to see how sweeping twigs off the dirt makes the dirt "clean."

And this practice is not reserved to inside the compound. Whenever we set up meetings at work, or give oven-building, business training, or leadership workshops, under trees that are well outside the compounds (and even too far away to really be considered in the "yard" of the compounds) we must always first sweep all the leaves and sticks and rocks and everything that isn't dirt out from under the tree where the women will be sitting.

So clearly, in this cultural conception of cleanliness, dirt and dust can be made clean, but even sanitized hands are not clean if there is still dirt or dust on them.

Do I disagree?

I don't even know.

I've Been Here for Five Months, But...

I am still having some culture shock.

But first let me tell you a little bit about what I’ve been doing at work. The thing that we’ve been spending most of our time on so far has been collecting cash from groups of women who took out loans from the bank in Walewale, that we plan to deposit at the bank tomorrow. The first day we did this, Tuesday, Marika was sick, and as a result, it was just Gifty and I collecting the money, while Doris did other things.

Yesterday, with Marika there and Doris absent, we had some small transportation issues. In order to explain that, I have to have a little sidebar. Marika and I wanted bikes. Unfortunately, Tawodep is about a 30-40 minute drive from where we’re staying, so that would be a really long commute on a bike. Doris solved this issue (I guess) by providing me with a motorcycle.

I was excited and terrified.

I was excited to be driving again, and I really miss my Annabelle (Honda CBR 125). But driving here is not like driving at home. It’s not as bad in Bolga, because it’s a small enough place that there isn’t too much traffic, so it’s easier to avoid most of the craziness. Still, the very act of getting on the road, as a driver, passenger, pedestrian, what have you, is taking sizeable risk.

But there was no other way. Even if we wanted to pay the obscene amount that it would cost to charter a taxi to work every morning, we need some form of transportation to get to and between the villages where we meet with women’s groups, and the taxis won’t go that far off the main drag, even if we could catch one in the middle-of-nowhere town of Bulugu where Tawodep is located.

The motorcycle that I actually ended up driving is not the one that belongs to Doris. At the moment, her extra motorcycle is in a repair shop in Bolga, because it desperately needed repairs. The front brake was nonexistent, and the fuel tank was leaking, so even by Ghanaian standards, it wasn’t driveable. The one that I have now, I have named Jezebel. That is because she’s the one that the repair shop lends out in situations such as these, and frankly, she’s easy. There is no way to lock the handlebars, so anyone could take her and roll her away, or even drive her away, because she also does not require a key to start. This is kind of scary for me, so I actually roll her up onto the verandah of our room at night, and anytime I park her anywhere, I’m constantly wondering if she’ll still be there when I return.

Jezebel is not fancy at all. Though physically larger than Annabelle, she has an even smaller engine, and no battery functions to speak of. Luckily, this is not uncommon here, so everyone recognizes and respects the hand signals that I use. There is a great swath of leather missing from the seat that has been replaced by a strip of upholstery that looks like it was stolen off a couch in the 80s. Bafflingly, she has two kickstands – one on either side – and, much to my dismay, a carburetor and a kick-start. Also, as I found out yesterday, no reserve tank, and no fuel gauge.

Doris wants Marika to learn to drive too, and she talks about a moped (that I’ve never seen) that she wants to give her, but Marika is too scared. I’m kind of annoyed, because this leaves me in a position that I’ve been in a hundred times in Canada, where I end up shuttling people around and taken for granted, and even taken advantage of, because I’m the only one who has a vehicle and can drive. I’m noticing that this may be the case with Tawodep itself. Doris provided me with the moto, free of charge, but I have to fill it with gas myself, and am required to shuttle Gifty and/or Marika out to wherever we go on Tawodep business. It’s a way for Tawodep to reduce their operating costs, I guess.

Anyway, with Doris absent and therefore unable to take anyone on the back of her motorcycle, we had a small transportation issue. Although riding with three (or even up to five!) on a motorcycle is fairly common here, I was really not comfortable with having more than one passenger, especially on the dust and dirt roads that we would be taking to get to the villages. As a result, Marika and Gifty were able to get a ride along the main road from Bulungu to Winkogo. From there, I drove Gifty the rest of the way to the village, which took about 10 minutes, and then turned around to pick up Marika.

That’s where I had a bit of an adventure.

Gifty had been holding my purse, since she was on the back, and I didn’t bother to take it back from her when I went to get Marika, because I figured I’d be seeing her again in just a few minutes anyway. That proved to be a mistake, because about three minutes into the drive back to the main road, my motorcycle sputtered to a stop, because I had run out of fuel. This snuck up on me in this way, because the machine has no fuel gauge.

So I was on a random dirt road in the middle of nowhere in Ghana with no phone, no money, no water, and a broken down motorcycle. So, I put it in neutral and started pushing. It took a while, and I was very tired and sweaty by the end of it, but eventually I got it to the main road, where there happened to be a fueling station. So Marika, who was waiting there for me to take her to the village, bought me some gas, and we went on with our day.

Today, in order to avoid my having to shuttle everyone around (which would have been harder today because we had two different villages to go to) Marika stayed at the office and worked on the Girl Child Education Agreement that Doris wanted drafted, while Gifty and I went to the field.

Now, on to my culture shock.

Working in the field is a lot of fun. It’s cool to see where and how people in rural areas actually live, and interact with these women who are supporting their families through their enterprises, and see how clever and capable they are, regardless of their levels of education.

But it can also be very challenging. Working with Gifty puts me in a very strange position in relation to the interactions that are taking place. Usually, Gifty and the women will speak to each other in Frafra, at length (it seems to me, but maybe that’s just because I don’t understand), about our business with them, and the money we mean to collect. People greet me, and I try to stumble through the appropriate responses, and work at greeting anybody I should such that I don’t offend anyone. Unless I ask specifically, Gifty doesn’t usually tell me what’s being said, even when people are clearly talking to me, which can be frustrating. I don’t know if this is because she thinks I will understand, or if she just doesn’t think to translate it, or if her English isn’t good enough to translate what’s being said, or if she just likes to watch me squirm. I think it would probably be rude to ask, and in the end, it really doesn’t make much of a difference.

When we’re in the field, Gifty talks, and I make decisions. It’s a very awkward relationship. Whenever money is being collected, Gifty immediately gives it to me to count, or hold, or whatever. Whenever any records need to be kept, I am the one to write them, and whenever anything needs to be decided, even though I do very little in the processes of the work that we’re doing, Gifty always asks me to decide.

One such example happened today, when Gifty turned to me after speaking to one of the women, and said, “The money is not reach.” After a short blank stare, and some questioning to figure out exactly what was happening, I figured out that the woman we were there to collect money from didn’t have the money for us, and said she would bring it to the Tawodep office on Monday. Once I indicated that I understood the situation, Gifty asked, “Should we go? Or?”

This makes me think a lot about what my role actually is in this organization. I don’t know if Gifty is deferring decision making powers to me because I’m white, educated, English-speaking, Canadian, or any other of my characteristics as an Obruni, or if it’s because I’m actually positioned somehow above her in the Tawodep foodchain (which, again, I would question the reasons behind) or if it’s because she’s simply indecisive and would prefer for me to take charge.

In this instance, I just said, “Okay,” and went along with it, because if the woman didn’t have the money for us, it seemed to me that there wasn’t much more we could do. Having seen the record books at the office (hilariously, most of them were meticulously notated on the pages of Hannah Montana notebooks) I knew that many women defaulted on a few of their payments, but made them up the following month, so at least there was a precedent for this kind of occurrence.

The loans that we were dealing with seemed to be pretty straight forward. Each woman had a loan ranging from 50-1000 cidies, but they were only allowed to take these loans as a part of a group, that shared responsibility for their repayment. This measure is to prevent people from taking loans and simply disappearing, which can be a big problem in rural Africa. The interest on the loans is 14%, if paid off within the first 6 months, and 26% following that. This seems pretty steep to me, but I don’t really know much about this (yet). I will have to research more about interest rates and things in order to write my final report, but I haven’t quite gotten around to that yet. Anyway, the women with the GHC100 loans have to pay back GHC114 by the end of the six months, so they end up with GHC20 monthly payments, until the last. It’s a pretty easy system to follow, and to explain to people who have never heard of “compound interest” and have never gone to school. But because they don’t have scheduled monthly payments with the bank, defaulting for a month and making it up the next one (as long as it’s within 6 months) is not a big deal.

But it can be really frustrating for me, when I’m asked to make decisions as if I necessarily know better, but I am not being given all the relevant information. If I hadn’t put in serious effort today, Gifty would not have told me that the woman intended to bring the money to the office, instead of requiring us to come back, nor when she proposed to do so. All she would have told me was “The money is not reach,” and I found myself getting pretty frustrated. I ended up having to take a quick walk to calm down after we got back to the office. Apparently my frustrations were starting to show, and Marika called me on it. I realized she was right, and I was starting to be pretty grumpy, so I went and sat under a tree and made faces at schoolchildren until I had calmed down a little bit, so we could continue our work.

It’s hard not to get frustrated sometimes. It’s just one of the challenges of being a stranger in a strange land. Whether they think I’m rich, or smart, or stupid, or mean, or nice, or helpful, or helpless, because of the colour of my skin, people have thoughts about me, and think they know who I am before I ever get a chance to speak. I knew it would be challenging being a visible minority here, and I knew I would have culture shock, but nothing really prepares you for the full force of Obruni Rage.

But something else happened today that made me forget my rage entirely. When we went to one of the villages, a woman who wasn’t involved in the loan program was standing around, which is not unusual. She was holding a baby girl, which is also not unusual. What was unusual was that the baby girl had white skin. She didn’t have red eyes, but she didn’t have Caucasian features either. What struck me though, was the angry pink that her arms and face had turned. I went over to her, and waved and cooed a bit, before taking her hand gently and sliding up her sleeve, to see that the skin that wasn’t exposed was much less pink. Gifty came over and joked, “She’s your friend!”

Looking at the little girl’s sunburn, I remembered my first day of work, when I was sunburnt and dehydrated, but found it almost impossible to explain these concepts to Gifty and Doris. My heart broke a little for the girl with her burnt skin as I realized that her mother probably had no conception at all of a sunburn, how it hurts, or how bad it is for a child. After a moment of showing Gifty that her skin was burnt like mine was, and making pained, and sympathetic faces, and hoping my meaning would be understood, I decided that the next time we went to that village, I would bring one of my bottles of sunscreen (because I have about four too many) to give to the mother. I hope that when I go back, Gifty or Doris can translate for me.

Until then, I guess I’ll keep on dealing with culture shock, and trying to get my life in order. I’m still staying at the guesthouse with Marika, even though I’d hoped to be moving in with Doris by now. Maybe this weekend we’ll get that sorted out. I hope so, because I’m pretty much out of clean clothes and tired of living out of a suitcase.

For the rest of the day I think I’m mostly just going to relax and get ready for tomorrow. These first few days, it seems like we’re really not busy at all, but I know that that will soon come to an end. I hope Doris is back at the office tomorrow. It’s nice having her around to translate, but also to give us more direction and certainty in our endeavors.

However it goes, I’ll keep you posted!

Metablogging

Some of you may have noticed that I’ve already written two posts this evening. Well, evening for me, maybe something else, depending on your time zone. Still, there has not been much time since my last updates.

This one is a little bit different from the others.

It started with looking at my blog, clicking around, checking my comments and hits and all that jazz, when I saw the list of blogs I read on the right-hand sidebar, and realized that I actually haven’t read many of those blogs lately. So, I clicked on the first one: my sister Beth's blog, and started the endless click-cycle. I read page after page, bopping around, actually reading a lot of it that I previously ignored.

I must confess, my recommendation of Beth's blog until now has been a bit of false advertising (sorry, Beth.) But I'll tell you the reason for this. It is because the very first blog post of hers that I read was essentially a bitch fit. I intended to include a link to said blog post, but after an hour of blind perusing of the blog, I am still unable to find it, as this blog (infuriatingly) has no search function, nor a concise post list. Anyway, the post was about how she had read The Road by Cormac McCarthy and didn't like it. She went on and on about how not liking a book that's well reviewed doesn't mean she doesn't get it or is uneducated or what have you, just that she doesn't like it and is entitled to her opinion. Cool.

That's all well and good for a rant about stereotypes and the inexplicable social ranking of creative works like books, but to be honest, as her sister, it read more like the "the whole world is against me because I'm different and the oldest or something" rants that I remember from our childhood. It's just a behaviour of hers that has come to represent all her character flaws to me. Beth whines about being victimized, just as Jackie (my younger sister) loses her patience instantaneously and rages. Sorry, Beth and Jackie. Honestly, I recognize that they actually do these things very seldom, but they're my sisters, so in some ways they'll always be that one memory I have of each of them screaming. Somehow, no matter how many great times we have together, as soon as they start bugging me, that screaming kid is who they turn into in my mind.

So when I read this phantom blog post for the first time, I involuntarily read it in her voice from one of those memories, and I thought to myself, "This is exactly the kind of conversation I go to great lengths to avoid having with my sister in person. Why on Earth would I take my own time to let her have this conversation AT me over the internet?"

But this post is not about flaming my sister or her blogging. In fact, it's quite the opposite. 

Since that fateful post, I've read one or two that I enjoyed, but largely ignored her writing in general. But thanks to my idle clicking and reading today, I've come to a two disturbing conclusions, and have made even more observations that have not yet led to conclusions.

My first conclusion: my sister is a much better writer than I thought. I actually really enjoyed the posts that I read. In some ways, it sounds just like her, to me, and in others it seems a little odd, but I guess that's because she's writing for an audience that is much broader than her little sister, and her voice is thus profoundly different at times.

My second conclusion: I think my sister's blog is better than mine (although notably NOT in the convenience of navigation, as I discovered searching for mystery blog 1). This is obviously hard for me to say as a little sister and self-identified narcissist. But it makes me think about why that might be, which is good, I think.

But Thirdly: I noticed that my blogs read an awful lot like my dad's travel updates. My dad sends out e-mails to a set list of people (mostly family) about what he's doing, how his travel goes, and basically the answer to the typical, "How was your day?" That he might receive if he was coming home from work. Sometimes it's intentional that my blogs should sound like this, because I'm really just trying to get everyone up to speed on what's happening in my life, since I talk to my friends and family from home so seldom. But I want to think that there's more to it than that. I mean... I want to have personal and critical and interesting commentaries on what's happening to me, as well as fun and amusing anecdotes, and just generally entertaining content. 

I don't really know what conclusion to draw from that one... I guess my blog is having a little existential crisis. Anyway... we'll see if things change, or if I just get over this little hiccup. Either way, I'll keep you posted. 

P.S. I'd like to add here that I actually get along much better with both of my sisters now than I ever did growing up. Bla bla bla platitudes and disclaimers. They're both great people. 

First Day Fun!

On our first day of work, all three of us, with Marika in the middle, because she was scared, hopped onto Doris' motorcycle and took the 30 minute drive to the Tawodep office. The way there was entirely along one nice paved road, and it was a very pretty drive. My feet got kind of squished, as they were between Marika's and the passenger foot pegs, but other than that it was very pleasant.

We were very lucky to be able to be at our organization on its first day back from the Christmas holidays. As a result, we helped Doris and the other permanent worker, Gifty, to plan the entire fiscal year for Tawodep. We listed all the new projects we wanted to undertake, and all the monitoring and evaluation that had to be done on the old ones, and put it into Tawodep's ancient-looking (but still effective) computer. We designed a sign that Doris wanted to make, listing the names of donor organizations, and returned to Bolgatanga for the rest of the day's activities. All in all, we were only at the office from about 9:00AM until 2:00 PM. This may just be because it was the first day, and we had a lot of other errands to run related to getting Marika and I settled in, but if my work days turn out to be that short, that extra time in the afternoons may just be sufficient to do all the homework-like tasks that we've agreed to, including researching possible funding sources and doing lots and lots of grant writing to try to ensure that Tawodep has enough funding to continue its endeavors.

As it stands, Tawodep relies on charitable donations from individuals and corporations, as well as grants and things from other NGOs in order to run. It would be great if they could do something income generating themselves, in order to be self-sustaining. Afrikids, the NGO that Katie is working with, for example is building a hotel whose revenues will sustain their development projects. Unfortunately, being such a small organization, I don't foresee that kind of thing being an option for Tawodep, at least any time soon. Instead, Marika and I hope to contribute to Tawodep's sustainability by making it easier for people to donate to Tawodep. At the moment, such a thing is not really very easy. The mailing address is available on the website, so one would think that donors could just send a cheque. Unfortunately, Marika had problems with just that course of action when she was in Ghana in 2009. Even close to the capitol, most banks will not cash cheques from foreign financial institutions, so when she wanted to contribute to another charitable organization, she ended up having to wire the director the money through Western Union. We are considering that as an option, but unless we can find a way to make it seem a little more official, we're afraid that the prospect of wiring money to an individual in rural Ghana may be off-putting for most potential donors. Anyway, we'll look into that more in the weeks to come.

Additionally, Doris has asked us to make a documentary about Tawodep. This is where I think we've bitten off more than we can chew. As of now, we only have about two months before the end of the program, and neither Marika nor I have any experience in film producing, editing, or anything. My only real qualifications for creating a documentary for an NGO are the ownership of a very rudimentary video camera and a passing knowledge of Windows Movie Maker. Marika seems to be in the same boat. I'm willing to try, because Doris seems very intent on having a film to send to her previous donors about how their money is being used to help people, and I think that this is an excellent idea. Still, I'm afraid the result will not be quite what she's expecting. She has since showed us a copy of a short documentary that was made by the woman with whom she founded Tawodep, and I really don't think that anything Marika and I can produce in two months will be of even remotely similar caliber. Still... like I said, I'm willing to try. I will voice my hesitations to Doris, but if she still would like us to do this task, then we will do so to the best of our abilities.

I think we may really have our hands full over the next several weeks. I will keep you posted!

Men and Mosquito Nets and Mice, Oh My!

These past few days have been a whirlwind!

Work has been good, my sleeping has been bad, and the wildlife has been very ugly, but in general I am happy to be here!

On Thursday, we slept in a little bit before heading to the bus station and catching our bus to Po, just North of the Border. The bus ride was quite comfortable. There was a stretch that had us a little nervous, where we had to stop and pick up two uniformed military personnel, complete with huge-and-scary guns with extra magazines sketchily attached with what looked like clear packing tape. The trip passed without a hitch, however. Once we got to Po, it was a bit of a struggle to get a Taxi to the border, about 15km away. We just wanted a drop taxi to take us to the border for a reasonable fee. Unfortunately, we encountered a horde of some 12 or 13 men hovering around unmarked taxis (in Burkina they're all green, but these were black) who tried to convince us to pay about 10 times the usual price for such a trip, as well as packing in four or five other passengers. Needless to say, we were not pleased. Eventually, after a lot of frustration, and very ineffective communication, we managed to haggle the price down to about three times the usual price, and we agreed that we would have the car to ourselves. At the last second before we left, and after we'd given the taxi driver the money, however, two girls that looked about our age or younger squashed themselves into the front seat.

I found this really frustrating, just because of the principle of the matter. They girls in the front weren't affecting our comfort in any way, so it wasn't a big deal. Still, we had agreed on a price for us to have a taxi to ourselves, and I felt angrier than I should have at being cheated. I think this was just a symptom of culture shock, but I had to take a few minutes to stare out the window not talking to calm down. My anger was solely directed at the driver, however, because the girls also paid him. Overall that part of the journey was not very enjoyable.

Crossing the border again was pretty smooth, although it only occurred to me afterward that someone who hadn't just spent four months in Ghana might not have said so, were they in my place. The customs officer who was helping us on the Burkina side looked to be maybe in his mid to late forties, and was making pleasant conversation about our trip. When he appeared to have finished reading and stamping and writing and doing all his official duties, he continued talking, and asked which of us was going to marry him. Though I wasn't really concerned at the time (as I am used to frequent and casual marriage proposals, and have become pretty comfortable with laughing them off) a part of me couldn't help but think, "If I handle this poorly... he is still holding my passport." We said we were too young (since we'd indicated on our forms that we weren't married, so we couldn't use that excuse) and that we didn't want to get married. Luckily he laughed with us. Then he asked if we would take him to Canada, another typical question for us, and again, we laughed it off and made excuses as we usually do, got our passports back, and continued on our way. Similarly, on the Ghana side, we both were told how beautiful we were by the customs officials, and Marika was even serenaded by the man stamping her passport. The whole interaction was so normal to us, but we realized after that it could have been quite stressful if we'd experienced it three and a half months ago.

From the border it was just a quick share-taxi to Bolga before we met up with Doris at her house. She fed us dinner, which was delicious, and showed us to the room that I will be staying in. At that point, Marika had been planning to stay in one of the villages in the Talensi area, but her space had not been arranged yet, so she was to stay with me until that was sorted out. After our dinner, we retired to the room which was fairly nice. We had one room in the compound, so it was freestanding, but all the rest of the family lived around the courtyard. There was a shower and two toilets right next door to our little building. From the outside there was a small antechamber where there was a deep freezer and some storage space with washbasins and things, as well as a mat to put our shoes on. The room itself had two chairs (although one was broken) and a table on one side of a rope with a sheet hung across it, as a divider, as well as another table that was covered in a pink sheet, so we didn't know what was on it or under it, but it looked like a computer or something. On the other side of the divider there was a little vanity and a bed with a couple of pillows and clean sheets.

Unfortunately, it went downhill from there.

The bed was only a single bed, so Marika and I were in for a cozy night. Also, there was a fixture for a fan, but Doris said they would be getting a fan in the next couple of days, along with a little fridge. I squashed a little bug that looked frighteningly like a baby cockroach, and set up my mosquito net so that I would feel safe to sleep, even if there were bugs around.

That was when we saw the first mouse.

It ran from under the bed to under the questionable pink sheet. A few minutes later there was another one that came under the door and also settled under the questionable pink sheet. When the third one made the same course, we took all our bags that had any food in them and put them in the antechamber, in the hopes that we wouldn't attract any more into our bedroom. All our other luggage we covered in the mosquito net that we weren't using in hopes of keeping the mice from chewing into our bags. While we didn't really have any reason to believe they would, it was still a fear we both had. After that we tucked the hanging mosquito net tightly into the bed and tried to ignore the creepiness around us and just tough it out until morning. I was pretty tired from travel, so I was out like a light (thank god), but Marika was up the whole night listening to the critters.

In the morning, Doris came by and asked us why all our stuff was outside, so we explained the mouse problem. She resolved that we would get a cat, but as of today, we still haven't acquired one. That night, when we saw our first mouse at around 4:30, we decided to bail. We stuffed a pair of pajamas and our toothbrushes into our purses and told Doris we'd spend the night with Katie and Sarah. We both got a good night's sleep, and we spent the next day resting and recuperating. Doris said she'd bought some poison to go put into food to leave out for the mice, and she put some in the antechamber outside our room. Last night, too, we spent with our ginger friends, and today Marika found a guesthouse that was willing to cut her a deal for her two month stay, and we moved all her stuff out of the room at Doris's. In the process of retrieving her stuff, we found three dead mice lying around the room, so I am starting to relax a little bit. With the poison working so well and effectively, I think as soon as a cat is acquired, which we've been told should happen tomorrow, I will be ready to move back in.

For tonight though, I'm getting a good night's sleep at Mama's Place, though I'm sure for the rest of the two months I'll be calling it Marika's place. I could have stayed another night with Katie and Sarah, but I didn't want to impose, and I also wanted to see where Marika would be living. It's really very nice, and truth be told, I'm a little bit jealous. Still, where I'm staying is much less expensive, and I'm looking forward to getting to know Doris' family, as well having my own space and trying out a little bit of independence here.

Hopefully I'll get really settled in over the next couple of days. Being in transit can be really stressful, but things seem to be calming down now, and I with them. As always, I'll keep you posted!

Pulling a Tolkein: Lots of Walking and Second Breakfasts

Yesterday we woke up at a more reasonable hour of 7:00 to take a taxi into town and buy tickets to Banfora, where we will be staying the night. The bus didn’t leave until 11:00, however, so we took some time to walk around Bobo and have a nice leisurely breakfast. As we were walking, I spotted a place called Café Nid D’Or, whose name I thought I remembered seeing in the guide book. As it turns out, I was completely mistaken, but it was a nice little spot to have breakfast. We had omelets with baguette and tea, and the place had a kind of chop-bar feel to it. Unfortunately, it was located right next to a fish market, so there was a bit of an odor when the wind wasn’t blowing the right way. With our breakfast we were also given a bottle of lemon flavouring, that I had at first thought was detergent, and a questionable (unsealed) bottle of water to go with it. I guess this was meant to be used to make a kind of unsweetened lemonade, but I was too suspicious of the water to try more than a mouthful.

After that we kept walking around and we found the Patisserie De Bonne MIche that actually was in the guidebook, and we still had plenty of time to kill, so we stopped in for a second breakfast. This time we had pain au chocolat and a carton of mango juice. It was quite delicious, and the patio was right on an intersection, so it was pleasant to people-watch as we had our meal. From there we made our way back to the bus station and on to Banfora.

We had a little more trouble finding a place to stay in Banfora. The options were more limited, so our previous method, finding a place from the guidebook with a clean self-contained room without air conditioning, failed us. When our first choice, L’Hotel Canne Sucre, turned out to be full, a guide whom we’d met at the bus station suggested another place around the corner that was good for students. It was far from glamorous, but it would have been fine except that the toilets were across the courtyard and a little bit sketchy looking. We opted for the slightly more pricy La Rounier, whose only remaining room was called La Grande Case complete with air conditioning and satellite TV. But it was only for one night, and in the end, we were very glad we’d chosen it.

After a little bit of difficulty haggling in French with our guide, we managed to arrange to be taken to the Sindou Peaks on a couple of motor scooters for a reasonable faire. The cheapest option would have been to drive ourselves, and on the way there, that would have been fine for me. But on the way back, the dust was so horrendous I could hardly believe it. There’s no way that I could have returned safely in that mess, so I’m glad we opted to be driven. Also, Marika doesn’t know how to drive a motorcycle or a scooter, and I wouldn’t have wanted her freaking out on the back of mine.

The peaks were absolutely phenomenal. It was such a beautiful location, and our guides were quite knowledgeable about the anthropological significance of the site for the Sindou initiation rituals. We got some great pictures in and around the peaks, and I dared to stand on top of one that was only a few feet in diameter. It was only about 15 feet above the plateau that we were walking on, but from the ledge it had to be at least a hundred feet down. I was very proud of myself.

The trip to the peaks took just over an hour, but it was longer on the way back because of the dust, and because we stopped to buy bus tickets for today on our way back. We wanted to shower first, but our guides insisted on getting them on the way, so I’m pretty sure the whole bus station was laughing at us. I honestly could not believe how dusty we all were by the end of it. Marika and I looked like Oompa Loompas and our guides looked like clowns with their orange afros and orange tinted eyelashes. The pictures of us were pretty hilarious. For kicks, we used some of Marika’s face wipes to clean half of our faces so that the difference could be seen and photographed. This of course sent us into fits of laughter that lasted the whole rest of the night. We both concluded that we would never truly be clean again, and that we’d be coughing up mud for at least a week.

After our showers, we went to have a nice dinner at the hotel restaurant, which was in a ventilated pavilion. The otherwise glowing atmosphere was shattered by the appearance of what Marika calls a bumble bee, though I’m not entirely sure what species it was. The fact is it was huge, at least three inches long and an inch wide, and made a horrific clicking noise as it flew. In a matter of moments, the waiter, the receptionist, and the security guard (at that point making up the entire staff on site) were engaged in the expulsion of this bee from the restaurant area. As soon as the first blow was struck, we knew it would have to be a battle to the death, otherwise no one would feel safe in the restaurant. Marika fled to the parking lot as soon as the battle began, and I joined her moments later when the waiter started swatting at the bee with a rag as if it were a tennis racket. I’m glad I did, too, because more than once the bee was swatted into the area where I had just been seated. After a few minutes, the bee was swatted to the floor and stepped on, and we returned to our seats, thanking the staff profusely and laughing uncontrollably. By the end of the ordeal, we were happy and tired, and went pretty much straight to bed.

This morning we got up before the sun in order to trek down to the bus station to go back to Ouaga. The first leg of the trip was kind of uncomfortable. For an hour and a half we were squashed into little tiny seats where our backpacks would barely fit underneath. Our knees were almost at our chests, and the backs of the seats were a weird shape that made sleeping uncomfortable, but I still managed to pull it off. Then we had to switch buses in Bobo, and there was a slight complication because I lost my ticket. So even though I had paid already to go all the way to Ouaga, I had to buy a new one for about $15. Not the end of the world, but a pain. The next bus was much nicer, even though it was swarming with mosquitos. At least the mosquitos didn’t seem to be hungry. They mostly just flew around annoying people. I had a little collection of dead ones on the window ledge because I couldn’t help slapping them when they got too close to me.

Upon arriving in Ouaga, we got a taxi to the same hotel as before (though our room this time is slightly less mosquito-proof) and then made our way to the downtown core to do some exploring. We walked around and saw La Place des Nations Unis, and the national theatre, and the art market. I bought a cute little jewelry box, and Marika got some jewelry. After figuring out our buses for tomorrow, we headed back to the hotel, and now we’re basically just resting and recuperating from our long days this past week. Tomorrow we’ll be on our way back to Bolga, and hopefully we’ll start our placement in the days to come. We’ve finally heard back from Doris, and she has our rooms ready for us tomorrow. It looks like we’ll be starting work on Friday, but it’s hard to say. Either way, I’m excited to get settled in. I’ll keep you posted! 

Bobo Burkina Faso

 Today has been fabulous.

We got up bright and early this morning and checked out of our pretty little room at the Pavillon Vert. Upon leaving the room, we were assaulted by a swarm of mosquitos so thick that I could hardly see through them, but luckily we had anticipated such an outcome and were well and truly covered in deet.

We managed to catch a bus to Bobo-Dioulasso that was leaving moments after we got to the station, so that was pretty lucky. It was a nice air-conditioned bus; much better than the one we took yesterday. It was about a five hour ride, and then an easy taxi ride to our hotel. It’s called the Villa Bobo, and it’s very cute. There are only three rooms, but they’re nice and clean and friendly and not too expensive. There’s a fridge full of pop in the kitchen down the hall, and they work on the honour system, which is kind of refreshing. They were very helpful in directing us to a nice Italian restaurant, and towards the downtown core.

Our lunch was glorious.

We had beautiful French bread, and I guess they liked us or something because they gave us a plate of bruschetta with olives free of charge, and it was magnificent. Marika and I both had spaghetti of a variety and it was absolutely delicious. We were very impressed. And our waiter was very friendly and attentive. He was so much so that we asked him where we could find a bank machine (as we were starting to run low on cash). He asked for our numbers, as most people we meet do, and we gave the excuse that we don’t have Burkinabe numbers. As we were walking, we were laughing about how nice he was, and how politely he asked for our numbers, as compared with some men, when he rode up beside us on a bicycle to politely inform us that we had missed the turn. We thanked him and went on our way, and as far as we could tell, he turned around and rode back to the restaurant. I’m still not really sure what to make of that, but it was funny, and nice to be taken care of.

Our explorations of downtown Bobo yielded a bank machine, which was nice, as well as a very swanky-looking restaurant where I tried shea flavoured ice cream, which was delicious, and a not-very-margarita-like margarita. It was essentially tequila over ice in a tumbler, with a lime wedge on the glass. I should have known that it wouldn’t be what I expected, but I was too tempted, and I had to try.

After that we made our way over to the oldest mosque in the area, built in 1880 out of mud and straw and wood. We had a nice little tour and took a lot of pictures; it was quite beautiful in the sunset.

Not much else to report. Tomorrow we plan to be up at the crack of dawn to head toward Banfora and the Sindou Peaks. We don’t know exactly what to expect in terms of getting there, but the view promises to be gorgeous. I’ll keep you posted!

Back up to Bolga

Good evening!

Once again, I have a lot to report. I’ve been having trouble motivating myself to keep at my blog, but once my placement starts, I’ll have to keep a daily journal, so hopefully that will help me to keep on top of things.

I had Christmas at Green Turtle eco lodge with Sarah and her dad and Holly and her mom. It was loads of fun, but not much to report. After that my whole family came to visit me in Ghana. In typical Andrews fashion, we travelled around as a horde of five foreigners that everyone thought they should sell things to, showed up to places early, and worried about things we couldn’t control. Still, for us, it was remarkably chill, and we had a good time. We visited Cape Coast and Elmina, as well as Accra and Akosombo, in the Volta. My younger sister was not very impressed with all the touring we did, and my older sister’s eyes were not very impressed by the pollen and dust, but on the whole I think they enjoyed the trip.

I think the highlight of the visit for me (aside from staying in the near-unfathomably luxurious Villa Boutique hotel and riding around in an air-conditioned van) was when my Canadian family and my Ghanaian family got to meet. We brought gifts for my host mother and father, and they cooked us a veritable feast, complete with juice served in fancy champagne flutes. There was entirely too much food, and we were all uncomfortably full by the time we left, but it was delicious, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. The conversation was not easy, because of the language barrier, but it was a lot of fun, and very rewarding. I found my cheeks were sore from smiling by the time we headed back to the hotel. 

After my parents left, which was rather sad for me, I mostly just waited around in Accra for orientation. It was really just a brief introduction to the huge placement report we’re going to have to write at the end of the program, and little reminders about health, safety, and professionalism. I thought I’d be rushing up to Bolga to start my placement immediately after the orientation, but I had forgotten that this is Ghana.

As a result, I only moved my stuff up north to Bolga on Saturday, and I still haven’t started my placement. I caught the 7:15AM Starbow flight from Accra to Tamale, which was quite nice. For GHC 195 (Roughly $105 Canadian) I took an hour flight instead of a 12 hour bus ride, and was given a juice box, a pack of cookies, a water bottle, and the world’s tiniest cup of tea. Perhaps the most surprisingly enjoyable part of the flight, however, was the check-in procedure. Since I was flying economy (and yes, there is a tiny 8-seat business class section on this regional jet) I was only allowed to check 20kg of stuff, but my bags weighed 32kg. I was afraid that this was going to cost me a fortune, or else that I simply wouldn’t be allowed to check my bags. To my delight, however, the overweight charge was only 2 cidies per kg, so I was able to check an extra 12kg of baggage for about $15.

In Tamale I met up with Marika, who’s going to be working with me at Tawodep. She had bussed the day before and stayed at a very nice place called the Gariba Lodge. So I met her there and used her very nice shower after we had a quiet breakfast at the hotel restaurant. From there we chartered a taxi (Marika was friends with the driver) to take us to Bolga. If we hadn’t had all of our stuff, I expect we would have just taken a trotro, but they would have charged us extra for the bags, if they even would have had room for them, and it would have been a pain to carry them around the trotro station. I had my signature bright pink backpack on my back, my purse slung across my shoulders underneath, my black day-pack on my front, and then a blue duffle bag in my hand. It was not exactly easy travelling. Similarly, Marika had two backpacks and a bag in her hand that out-sized and out-weighed my duffle quite impressively. I was actually quite impressed that she could carry it all herself, although she said the same thing about my luggage.

So we got to Bolga, and we ate lunch at the one western restaurant: Swap. From there, Sarah and Raymond picked us up. Raymond is the volunteer director at Afrikids, so he is the liason person for Katie’s placement. Additionally, he runs a not-for-profit school in his community and has recently founded an NGO called Zodec that deals with education in the area, and Sarah is doing her placement with them. Furthermore, Katie and Sarah are both staying in a little apartment in Raymond’s compound, so they’re getting very close with him and his wife Edna, and son Junior. They picked us up and took us to the annual Afrikids staff party for a little while, where we socialized and danced before returning to their home completely exhausted.

Marika will be living in one of the villages in Talensi, very close to Tawodep headquarters, and I will be living in Bolga with Doris, the woman who runs Tawodep and organized our places to stay. The reason that we haven’t started work yet is that Doris told us that she would only be back in Talensi on the 20th, and that she would need some time to get our rooms ready for us. So, we left most of our stuff at Sarah and Katie’s place this morning and walked to the Bolga bus station and found a share-taxi to the border with Burkina Faso. It took about an hour or so, and only cost a few cidies. From there we shuffled through immigration, and bought our visas (that we’d been told would only cost us 10,000 CFAs, so about $20) for 47,000 CFAs. Walking across the border took about five minutes, because there was a weird stretch of shopping-and-police no-man’s-land between what we could definitively identify as Ghana and Burkina Faso.

Immediately on the Burkina side, a man asked us if we were going to the capitol, which we were, and ushered us to a small bus station. We saw beautiful shiny new pink and purple buses that would be spacious and air-conditioned and were very excited. Sadly, he led us past those buses to a sad broken-down looking red bus whose every inch was caked in dust. Unfortunately, this appeared to be the only bus to the capitol. It ended up being a more or less pleasant ride, though, excluding the frequent stoppages at which numerous military personnel inspected the cargo. This was probably a result of the massive pile of garbage bags containing “uniquely oranges,” according to the driver. These “oranges” (which some of them certainly were) took up most of the back of the bus, floor to ceiling. There were at least two or three more rows behind where we were sitting, with our backs to the mountain. Interspersed through the “oranges” were some suitcases and plastic stools, a stack of which threatened to impale us once or twice before they were moved into the aisle.

The name of the capital of Burkina Faso is Ouagadougou. No joke. That’s the name. It’s pronounced “Waga-doo-goo” but is frequently shortened to just “Waga.” Additionally, half the stores in Ouaga have names that follow a simple formula: (consonant) + ou + (consonant) + ou. It’s a fun city to be in.

So we found our way to a nice little place called the Pavillon Vert, which is not, in fact, green. The cabs here are, however. All the taxis are a striking colour of Kermit-the-Frog green, which makes them very easy to identify. The place we stayed has mosquito nets and running water and pillows and towels and sheets, which makes it a cut above most of the places in our price range. The water wasn’t hot, but there’s good pressure, and the room is very clean. We were quite happy with it.

More to come about our exciting trip to Bobo-Dioulasso and the surrounding areas! I’ll keep you posted!