How on earth did I manage to get so lucky? How is it that no matter how far your feet wander away from what's familiar, it's always possible to find incredible people and have fantastic experiences with them? Pardon my sentiment, but I just had one of the happiest birthdays of my life. My roommate Annemieke, my friends Miriam and Forest, and dozens of other people helped to plan a party for me. The surprise theme was 1920s Speakeasy, and I never could have asked for a classier, jazzier, better night if you handed me a bouquet of a hundred question marks and told me to have at it. Two of the boys, Phil and Brian, played bartender, handing out glasses of gin and tropical juice. Jazz music echoed around the room, which had been emptied of furniture and lit up with candles. There were printed out prohibition-era posters on the wall. All of my favorite people came and everyone had a blast. I will never forget that night, and especially all the people who made it so incredibly awesome. I feel better than ever to be here and to be alive and to be legally allowed to order a glass of your second least expensive merlot with dinner, thank you much.
And now my dear tender papaya of a friend Nathalie is taking me out to lunch at a vegan restaurant in Osu. I am so incredibly happy.
September 22, 2008
September 08, 2008
Yefre wo sen? Yefre me Adwoa.
Cape Coast is four hours away. The road is sometimes paved, and people weave through traffic throwing bags of plantain chips or bags of frozen yogurt into an upward arc through our bus window as eager hands catch them and release coins into their baskets. Every few miles or so, you'll pass a huge, decaying piece of machinery. Bulldozer carcasses and rusty car graveyards. Groups of children wave emphatically at the bus of foreign faces. You pass by wooden shacks with rusty sheet metal roofs with names like "When God Say Yes Cell Phones" or "Jesus is Lord Enterprises" or "God Is Good Fast Food". Goats meander through trash piles, chewing lazily on plantain peels, and roosters peck and strut through the long, winding gutters of sewage. Then the cityscape will dissipate and there will be nothing but grassland and tall bonsai-looking trees for miles until the odd coconut cart or field of unvarnished bed frames crops up. After more than a month of being here, it still feels surreal just to have my eyes open, to see the billboards for tomato paste lit up above a blanket in the street where five children are sleeping in a row. It's still amazing to see so many shades of peeling paint, so many presidential election posters that say "we are moving forward" with the Adinkra symbol of a peacock picking an egg from its back, symbolizing a return to your roots, painted below. It's still astonishing to see how far our of their way a stranger will travel to help you figure out where you're going.
We went for a traditional harvest festival. There were masses of people in the streets, dancing and yelling and beating on drums. There were carriages on the shoulders of men carrying members of royal society, who waved and smiled with gold-drenched wrists and necks. A bull was led through the streets on a rope, bucking and followed by an undulating, fiery mob, and then sacrificed to the gods. I missed the slaughter, thankfully, but saw the body being carted through the streets from the second floor window of a street-facing house that several of us simply wandered into, past the hallways of children playing with pots and pans, of women washing clothing, up to the faded green window where we also watched a man in a grass skirt dancing with a giant flag. Rifles were fired, along with a human-sized slingshot.
There was a gorgeous beach near the Cape Coast slave castle, which we had visited before, and we walked onto the cliffs and felt the mist spray our faces. Enoch and I found several strange shells and were in the process of looking for more when a gigantic wave came up from behind us and quite literally swept me off my feet, that ol' romantic Atlantic. I was fully-clothed and laughing uncontrollably, because what else can you do. A chorus of children joined in the laughter, running up to me and tugging at my dripping shirt, asking me if I'd like to buy peanuts or fried corn balls or sachets of water. Then they proceeded to help us find more funny shells, and I drip dried within a couple of hours. We went back to the beach that night and found tiny glowbugs in the sand that would shimmer and then vanish if you swept your hand over the shore. It's probably the most like an alchemist I've ever felt.
The next day, four of us went on the canopy walk at Kakum National Park. We wobbled across six rope bridges high above the rainforest canopy with the echoes of birds all around us. It was so gorgeous, but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to take any pictures. From there, we went to a restaurant on a lake called Hans Cottage Botel where patient crocodile noses protruded from the water, slowly weaving their way through the schools of fish. We managed to fit six passengers into a taxi, two of us sitting on laps (I wish I could see my mom's face as she reads this. It's okay, I promise) and drove home to the hostel all while dancing up a storm. In front of us, we saw ten boys crammed into a station wagon, the hatchback open and their feet dangling down. Well, they saw us dancing, so I guess they found it all a bit irresistible, one in particular. As far as I knew, they were all just dancing in their car, until I turned away for a moment and heard a rapping on the window and the door opening. At first I was terrified, but the guy, who must have been in his twenties, just climbed right in the backseat, sitting on the laps of two guys, and began dancing up a storm himself (!) and singing a song that wasn't on the radio. Most of us laughed until we wept. He got out several blocks later, wishing us all a wonderful visit, disappearing into the wild crowd.
Well, now we're back home, exhausted muscles and sun-kissed cheeks (telegram to mom: all is well on the spf front. stop. don't worry your lovely head about it. stop. please send fruit leather. stop.) and enough imagery to sustain us through the tap-dance routine that is Ghanaian Academia.
We went for a traditional harvest festival. There were masses of people in the streets, dancing and yelling and beating on drums. There were carriages on the shoulders of men carrying members of royal society, who waved and smiled with gold-drenched wrists and necks. A bull was led through the streets on a rope, bucking and followed by an undulating, fiery mob, and then sacrificed to the gods. I missed the slaughter, thankfully, but saw the body being carted through the streets from the second floor window of a street-facing house that several of us simply wandered into, past the hallways of children playing with pots and pans, of women washing clothing, up to the faded green window where we also watched a man in a grass skirt dancing with a giant flag. Rifles were fired, along with a human-sized slingshot.
There was a gorgeous beach near the Cape Coast slave castle, which we had visited before, and we walked onto the cliffs and felt the mist spray our faces. Enoch and I found several strange shells and were in the process of looking for more when a gigantic wave came up from behind us and quite literally swept me off my feet, that ol' romantic Atlantic. I was fully-clothed and laughing uncontrollably, because what else can you do. A chorus of children joined in the laughter, running up to me and tugging at my dripping shirt, asking me if I'd like to buy peanuts or fried corn balls or sachets of water. Then they proceeded to help us find more funny shells, and I drip dried within a couple of hours. We went back to the beach that night and found tiny glowbugs in the sand that would shimmer and then vanish if you swept your hand over the shore. It's probably the most like an alchemist I've ever felt.
The next day, four of us went on the canopy walk at Kakum National Park. We wobbled across six rope bridges high above the rainforest canopy with the echoes of birds all around us. It was so gorgeous, but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to take any pictures. From there, we went to a restaurant on a lake called Hans Cottage Botel where patient crocodile noses protruded from the water, slowly weaving their way through the schools of fish. We managed to fit six passengers into a taxi, two of us sitting on laps (I wish I could see my mom's face as she reads this. It's okay, I promise) and drove home to the hostel all while dancing up a storm. In front of us, we saw ten boys crammed into a station wagon, the hatchback open and their feet dangling down. Well, they saw us dancing, so I guess they found it all a bit irresistible, one in particular. As far as I knew, they were all just dancing in their car, until I turned away for a moment and heard a rapping on the window and the door opening. At first I was terrified, but the guy, who must have been in his twenties, just climbed right in the backseat, sitting on the laps of two guys, and began dancing up a storm himself (!) and singing a song that wasn't on the radio. Most of us laughed until we wept. He got out several blocks later, wishing us all a wonderful visit, disappearing into the wild crowd.
Well, now we're back home, exhausted muscles and sun-kissed cheeks (telegram to mom: all is well on the spf front. stop. don't worry your lovely head about it. stop. please send fruit leather. stop.) and enough imagery to sustain us through the tap-dance routine that is Ghanaian Academia.
September 04, 2008
Mamma Academia
Hello hello,
I didn't realize how long it's been since I last posted! Three weeks have passed, but there isn't too much to report. I've mainly been wrestling my schedule into the ground. There was a day where all the bureaucratic confusion had me tied to the train tracks begging for mercy, but I ended up sorting it all out and somehow, magically, a five-day weekend emerged from the dust of the tumbleweed struggle. That's right, folks. I only have classes Tuesday and Wednesday, which means traveling is a piece of peach pie.
Speaking of pie, I haven't had any in far too long. I've heard rumors that the little restaurant in our international hostel boasts apple pie with rum sauce, which I'm saving for a particularly rainy day. It's been drizzling a lot, but it's humid, almost warm rain, and can be pleasant to walk around in if you let go of the idea that you're going to look dry as a summer daisy in class. And the classes? So far they've been interesting, but I think I'm more interested in how different it all is than what they're actually saying. I'm taking Twi, which reigns supreme so far as my favorite class, taught by a very funny little man with gigantic hornrimmed glasses and a love of hand gestures rivaled only by sign language interpreters and drunken orchestra conductors. The language is very different from anything I've ever attempted, which makes it ridiculously fun and the best candidate for a secret language when the other two Berkeley girls and I run into each other back in the states.
The other classes I'm taking are: Colonialism and African Response (most engaging teacher of this list by far), History of Science and Technology (just added that yesterday, so I'm still in the dark with my primitive handtools), Foreign Policy Analysis (oh dear), Educational Psychology (not bad so far, and where I met my first three friends outside the program, a Ghanaian named Joanna and two Nigerians named Des and Amaka. They're hilarious and wonderful to talk to, especially when they all start talking at the same time, quickly, because they're so excited about something. They promised to make sure I have the best birthday of my life), and Creative Writing. The last class has been kind of slow, but it's so interesting to hear local fiction, which can be so much more revealing of culture than any of our clumsy, academic stabs at it. So far we've had to write a memoir, which I may post here in the future.
I've been fumbling with spices a bit, too. Last week we went to the mall, which, although I had heard all about it long before I went, was still an eyeful. It's like walking right back into the Western world, window after window of haute couture hanging off lanky mannequins with posture that conveys what can only be described as elegant boredom. The supermarket has lots of familiar stuff to buy, although most of it is priced to the stars. For instance, a package of six strawberries was fourteen dollars. I can only imagine the demographic for that product. Diplomat's daughter wants a sundae? Anyway, most of the food is affordable and I managed to rustle up some veggie burgers and lavash bread, which I used to make wraps with grilled vegetables from the night market across the street. They were delicious!
Also, a handful of ladies have designated Sunday as community dinner night, kind of like a pot luck. Last Sunday we ate an El Salvadorian stew made with pineapple and beer, made by our friend Miriam, which was amazing. This Sunday, however, we'll be in Cape Coast. We're leaving in about four hours, actually, and clambering onto that giant bus for the first time since we were left to roam solo three weeks ago. We're heading over that way for a festival, which will be a first for many of us. I'm so excited! We're also going to Kakum National Park, where I'll finally get to wobble across that long, narrow rope bridge that would send Hitchcock's Scottie Ferguson into a dizzy spell.
On that note, I have to scamper off and pack, but maybe by the time I get back the internet will be back to a speed that will allow me to post pictures. The caterpillar's gettin' awful lonely up there.
I didn't realize how long it's been since I last posted! Three weeks have passed, but there isn't too much to report. I've mainly been wrestling my schedule into the ground. There was a day where all the bureaucratic confusion had me tied to the train tracks begging for mercy, but I ended up sorting it all out and somehow, magically, a five-day weekend emerged from the dust of the tumbleweed struggle. That's right, folks. I only have classes Tuesday and Wednesday, which means traveling is a piece of peach pie.
Speaking of pie, I haven't had any in far too long. I've heard rumors that the little restaurant in our international hostel boasts apple pie with rum sauce, which I'm saving for a particularly rainy day. It's been drizzling a lot, but it's humid, almost warm rain, and can be pleasant to walk around in if you let go of the idea that you're going to look dry as a summer daisy in class. And the classes? So far they've been interesting, but I think I'm more interested in how different it all is than what they're actually saying. I'm taking Twi, which reigns supreme so far as my favorite class, taught by a very funny little man with gigantic hornrimmed glasses and a love of hand gestures rivaled only by sign language interpreters and drunken orchestra conductors. The language is very different from anything I've ever attempted, which makes it ridiculously fun and the best candidate for a secret language when the other two Berkeley girls and I run into each other back in the states.
The other classes I'm taking are: Colonialism and African Response (most engaging teacher of this list by far), History of Science and Technology (just added that yesterday, so I'm still in the dark with my primitive handtools), Foreign Policy Analysis (oh dear), Educational Psychology (not bad so far, and where I met my first three friends outside the program, a Ghanaian named Joanna and two Nigerians named Des and Amaka. They're hilarious and wonderful to talk to, especially when they all start talking at the same time, quickly, because they're so excited about something. They promised to make sure I have the best birthday of my life), and Creative Writing. The last class has been kind of slow, but it's so interesting to hear local fiction, which can be so much more revealing of culture than any of our clumsy, academic stabs at it. So far we've had to write a memoir, which I may post here in the future.
I've been fumbling with spices a bit, too. Last week we went to the mall, which, although I had heard all about it long before I went, was still an eyeful. It's like walking right back into the Western world, window after window of haute couture hanging off lanky mannequins with posture that conveys what can only be described as elegant boredom. The supermarket has lots of familiar stuff to buy, although most of it is priced to the stars. For instance, a package of six strawberries was fourteen dollars. I can only imagine the demographic for that product. Diplomat's daughter wants a sundae? Anyway, most of the food is affordable and I managed to rustle up some veggie burgers and lavash bread, which I used to make wraps with grilled vegetables from the night market across the street. They were delicious!
Also, a handful of ladies have designated Sunday as community dinner night, kind of like a pot luck. Last Sunday we ate an El Salvadorian stew made with pineapple and beer, made by our friend Miriam, which was amazing. This Sunday, however, we'll be in Cape Coast. We're leaving in about four hours, actually, and clambering onto that giant bus for the first time since we were left to roam solo three weeks ago. We're heading over that way for a festival, which will be a first for many of us. I'm so excited! We're also going to Kakum National Park, where I'll finally get to wobble across that long, narrow rope bridge that would send Hitchcock's Scottie Ferguson into a dizzy spell.
On that note, I have to scamper off and pack, but maybe by the time I get back the internet will be back to a speed that will allow me to post pictures. The caterpillar's gettin' awful lonely up there.
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