Pictures from the Eastern Region

Hi Everyone,

Hope all is well. Today I am entering data while trying to download Norton and Windows. My computer problems have been multiple, but they should all be fixed soon (if only the downloading process hurries up!)  I have blog posts completed, but I cannot post them until the downloads are complete. So this is a check-in entry

I work for a very small non-profit. I do not have an office, but I have access to the resources of our biggest funder Ashesi University. Currently, I have no pictures of my work, mostly because I'm quantifying past surveys to create a baseline of how my nonprofit affects its beneficiaries and I'm researching policy. I have more to say on that in one of the posts I'll paste later.

 I do have some pictures of Ghana. This weekend I visited the Eastern Region. I have made friends with some Peace Corps people, who are great travel companions! I love getting out of Accra as the people are far friendlier, and lifestyles more interesting. So here is a study of a small bit of Ghanaian Life.

This is one of the market streets of Kofaridua, a major city in the Eastern Region of Ghana. The large white bucket on the table is holding large fried fish. They are gross to look at the first time, but over time you get used to them. The pigs' feet take a little longer to get used to!

This is one of my favorite sources of street food. The women walk with this tray of boiled eggs on their heads. In Accra, it cost me about 50 pewas (cents) for one boiled egg. The egg will be deshelled in front of your eyes, cut in half, placed on a small plastic square and one tablespoon of the spicy salsa is placed a the center. Yum!

Here is a picture of the tro-tros. This is at the Medina Station, one of the major stations to grab a tro before one sets to go off to another part of Ghana. My trip was only 2 hours long, so I traveled by tro instead of the nice STC buses that are used for the 15-hour rides across the country.

This is what the inside of a tro-tro looks like. Garbed in black signals the women to the left are going/returning from a funeral, any traditional garb in black and red cloth is also only worn for funerals. 

Kofuridua (I'm sure to be spelling it wrong) is famous for its bead-making factory and bead market. This stand displays beads from all over western Africa, new and old styles. On arrival in Ghana, I kept looking for wooden carvings, stone statues, or paintings to be sold by the road like they were in Zimbabwe and Burkina in my childhood. They were absent. When I asked my Ghanaian boss about it she said "Natalie, in Ghana we do waste our time with impractical art. We have art that is useful. Look at our fabrics, look at our beads, this is Ghana art". I think this economizing of beauty says something about Ghana and how they value their time.  If something is done, it is done with a purpose. I like to think of this statement when I get frustrated with the turtle-paced speed of Ghana. 

The traditional houses in Ghana are very different between different peoples and regions. This is a traditional village mud house in Eastern Region's wet forest. I stayed the night with a peace corp couple who are serving this small village. Apparently, these houses provide good ventilation, which is extremely useful considering Ghana's extreme heat and lack of electricity.

This is before the USA vs. Ghana game, but right after Ghana vs. Germany game. Despite Ghana's loss, we made it to the next round. All across Ghana people proclaimed Ghana's Victory saying "Ghana is Advancing". In both Accra and the Eastern Region vuvuzela's randomly trumpeted, celebrating the success. As Africa's last home in the first African-hosted world cup, Ghana is proud to be the star of Africa! Despite this, I did cheer for the US in the last game, though I was not too heartbroken when we lost. Go Ghana! 

Going to Church

Yes, believe it or not, I went to Church on Sunday. My professor at U of M warned me that I might have to go to church, and she was right (especially as my roommate is the wife of a minister). It was a positive experience.

Things I liked about this Church included it had both Ghanaian and ex-pats, so it did not feel segregated in any way. Also, my roommate chose this Church over the one that is completely ex-pat as it is far less conservative and has a better band. The band had two electric guitars, 1 western drum set, a saxophone, and then the main singer had a phenomenal range. Mel, you'd have been impressed. Then there were about 6 young women and one young man who all sang as well, not as beautifully but definitely still enjoyable. 

The Methodists are interesting as they rotate ministers and have one pastor. I think it's all very democratic. There were multiple small readings from the bible and one longer sermon. It was a longer service for me but short for Ghana, as it was only 1.5 hours long instead of 3-4. I started checking the time after the first 30 minutes as that's when the band stopped playing and the sermon's started. 

As for content, I was hoping the minister would speak of ethics or philosophy. To question what is right and wrong, and then how to best rationalize the best answers. This was not so, as the sermon was mostly about faith and the need to sacrifice to demonstrate one's faith. The content, as promised by my roommate, was not too controversial. The only line I had a problem with was when the pastor said no one should be ashamed of their faith, "especially we Christians ." I was sensitive to the fact it puts other religions in a slightly pejorative stance. But to be fair, as far as controversy goes, this statement was quite mild. Especially when I compare it to political associations in the US; at home, the party line must all conform! So I suppose I should not fault the pastor.

I may go to Church again; we shall see.

Speaking to be Understood

Speaking to be Understood

Being a child of nomads, being an expat generally means you have to learn how to talk to be understood. Accents are strange and transient things, yet for non-nomadic people, they are expected to be constant indicators of where you are from and sometimes even your class, education level, and culture. People react surprisingly strongly to them, especially if your accent is different from what they expect. 

Going to a colonial-British elementary and middle school and having an American parent and an Italian father (who I am told has a very strong accent), all left me with a very different accent by the time I arrived in the US at the age 14. In one year, I trained myself to speak "American. "When I studied abroad in South Africa, I wrongly thought I would need to change my accent to be understood. But Western Cape South Africans, who are the most Westernized of all South Africans, were offended by the accent change as were the other Americans in the group. I learned very quickly not to switch. Two years later, I worked in the Free State of South Africa, where my accent was a barrier to being understood. I was resistant to changing my accent, having been burned last time. 

In Accra, I have accepted the need to change my accent a bit if I want to ride public transportation. I am having to dig out a bit of my old accent in Zimbabwe and am developing new sounds as well. The current changes include a slower speaking pace and how I say the letter A. The word “mall” is a deeper sound that feels like I am trying to create enough space in my mouth to fit a potato. For the word “water” is not said at all like I did in Zimbabwe, but rather is a very strange mix of sounds. The first syllable “wa,” sounds like how you say wat in the dish dorowat, or I guess it sounds like “waaat” but said very quickly. The second half of the word slows down and you pronounce “ter” like Americans pronounce the word “turd” but without the letter d. 

In Ghana, the ex-pat community that I have met so far seems to speak with an American accent and accordingly, around Americans, I change it. I know that for some of my fellow Americans, this switch is castigated as condescending. But, in all honesty, it is the craft of being spoken to be understood.

Transportation in Accra: Riding the Tro-Tro

The tro-tro is one of Accra's most common forms of transportation. It's what South Africans call a mini-bus taxi, and in Ghana is termed a "joining" transportation as it picks people up from various places and drops them off along the route. Today I decided to ride the tro-tro for the first time. I was filled with trepidation. Nerves had me wonder, will my accent confuse people? Will I arrive at the wrong destination? Also, I figured it would be unpleasant as the drivers add as many people as possible into the mini-vans. The frames of the mini-vans look unreliable, they all have dents, some paint rust, and sometimes the locks are broken, so the doors are tried shut with string. Inside, the cushions are cracked, the extra chairs wobble, and of course, there is no air conditioning. Ghana is hot enough that everyone outside develops a film of sweat, and cramming in the tro-tro adds a textural element of sticky arms rubbing against sticky arms. Due to this physical closeness and, for some unpleasantness, a new friend of mine has lived in Ghana for ten years and never rides the tro-tro.

So why did I ride it? Simple: it's cheap and safe. Accra is surprisingly expensive, but the tro-tro was 45 pesewas (cents) for each leg of my ride. In the end, my journey took four legs (having to change tro-tros at the "station"), so I spent about $1.60 to go to the mall and back today. Compare this to a taxi ride which I might have been able to bargain to around 7 to 5 cidis per ride, and perhaps totaling $10 to $8, it was definitely the better choice. Added to this, I got to see more of how Accra works, I talked to the mother of two year old, and when the radio announced Ghana scored a goal against Latvia at the pre-World Cup games, I felt the rush of energy, and as my fellow travelers celebrated by yelling and waving their arms. 

I left the tro-tro, doing a mental 180. By the end of the trip, I thought about what a privilege it is to have such safe, convenient, and cheap transportation. Comparing the tro-tro to forms of transportation available in the places I have lived and traveled to in the past three years since college, I consider it to be one of the best options. In Parker, Colorado, there are NO buses; in both Ann Arbor and the Twin Cities, the buses arrive every 30 minutes; and, in Philly, the public transit is so bad I prefer to walk 40 minutes in the light rain shower rather than taking the subway.

 The greatest difference in transportation modes I've experienced was between Accra, Ghana, and any of the places I lived and worked in South Africa. In South Africa, mini-bus taxis are considered some of the most dangerous places, especially for a white person. Taxi wars are notorious in Cape Town, where the relationship between taxi owners is similar to rival gang warfare in the United States. Even when I worked in Phutaditjhaba, the safest place I have ever visited in South Africa, my employers wouldn't let me take the mini-bus taxis for fear I would be taken hostage, leaving them responsible for an international issue. The freedom to travel with everyone else is wonderful and makes me excited to be interning here for the summer.

The food at this simple restaurant is splendid. Fresh tilapia, marinated, slowly grilled for 30 minutes, and served with fresh vegetables and banku. All is eaten with the right hand, fingers actively skin and debone the fish, all of it then wrapped in the banku (a fermented starch) and the veggies. 

The game itself was the most suspenseful I have ever watched. Ghana and Uruguay were evenly matched for most of the first half. In the last minute before the half time, Ghana scored. The restaurant erupted. The waitresses, waiters, our table neighbors, and the people watching from the staircase ran all around, screaming, waving anything with Ghana colors. 

People ran up to strangers and hugged each other in shared jubilation. Well, from here, you must know the rest. Uruguay scored in the second half. In the last minute of overtime, Ghana's winning goal was blocked by the hand of a defender, not the goalie. So with less than a minute to go, Ghana was awarded a penalty kick. Gyan against the goalie, it seemed we must win. We held our breath, leaned toward the screen,  and watched the ball hit the pole and bounce out. Ghana missed its penalty goal, and the 30 minutes of overtime were over. In the penalty shots, where five strikers from each team get to shoot towards the goal, we lost. Uruguay missed once, Ghana twice. 

The silence was deafening. Sadness, disbelief, and rage smothered the air. Its pressing weight seemed to squeeze out the oxygen. Walking home, heads were bent, and occasional swear words, another calling out, "don't be sad, It's okay ." The whole weekend was surprisingly quiet in Accra.

Over the next few days, some people criticized the Ghanaian player, others Fifa, and Uruguay for citing the hand block by a non-goalie as the source of ghana's failure. My favorite response came from a Ghanaian I met on Saturday. He said those who criticize are not grateful. Ghana played well, and we can be proud. There was no one mistake; every shot or chance we missed was a mistake. It was a game, and we played well. We should be proud. In the next world cup, watch Ghana. We will play and advance farther next time. 

On those words of wisdom, I will leave you. Below are some pictures of Friday night. Sorry I didn't get a picture of oxford street! I was worried about pickpockets. 

Ready for the Game!: Ghanaian Trader Woman (Left), Roommate Suzanne & Me (Center)