drummin' and dancin'

My camera ran out of batteries at the beginning of the night. It was probably for the best because the photos couldn't have possibly captured the spirit of the evening and would have only been a disappointment. It was my friend Emma's birthday and we surprised her by hiring a Liberian drum and dance group to play that evening outside our guest house. Around 60 people, coworkers, friends and neighbors of all ages and colors gathered for a candlelit performance.

The group agreed to pay for about $25 and a bottle of gin, and it was clear that they had had at the bottle before the "gig"- but remarkably whatever they had been drinking or smoking only added to their passion and skill. I don't know quite how to explain it, except to say, I've seen fair amount of dance in my day, but my jaw was on the floor and eyes blinking in disbelief a good part of the time. Before I came to Ghana I saw a documentary called Rize (see it!!) about an underground hip-hop dance movement called "crunking" or "clowing" that is a kind of spasmodic cathartic dance style where dancers' limbs move with such speed that the director actually felt it necessary to add a disclaimer to the start stating "no film has been sped up in the making of this movie." Well, the dancing started off in this vein - legs and arms moving at impossible velocities and in perfect sync with the captivating polyrhythms of the drums. This would have been impressive enough (jaw already on floor), but then the dancers moved into these acrobatics and contortions that would have easily impressed a cirque de soliel recruiter.

OK. So, I'm already impressed. But wait... After each dancers had finished dazzling us, they would casually walk back to the drum line and relieve another drummer - picking up his instrument without skipping a beat and assuming the role of musician. I thought, what are the odds that such incredibly talented, strong and dexterous dancers could also be such gifted musicians? Literally, the lead drummer (who I assumed was kept out of the dance portion because he talents were really more rhythmic) got up at the end did higher flips and more painful-looking contortions than all those who preceded him.

Not only was this one of the best music and dance performances I’ve ever seen at any venue, but we had the added bonus of being a mere 5 feet from the dancers and drummers and of even being dragged on the dance floor one at a time, much to the amusement of our Liberian friends. At other points it broke out into an all ages dance party. In fact about the best dancer was all of 3 years old. There such a lack of self-consciousness and a playful sensuality about the way people dance here that is just infectious. And anyway, it would be hard not to move your body to the rhythms – sometimes you don’t even notice that a part of your body has begun to dance despite yourself. The only shame of it was that these guys are stuck on a refugee camp playing for $25 and a bottle of whisky. They have big dreams though recently won a competition in Accra. I know they would be a huge success if they could get booked at any festivals in the U.S. If anyone can help in this regard, please let me know!

Anaconda

I was in my guest house, innocently washing my unmentionables, when some volunteers came in and excitedly asked me if I had “seen the dead snake.” Well, I hadn’t in fact, “seen the dead snake” but intended to change that fact. I walked outside and down the road not 20 seconds and saw a group of about 25 people standing around something that I can only conclude was the snake of the moment. I walked over and peered into the spectacle from the crowd. Now, a snake conjures up images of something small and slithery. This thing was biblical! It was really more of a small dragon without the feet. In it’s thickest parts it was nearly the size of a new roll of paper towels and was probably ten feet long – although it was all coiled up on the ground. Apparently someone had trapped it in the “gulf” which is kind of a cesspool just on the edge of camp and the location of all kinds of nefarious activity. Last year they actually found the corpses of some Liberians who had been butchered in a horribly violent murder in the gulf. But mainly people just go there to relieve themselves. So, someone had trapped themselves this monster and everyone was milling about deciding what to do about it. The number 40,000 was being thrown around as a suggested price for the snake in the market (about $5.00). I threw in the suggestion that I could eat it, and got a bit of a laugh. I asked my neighboring on-looker how it tasted and he said, “Oh, snake is very sweet.” I’m willing to take that one on faith. Other snake-viewers told me that they would never eat snake because it is evil. I suppose that is as good a reason as any. In the end it took two strong men to carry the beast up the road to market, where it has been by now made into soup or boots or medicine or more likely all three.

sicky

I have to say, it’s no fun being sick here. At home if I wanted to rest up from an illness, I’d take a day off of work, stretch out in my PJs on the couch, adjust the air to a healthy and comfortable temperature, play music, watch TV, eat food that comforts me, whine to my indulgent mother and generally just convalesce. Here, I can take off a day of work, but can’t really convalesce. My house is sweat-inducing even for the healthy, and it’s not easy finding a comfortable position on my makeshift bed. There’s little in the way of comfort food and my mother’s soothing words are an impossibility. I do get plenty of visitors and sympathy, but there’s only so much people can do. I am a lot better off than most, and I simply can’t imagine the kind of suffering I’ve seen people endure on this camp.

A few weeks ago, several of my neighbor’s kids, were extremely ill. Mary and Lester have 7 kids all under the age of 12. The oldest, Baby G, came to my door and in his typically shy voice and told me that his brother, Bakayoko was sick and that I should come see him. The kids almost never invite us into their house, and so the request alone alarmed me. Bakayoko is 6 years old and you usually have to look up to see him because he’s almost always climbing a tree. He would certainly be diagnosed with hyperactivity in the U.S. Like I mentioned, not everyone here is equally poor and some people have luxuries like televisions in their homes. This family has virtually nothing. A few mattresses, a piles of clothes and some pots to cook with. When I came into the house, Bakayoko was lying on a mattress in the center of the room. He looked like another child. His eyes were half closed and the only movements he seemed to be able to manage were to react to whatever bone-wrenching pain his body was delivering. He had been throwing up and “toileting” (Liberian for diarrhea) for over a day. He had already been in the clinic and received two drips for rehydration, but the family could not afford a third so the clinic sent him home. This child is already pretty wiry, but unanimated he just looked scrawny, weak and utterly helpless. I and another volunteer told Mary we’d pay for medicine and took him back to the clinic. We carried him on our backs to the clinic. You can do that for a child, but for an adult, people will end up using a “wee” (two wheeled wheel-barrel), normally used to carry wood or bricks, to take a loved one to the clinic. This is one of the hardest things to watch. It just seems so unsympathetic and inhumane, but there’s no other way to move someone unable to walk through the camp.

Having one child in that state is enough to break any mother’s heart, but Mary had another child – Myfriend – and a husband who were waiting for us at the clinic suffering from the same ailment! And some of the other children we left at home were starting to feel lousy. When we arrived at the clinic with Bakayoko, Lester and Myfriend were already there each receiving a drip.

Myfriend, 10 years old, is one of my favorites. He’s named after Lester’s best friend who would always greet Lester with “Hello, my friend” and who died while Mary was pregnant with little Myfriend. We’ve all agreed that there’s just something about him that makes him seem wise beyond his years. He has a joyful and almost Zen-like spirit. Myfriend is even skinnier than Bakayoko to begin with and seeing him in a similar condition to his brother on a plastic gurney with a drip in his vein was one of the most heart-wrenching scenes I’ve seen, and I can’t imagine what Mary was feeling. The ward in the clinic was a hot room with several gurneys, no partitions and only one apathetic-looking and inattentive nurse. The patients have visitors bring them food but are basically left there to let time, medicine and rehydration hopefully do their work. I did not know quite how to act, or how to provide comfort to anyone. Lester was feeling a bit better so that gave us some hope that they others would bounce back with time. I found the overworked clinic doctor who assured me that it was not cholera (there had been a mini-outbreak resulting in 10 deaths at the camp that week), but some parasite from the water they were drinking.

In the end, they all pulled through. But they were lucky. Those kids are malnurished and have compromised immune systems. If it were cholera, and they did not get rehydrated in time, Mary could have lost one or more of her children. As I walked with her to the clinic she stopped to talk to the people she knew and said "my husband and children are sick-o, they are at the clinic" People responded gravely and with a deep sympathy that comes from knowing what can happen when someone's children are "at the clinic" They don't always come back.

So far, someone I know has lost someone every single week I've been here. Sometimes, it is a cousin in Liberia or step-chid in America. The program officer at CBW (the NGO I'm working with) just tragically lost his 2 year old cousin in a fire at their house on camp. Another CBW soccer player (around 30 years old) dropped dead one morning on the soccer field. I wonder if it's just because everyone's lives here are connected to so many others and everyone has so much kin that the universe of possible deaths is larger here. But I have to face the fact that death is just more a part of life here than it is back home where cholera and malaria are unknown and emergency assistance is just a 3 digit phone call away. In the back of my mind - pushed away from my heart - I fear that a tragedy could befall someone I know, and I don't think I'm emotionally prepared for that.

I'd like to end this post on a more optimistic note, but I'm not sure how.

It started with a sore throat...

It started with a sore throat – which I logically assumed was the result of yelling at my students all day. That night I had a fever of 100.2 degrees, but considering my room itself was 92 degrees I didn’t think much of it. One of my friends insisted over my stubborn refusals that I take a malaria test. I have been joking that I kind of want to contract malaria while I’m here. Just a small case. For bragging rights. So, even though I was convinced it was just the flu, I agreed to go. The clinic in Ghana we usually go to was closed, but she had heard of a lab on camp run, so we decided to check it out. We walked for a few minutes and came upon a small blue house with the words “medical laboratory” painted on it in fading white letters. We knocked on the door and a man in pajamas answered rubbing his eyes and putting on his glasses – the head doctor and supervisor of the operation, Gabriel. He is a kind, articulate and intelligent man who was a doctor in Monrovia before the war. His house/lab/school had a few posters about HIV prevention, some boxes with various lab tests and was sparsely furnished with a table, chair and bench. One poster had the costs of his many tests – this included about a dollar for a malaria test, the same for STIs and no charge for HIV/AIDs. He explained that he also ran a school to train fellow refugees and offered lab tests at a reduced cost because of the need on camp. He is entirely self-supported and not currently getting funding from anywhere. He had a letter written for us to distribute about his school and lab in case we knew of any potential donor organizations. If any of you can help me think of an organization that would help with medical supplies or money, please let me know!

We explained that I wanted to get tested for malaria, and he promptly sent someone out for fresh needles. We met them over at the next house – which contains the actual lab equipment. He unwrapped the needle, pricked my finger and wiped it on a glass slide. He showed us the microscope he would use to analyze my blood. It was reminiscent of the kind we had in 6th grade biology class – could have been the exact model. He explained that he would have to use the manual microscope (not the electric one) because there was no electricity. He would also have to wait for the blood to dry (no electric dryer) to run the test. Even with his limited technology, I would have the results in 30 minutes and for under $1.50!

So, when we returned, he informed me that I do in fact have malaria! The most common type – falciparium – and also the most serious if you leave it untreated. Fortunately, the level of severity was low and I am now treating it with drugs. So, I can now join the ranks travel-weary malaria sufferers. It’s probably not worth the bragging rights. My joints are really achy and having a fever in this heat is no picnic. But I’m lucky that my case is not that severe. Others here have had it really bad. I haven’t even had an upset stomach, but that is what is so difficult about malaria – the symptoms are really variable and it can be hard to diagnosis without a test. But if you let it go too long, it can be very dangerous. A good deal of the volunteers here have come down with malaria. But we are all on anti-malarial medicine! It turns out that the preventive drugs we all take religiously do not prevent anything. They actually just reduce the symptoms if you do contract malaria. The best thing is to avoid mosquito bites, but those little buggers just love me no matter how much garlic I eat and how much deet I poison my body with. The mosquitoes here are different from anywhere I’ve been. I actually don’t think I’ve ever seen one here. They are tiny and stealth. They are so small they don’t even buzz in your ear. But they do bite. And apparently carry malaria.

the "rules"

I wonder if I’ll look back at this entry and feel foolish or regretful for having written it. I apologize if it is incoherent or rambling, but that’s a reflection of my thoughts on this subject. I’m genuinely a bit lost.

As much as I love living in the camp. The most difficult thing is finding peace with the disparity in what you have and what you live around. Especially when you befriend children who later tell you they are hungry and ask for food, and you go inside to a pot overflowing with food and “rules” that tell you not to give food to neighborhood children. The logic is sound. Giving food promotes begging; it is unsustainable and an inequitable way to distribute resources. But it does not sit easy with me. I understand the logic behind it, but I have a real hard time denying food that might otherwise go uneaten to a hungry child – especially a child I have developed a friendship with. Most people have that same difficulty and I guess that is why we have developed the “rules” – so the decision is out of our hands and out of our conscience. And truth is, most people here have bent the rules to some degree. But still, some housemates can become quite upset if you are found giving food or money for food because they fear it will make the kids around the house more pushy and persistent and simply attract more kids to the house, which would all be a major nuisance. That is true. It could create a practically unlivable situation for us. But in some ways that makes me feel even worse about the rule. That we are denying food to hungry kids because it would create an annoying situation for a very privileged set of people.

Thankfully, none of these kids are starving. I do see them eat everyday. And some of the kids use the money for food to buy candy. The kids are not starving, but some are most definitely malnourished, and they have childhoods that look so different from my own – no playgrounds, few if any toys, certainly no Saturday s at the zoo or dance classes – that if my 10 cents buys candy and a little bit of happiness, more the better.

But I know that in some ways I am wrong. The rules have been created by volunteers who have come here before me and know what works – what’s sustainable and what’s fair. But it’s not easy. I struggle wit what is right, appropriate and moral for me to give every day. Last week, a student of mine came by the house and asked me for 1,000 cedis to rent a bike for an hour. Many of my housemates were gone for the weekend and would have disapproved if I gave him the money. He would then be back irritating everyone for more. But, in the end, I felt that if what amounted to 12 cents could buy an hour of “normal” childhood for a kid who would otherwise be faced with boredom or chores, I couldn’t deny him that. I understand the risk, and I explained to him that if I gave him the money, he wasn’t to ask my or my housemates for anything for a while. He agreed, took the money overjoyed, returned to show me the bike and has not asked for anything since.

But why do I feel like I did something wrong? There is such a strong push against “handouts”, but in African culture, that’s exactly what you do all the time just by the nature of living in a community. There is such incredible generosity and sharing of what little people have among Liberians. Given the impossibility of working, the entire economy here is fueled by “handouts” from abroad. Children think little of sharing their food with one another and therefore little of asking others for food. It seems to be a kind of cultural understanding that those who are blessed with more will share with those who have less.

Still, I know we cannot just willy nilly give handouts. It has to be targeted and fair and done in a way that does not promote dependency. But it’s hard to resist the urge to give at all when the inequalities of the world are shouted through your window as you sit at your kitchen table every morning. Or when you go away for a weekend and spend on a meal what a local volunteer makes in a month! When I bring this up people tell me “you just can’t think like that.” But why? Because it’s inconvenient psychologically? Because there are no easy answers to world inequality? Because denying yourself a nice meal does nothing to help those who have so little? Those are the answers I’ve heard, but that last one is actually not true. If I gave up my meal or ate something cheaper, I’d have more money to donate to those in need. We “can’t think that way” because it would imply more self-sacrifice than many (including myself) are willing. And maybe we “can’t think that way” because it smacks of communism and is an affront to our Western sensibilities that tell us that our hard work is justly rewarded. But we know that this too is not true. That the most industrious and intelligent Liberian refugee may not dream of spending $15 on a meal in a luxury resort, no matter how hard-working or deserving. There is nothing that makes us that much more deserving of our relative riches, and we all know it is largely a consequence of the community and parents we happened to be born in to.

But still, there are the rules and their logic. So, I find myself tugged in two directions and in a conversation with a poor child asking him to justify his request for money for a meager amount of money that I can easily afford. It makes me feel small and petty and horrible. It would be so much easier to just give him what amounts to such a small amount of money and both feel better right away. But then, am I giving only to remove my bad feelings? Is that partly why anyone gives anything? Is the end result of giving more important than anyone’s reasoning? But, am I doing more harm than good just so I can assuage my guilt?

So, in the end I give part of the time (we all do) and try to do it in an appropriate way. This is not a new issue for me. I’ve traveled through poverty-stricken countries and worked with or on behalf of poor people for the last 10 years. But I don’t believe anyone who tells me they have decided how to deal with the issue here on camp, and most admit they struggle with it. The most adamant “rules” supporters find instances to have exception to it. Most aid workers do not actually live among people they are distributing aid to and I wonder if this is partly why. This disparity in what you have is too glaring and there is no way to feel good about it and no easy answers on how to change it in a just, enduring and moral way.

typical morning

Many of you have asked me to describe my typical day. There really is no “typical” day here, but yesterday was pretty emblematic of my experiences here, so I’ll just describe that.

I woke up at 6:30, crawled out from underneath my mosquito net and took a bucket shower. I then sat around eating porridge (I eat this every day) and chatted with some of the other volunteers. I gathered some math flash cards and a story book and headed out for my 15 minute walk to the school. The first half of my walk is through the camp and I pass so many families who are outside finishing a morning meal, chatting, washing clothes or dishes or comforting crying children. Some say “hi” as I pass and others just go about their business. Most people seem accustomed to our presence, but I still get the occasional “Hi white woman!” To this, I sometimes reply “hi black child.” They usually find that hilarious and so do I for the utter un-PCness of it all. I remember in Kenya everywhere I went children would point at me, jump and scream “Mzungu” which basically means the same thing – white person. In Ghana it’s “Obruni”, but in English-speaking Liberia camp, it’s just “white woman” which, although it has less exotic appeal, cuts right to the point. My personal favorite is when I get “hey Jew!” thrown at me, which makes me think “how did they know?” until someone told me that’s short for “Jewell” and kind of something between a come-on and a term of endearment.

So, the second part of my walk is at the edge of camp and it’s about the most nature I get. The views looking out into the Ghanaian countryside are spectacular - lush green hills and red clay earth dotted by trees that can look like something out of a fairy tale. This second part of my walk gives me a false sense of peace before I enter the utter chaos of school.

When I get to school the children and my Liberian co-teacher are already in the class. They rise out of their seats at my entrance and say in unison “Good morning sis Kim, how are you dis morning” My line is: “I’m fine class, how are you” - to which they respond (again in unison sing-songy staccato) “We are also fine. Thank you.” They do this routine for literally everyone who walks in the class and I find it hilarious and totally adorable. One day I tried responding to their inquiries as to my welfare with “Not so good today class” To which the replied “We are also fine. Thank you.”

We teach for 2 hours have a 30 minute recess and then teach another 2 hours. In this time I go through a kind of emotional roller coaster of general frustration interspersed with moments of extreme frustration and utter anger. Actually, that’s an exaggeration. I sincerely love these kids, but it’s nearly impossible to have enough order in the class so that each kid learns something every day. They just do not sit still or pay attention and there is a constant din of noise and movement despite any of our threats, pleading or even emotional manipulation. At one point after several attempts at calling kids out to be quiet and taking away recess from the noisy ones, I literally threw the chalk down and yelled, “Kids I can’t teach like this” and walked out of the room. When I came back in they were all stunned into silence and actually paid attention to the lesson for a whole 15 minutes. This strategy is clearly unsustainable.

But when a concept does click for one of my kids, they get this immediate and pure joy and enthusiasm that you almost never find in adult life, and it inspires me enough to endure all the rest of the frustration. Also, despite their inability to focus, they do sincerely appreciate the smallest things like a getting books and posters for the classroom and just the slightest bit of personal attention. I wish you could see their little faces light up when I bring in books. They actually cheer and clap and say “Thank you! Thank you! Sis Kim!!!” Everyday, kids walk me all the way home and insist on carrying my books – even the ones that I yell at the most. Many of them have written me the sweetest little letters. I wish I didn’t find their misspelling and incorrect grammar so cute (not very teacherly), but darnit – it’s so endearing. Here’s an example from one of my brighter students

”Dear sis Kim's,

I want you to be my Friend Please give me some story books Please make friend with me. Sis Kim please reply to me too. Make friend with my I want you to be my playmother. I like your business.

THank you
from
Phebee
To Sis Kim's"

Here’s one of the funnier ones I received in the middle of teaching:

"Sis Kim,

Please love me. I Sis Kim I play for you. Please let me go pepe."

At first it was also difficult to understand the kids – especially if they are crying or upset. Liberian English has taken a bit of getting used to, but I love hearing it now. Here are some things I hear all the time:
“Sis Kim, He spyin-o” = he’s looking at my test paper
“Sis Kim, he cossing me” = he’s swearing
“He can lie” = that’s not true
"la true" = that's true
“I will flog you” = one child is threatening another
“Sis Kim, plee lemme go yurnay” = Can I go to the bathroom

OK. So after teaching, I walk home with a trail of kids and my co-teacher through the burning sun back to my guest house for lunch, totally exhausted. Afternoons vary. Meetings, playing with kids outside my house, teaching adult literacy, meeting with microloan recipients... This is getting long, so more on that later.

Much love and miss you all!!

Kim