slow boat to...

We started out our travels on a cargo ship up Lake Volta to head to the North of the country. It seemed like a great idea at the time. A boat trip up the river of an African country has a certain inherent adventurous appeal, and the guidebook's description of the trip as for only the more “hardened” travelers just kind of entices you to prove your mettle on the backpacker battlefield. But the enjoyment of watching the countryside roll by from the side of your boat wears off after a few hours. And then you have another 30 hours on a crowded cargo ship with nothing to do and nowhere to sleep on a boat that is moving at a pace that I felt reasonable sure I could out-swim. And I’m a horrible swimmer. The boat crammed people on three small decks and when nighttime came people slept slumped over tables or curled up in the most contortionist positions. We battled, and lost, some Ghanaian soldiers for the few old mattresses that were scattered about, and half-joked that we would have shown them more deference if Ghana were engaged in any real combat at the moment. There was one man who managed to balance himself on the 3 inches that the top of a bench seat back provided. This is an impressive feat viewed at a distance, but as luck would have it, I was parked on the seat of the bench below him and the prospect of him losing his balance and falling flat on top of me kept me from any substantially sound sleep. But it was really more the monotony than the discomfort and the feeling that we could be seeing more of the country if we could only get off the damn boat. We did manage to befriend some of the crew and the engineer actually brought us down to see the engine room, which did not actually inspire much confidence and gave me images of sinking boats to add to my images of strange men falling on me in my sleep. When we got to our destination, we discovered that after 32 hours, we had traveled a mere 180 miles further on our journey.

scarification

Something very strange has been happening to me over the last few days. I’ve been walking into things and tripping over my own feet at a rate that is threatening to deplete my medical supplies. Seriously, the day before I left for our trip (not a pun) I fell flat on my face in broad daylight leaving an ugly abrasion on my left shoulder and eliciting the predictable “sorry, yeah” and “take time” from the many onlookers. That same day I stubbed my toe so hard it lifted up the nail and let out a torrent of blood. The following day I walked into something shin-height that felt like it took a bit out of my leg, and then received a gash on my upper thigh (same leg) on a clumsy descent from our tro tro. Perhaps my other leg was feeling left out of the carnage because the day after that my left foot slipped through a sewer grate and I fell in up to my knee, lodging my leg in the concrete and leaving bruises and cuts on either side of my knee and ankle. I’m starting to feel like Africa is beating me up a bit, and I’ve been nothing but nice to her! I don’t know if I have my head in the clouds or up my ass, but I’m starting to get such a reputation as a klutz that when someone else trips over something, they are “pulling a Kim.” Actually, my preferred theory is that in some cosmic balancing act, all this bad luck can only be forecasting good things ahead. The other thought is that in the land of facial scaring and body modification and am unwittingly going through some initiation rite. I actually have a scar on my right wrist from a particularly nasty mosquito bite I got in Kenya 10 years ago, and I look at it often with wistful nostalgia. So, I think I’ll just look at all of this as nature’s way of making absolutely certain that I never forget Africa.

transport

Between my stint as a volunteer and my upcoming job as the volunteer coordinator, I have about a week to explore the country. I’ve set off with two of my favorite volunteers, Emma and Patrick a brother and sister team from Ireland who are making their way overland from Ghana to Spain. If any of you want to consult a map, we traveled up the Volta River to Tamale and them farther on to Bolgatonga, near the Burkina Faso border. By x-mas we ended up at the Mole game reserve where we had the luxury of spying on elephants from our swimming pool and excitement of narrowly escaping a baboon attack in our hotel room. The following blogs were written during those travels.

Road transportation in Ghana falls into two distinct classes of vehicles, providing a nice metaphor for Ghanaian society in general. The first category is filled with well-built all terrain SUVs and luxury sedans driven by wealthy Ghanaians and expats and the other category is filled with cars that look like they’ve been resurrected from junkyards and probably are. I have ridden around solely in the second category of vehicle. It is not at all uncommon to enter into a cab or tro tro (minibus) with a non-functioning emergency break, duct tape holding the door open and a transmission that requires a manual push start. It must be against the law or something, because I have literally NEVER gotten into a cab with a working speedometer, and I look every time. This is the norm. The need for transportation dictates that no vehicle is truly beyond repair, and there is nothing that some duct tape, a screw driver and a few prayers won’t fix. It seems like Africa is where cars from wealthy countries come to die – well not exactly die, but become mechanical zombies haunting the roadways beyond any reasonable expectation of mobility. Actually, this is not so far from the truth. Two volunteers found their way here across the Atlantic on a cargo ship that was filled with thousands of broken down cars from America that had failed emissions tests or were otherwise deemed unfit. While this is probably an efficient use of resources, putting the world’s most dilapidated vehicles on the world’s worst roads in countries with the least likely access to emergency roadside assistance should the inevitable accident occur, just seems unfair. In fact riding around in these vehicles is probably the most dangerous thing I do here. I remember reading somewhere (google it, doubters…), that more people die from traffic accidents in poor countries that from tropical diseases!! I may have gotten that slightly wrong – it may be more than die from malaria or AIDS or something. Either way, that’s just amazing when you consider the amount of press and attention given to malaria versus transportation. I guess transportation is just not that sexy. And yet, I’ve devoted an entire blog entry to it. Sorry.

normalcy

After 3 months here, it's really funny to notice that those things that were once extraordinary have now become mundane. Sights I once considered shocking or just cool I now barely even notice. As I traveled to Accra yesterday, I took no real notice of the women balancing piles of fruit on their heads while simultaneously dodging traffic and making change in time for bus passenger customers before the red light change – something that once seemed an incredible feat of agility. I had come to expect that my busload of people would be entertained by a vagabond preacher on the ride, and easily tuned him out. The ubiquitous condom ad - "It's on, or it's not in!" didn't even make me chuckle. Well, maybe a little. All the color and commotion of street life is no longer something I marvel at, it's just the backdrop of life. Until I notice that I'm not noticing it, and then try to take notice. Does that make sense?

Every morning, I walk unphased past children taking naked bucket showers, and I barely notice the kids unselfconsciously peeing in the street. I’m no longer appalled by the garbage that carpets so many of the pathways. When strange children come running up for hugs, I unthinkingly pat them on the head and give them a little squeeze barely pausing my conversation. All day long I have conversations in Liberian English, that would have at one time been incomprehensible to me. And I forget to appreciate this too. I’m no longer so outraged by the inanities of the school, and test questions like “What is a verb? a) and action word b) a human being or c) a bottle of coke” no longer irritate me, though maybe they should. I’m amazed by how easily a sense of normalcy sets in even in the most bizarre situations.

A lot of volunteers seem to take pride in the nonchalance that comes with having become accustomed to their new surroundings and find a kind of superior irritation at newcomers’ naivety. I have to admit it does feel kind of cool to know the ropes here. But more that than, I’m really nostalgic for that wide-eyed stage where everything is fresh and fascinating. I miss that natural fascination and wonderment at things that I now have to remind myself are remarkable. I suppose that’s why people keep moving around in life.

That said, there are some things that will never stop astonishing me. I’m still touched every day by earnestness of my little students and their easy way of showing affection. I’m still moved every time I hear someone’s harrowing story of fleeing their war-torn country. I’m still affected by the natural beauty of the land. It still puts a smile on my face when I walk around camp and see people of various ages unselfconsciously singing and dancing just because someone is playing music. And I don’t know if I’ll ever make sense of the disparity in my material comfort and that of the refugees I live with. But I’m thankful for all of that.

"cuisine"

OK, so I think I’ve mentioned the cuisine here in passing – and I use the work “cuisine” lightly – but I think that the topic warrants further discussion. There is not a lot to be said for West African cuisine, unless you want to say how bad it is in a lot of different ways, which is precisely what I’m attempting now. ** A lot of the dishes look as if someone already ate them, and don’t taste much better. (I’m guessing. I have limited experience eating regurgitated food). It’s really no wonder that while I could find the most obscure Asian eateries in Chicago – from Burmese to Tibetan – I could barely find one restaurant featuring African dishes from any one of the 16 West African countries. There’s a heap of Ethiopian restaurants, which are all quite good, but Ethiopia is a continent away from here, and culinarily it is a planet apart. I think my friend Emma summed it all up correctly when she said, “well, you’d eat it if you were hungry.”

The staple food in this part of West Africa is fufu – which is maize (corn) that is pounded and then mixed with water until it becomes a doughy consistency. You tear off a piece from this gelatinous mound, and use it to scoop up other food, something equally unappetizing like goat soup. But here’s the kicker – the “African” way of eating this stuff is to NOT chew it, but swallow it whole. It’s like they just gave up and realized it was best to just get this unpalatable blob to your stomach as fast as possible and not give your taste buds a chance to revolt. I mean, can you image eating something with objective of avoiding tasting it??? I think that says a lot. Actually, Liberians thankfully eat a lot less fufu than Ghanaians. They prefer rice. But their specialty is “palm butter” – which is rice served with an oily soup often with floating fish heads or chicken necks for flavor and some kind of spice that makes my lips literally swell from the burning. I usually eat something beforehand if I’m invited to a Liberian’s for dinner. Of course, it is very rude to appear unenthusiastic when someone presents you with a meal, so I have to “fake eat” – ala the muppet cookie monster – or feign illness. I actually think Westerners who like this food are lying. I know that is a pretty bold assertion. I suppose, if you really like spicy food, there is some room for believability, but just barely.

But, fear not. I’m not going hungry. The international volunteers get food cooked in a more familiar style, and some of it is actually quite nice. And, the snack food you can by off the street is, dare I say, even delicious. This is the saving grace of West African cuisine for me. There is always fresh pineapple, juicy papaya, hot butter cookies, doughnut holes just out of the fryer and salty plantain chips. Oh, and there are these little coconut cookies, that are like greasy multicolored macaroons that are quite a sugary little treat when you need it. I haven’t gotten sick of this snacky stuff yet and I’d even go so far as to say that I’ll miss it when I leave.

** For the record, I'm sure those who have grown up on this food find it delightful. In fact, the last time we cooked for some Liberian friends (pasta in pesto) they politely ate it, but I'm know, from their exchagned glances and unfinished portions, that they found it entirely too bland and nearly unpalatable.

I second that motion...

One thing I was totally unprepared to find as took my vaccinations and bought my mosquito net and made all of he preparations for the potential hazards of working on a refugee camp was the tedium and officiousness of the many administrative meetings we are required to attend working with this NGO. It must be an unfortunate blend of a post-colonial obsession with parliamentary procedure and relaxed African sense of time and penchant for verbose oration that turns what could have been a 15 minute discussion into a 2 hour meeting.

Every meeting begins with a prayer. Fair enough. We all bow our heads and desperately pray that the meeting is productive. I add a silent prayer for brevity. After that is an official welcome. Then the agenda is read. Someone has to agree to the agenda and propose that we accept it. Then someone seconds this. Then we can move on to the… reading the previous meeting’s minutes. After that we ask of there are any corrections or additions to the minutes, talk about this for a while and entertain more motions to accept the minutes to the record. Then we have our meeting. Often this is about 1 hour after the time the meeting was called for because the meetings invariably start about a half an hour late. It’s all so officious that you’d think we were deciding on a complex trade deal between two competitor nations instead of talking about cleaning drains and making copies of school exams. Despite the tedium things can sometimes get quite heated, and when that happens people prop their heads up from their naps and take notice. It’s pretty impressive though, tensions are often diffused with a joke and laughter comes easy to everyone regardless of disagreements.

In spite of the level of misery brought on by these meetings, committees are constantly being formed necessitating even more meetings. Those of us who work in the school have the opportunity to be on the discipline committee, the academic affairs committee, the program planning committee, the phonics curriculum committee, or the tutoring committee. I suppose this is partly attributable to a constant influx of over-eager volunteers who are forever attempting new programs and initiatives that require meetings and budgets and committees - which all quickly leads to an unwieldy bureaucracy. Well, it would be wieldy, but ironically for such serious-seeming organization people often fail to show up to meetings, or come up to 30 minutes late. This was frustrating at first, but it’s actually become quite liberating because I no longer rush off to meetings, which I suppose makes me part of the problem, but when in Rome…

In truth, CBW employees are probably among the most prompt Liberians because they are forced to work with us time-sensitive white people. If a meeting is important, they tell us they’ll be there by 3 PM “American time” - which means they will make every effort to be there before 3:15. In contrast, I ran a literacy workshop for some of the older women on camp which was scheduled for 4 PM to 5 PM, and the first woman showed up at 4:45. So, time is a pretty flexible concept here. To that end, even though would could be a 15 minute meeting might take 2 hours, I know these next 3 months feel like weeks!