Why Am I the One - Fun

Here we are.  It is almost October, almost one year in country and just about to mid service.

Mid service is accompanied by a few distinct occurrences.

Mid service medical.  That one time a year you get to travel all the way to Accra to poop in a jar.  But you get smoothies, sushi, and KFC so apparently it is worth it.  And you get to know if you have intestinal parasites.  I’m pretty sure I do have parasites as I have multiple times transplanted rice in snail infested paddies.  Fingers crossed.

For many volunteers mid service means a trip home.  I’m lucky my sister is getting married in November.  I am visiting home soon.

Mid service blues.  A common bout of unhappiness right around your one year mark.  I never knew if the one year mark starts when we first came in October or when we started our service in December.  Either way, as I talk with peers, people seem to be hitting the blue period early.  Their projects failed, nothing is working, they do not know what to do, their work is not worth their being here, unwilling counterparts, and that little feeling at the back of your heart that says You could just go home now.  You tried.

I am not there.  I do not think.  I think I am…annoyed.

You get used to most things here.  You let things go.  People think you can’t do thing because you are white, because you are a woman, because you are young.  I let it go.  Sometimes it feels like you are constantly laughed at.  I let it go.  Public transportation you get used to.  Food, culture, people, customs that are different you get used to.

But I have reached a new place, I do not know if it is above or below the acceptance of these differences but…everything just seems so so ridiculous here.

Seeing men in knitted winter hats.  Men who yell at me to sit in the back of the tro-tro even though I am dropping half way and will have to crawl over a dozen people with my bags.  Oh and their “Playbog” (Playboy knock off) shirts.

People who pull their motorcycle up to my house and rev the engine until I come out instead of knocking on my door or calling my name, stupid.  People who stand outside my window at six in the morning yelling at a person in the next house.  Walk over there.

Prophets that heal people addicted to ice cubes and mint candies..  People who will not help me get to the next village because I should be helping his village instead, absolutely ridiculous.

This is not about Ghana but I have itchy red bumps on my left hand and it is spreading to my right and a stupid volunteer told me it was probably a flesh eating bacteria.  Flesh eating bacteria has been known to happen to PCVs and now I am scared.

But I wouldn't call it the blues.

Who gave the beggar a megaphone?!

The man who overcharged me for fabric and the taxi who overcharged me and me who paid for it.

When I ask an English speaking Ghanaian “When?” And he says “Yes.” “No, when.  What time?”  “Yes.” 

But I would not call it mid service blues, this is just…an inevitable phase.

Here, I stopped and discussed these feelings with another volunteer locally know as “Sista Faima.”  She said, “Alyssa, I think this is your mid service weirdness.  Remember when we were at the Mystic Stone [one of the many mystic things that Ghanaians say cannot be moved.  When people try to move it to say, build a road or building, the stone always returns.  So people think it is holy and they pray at it and they charge white people money to look at a really normal looking rock.  And white people rub it and make wishes.]  You said you could not think of anything to wish for, that you were content.  I think that is just who you are, maybe your mid service thing is a peak of anger and frustration rather than a low of sadness and depression.”

I do not know.  I will say it has made me appreciative of home.  When people told me this experience would make me appreciative of what I have, I never thought they were right.  At home, I am appreciative.  I am thankful.  I regularly step back and give thanks for things I love.  Warm beverages with good people.  Good friends.  Fun times.  New places.  Good bikes.  Church I can feel.  Driving.  Family.  These are things I would regularly give thanks for.  I recognized them, their greatness and my thankfulness for them.  I guess up until now I thought I would return to these things, and yearn for Ghana but now I am not so sure.

I guess the next step should be to list things in Ghana I am thankful for, because that happens too, like:  When PCV’s call me to check in.  When I get a free ride into town.  When I find lemons and garlic in the market.  When people give me free food.  When kids help me carry my bags or weed my yard.  When people do not cheat me.  When seeds germinate.  When tires hold air.  When tire pumps work.  Having good tools that Dad gave me.  When I leave my cutlass outside and it does not get stolen.  When I am at market and women recognize me and call me over to join their motoking and take me home.  I've not been sick.  Not had malaria.  And I've met amazing people.

“You tell them that the mystic stone is the most mystic, awesome thing is Ghana!”  -Sista Faima

Slowly but Surely

This week I helped student with science fair project, we made a solar oven, and it was awesome.

I made bread in a crock pot, twice.

This week was a big leap forward in my personal progress in Ghana.

I was walking with Miriam my science fair student through the bush on the way to the road.  I asked her if she was nervous about this science camp, it is for the whole region.  She said “Yes.  I am going to be the only one there.  I will not know anyone.  I will not have friends.”

“Miriam.  You have to get over that.  You just gotta stick your hand out and smile and talk to people like they’ve been your friends for a long time.”  And I thought about it and it all felt very close to home.

I said “Miriam, when I was in university, where I went t church, if there was ever a new person at church, my friends would push me toward the new person.  Always.  That was my job, to talk to the new person because I was not shy and I talk to everyone like they are my friend.  But you know?  Then I came to Ghana *shakes head* and everything changed.  It is not easy to talk to people.  I am shy and when people greet me I say ‘Na, na, na’ very quiet, like a small child.”  She laughed at my quiet impression.  “I am shy here.  But I am not usually shy; you have to have confidence Miriam.  You have a very good project and people are going to love it and they will come to you and ask you to make them cakes.”

Miriam is 13.  Last time I met her, we were on the same tro-tro (bus) coming home.  As I walked with her on this same bush path to our homes, she was carrying two large bags of liquor sachets.  Her Mom sells the alcohol and sent Miriam to town (20 miles away) by herself to buy all this alcohol and bring it home.  Mom has since stopped selling alcohol because the men were taking it and never paying.

But all this really made a shift in my brain and behavior.  All through Pre Service training, you try to soak up all the information you can from current volunteers, and you come to site thinking you have an okay idea of what to expect.  This is normal.  That is culture.  This is how Ghanaians are.  And you know what?  Forget it.

I feel like I’ve been doing what people told me to do.  Greet everyone.  Speak in Ghanaians English.  Blah blah blah.  And while all these things could be great advice.  At some point, you gotta do you.  And I feel like by being this person who does all they are told and hits marks and follows rules, and forgetting themselves and their personality…its kinda cheating the Ghanaians.

I haven’t really socialized with them.  I do what is required and socially acceptable and then I race back to my house to be alone reading a book with no pants on.  Because being someone else, someone who tries so desperately to belong and to follow the rules of “this culture” is exhausting.  How about, I do me, and then the Ghanaians get to see how Americans really are.

And you know what?  They dig it.  Last week I came to church at 10:30 which is when the sermon usually starts, after like two hours of praise/worship/break dance time.  But no one told me they were starting earlier now, and right when I walked in and sat down, they dismissed.  I was delighted with my luck.  Later some kids yelled at me while I was in my garden, they said “Sista Alyssa, you were late to church today.”  They laughed and I yelled back “Yes, well, I try to time my coming to church with when I think the sermon will start.”  And they laughed harder, I think they were a little shocked at my honesty.

Or when I do not want to sit in my neighbors house watching “TV Joshua” who is healing a woman possessed by the devil and addicted to eating ice cubes.  And they say “You do not have television, don’t you want to stay and watch?  What will you do in your house?”

“Ahhhhhhh, nothing.  But I want to go.”  Honest.  Done.  Easy.

I also think people can tell I am being fake and I think it has harmed relationships.  And I do not think speaking in Ghanaian English helps me.  Not at Kings Village.  I think people know I am speaking to them differently and I do not think they like it.  So I’m stopping.  I’m going to talk to them normal. 

I just need to do me.  People react to that well and it is so much easier to make friends and real relationships.  I just feel like being loud again.  For the last ten months, I’ve been so…well behaved.  I’m not loud, I do not yell at people, I do not burst laugh, I don’t make fun of people, I do not even tell people they are wrong.  Like when an Ashanti man who thinks he is so smart misidentifies corn.  I do not correct.  I nod, I let it go.  And that’s fine!  Look at how mature I’ve become. 

This observant, quiet person…I don’t know.  Its fine to be that way but it feels so…sad and exhausting and kinda like my personality and soul are being kept in America while I’m over here being culturally appropriate and trying to blend into the back and not be noticed.

Well I’m done, call it regression.  I call it progress.  Somehow, being yourself feels like a lesson I should have learned by now.

Rainy Season

THANK THE LORD rainy season is here.  It has been here but we’ve been in drought.  All the farmers blame climate change.

People are finally tying their goats up, after my two attempts at a moringa nursery were chopped.  I’ve been waiting for this day.

I thought it was about time for a positive post.  Today I feel like I could live in Ghana forever.  I love it.  It is amazing.  Granted, I spent the day in a company car visiting various rain fed demos in my district.  Felt like home.  I drove around the country all day with Tim McGraw playing on the radio.  I could feel my Dads annoyance coming in waves from the other side of the world.

Came home, unloaded my bike.  I have three bicycles all of them were spoiled.  The farmer bike isn’t really spoiled I just hate it with a passion.  My mountain bike was fixed today.  I traded my kindle for this bike only to find I’d been had, by a fellow AMERICAN PCV no less!  Kentucky, you’re a liar that bike needed so much work.

I made up the greatest thing for dinner.  How miraculous is it when things your throw in a bowl actually turn out edible?  I had made soy milk yesterday so used the ground up beans, guinea fowl eggs, onion, green pepper and corn flour to make soy burgers.  They tasted like polenta so then I made tomato sauce and I splurged this week and bought cheese. 

Then it started raining.  There are many great things about the rain. It is the giver of life.  It makes hot beverages pleasant to drink.  It practically guarantees no one will knock on your door while you’re walking around in your underwear and last but not least it makes farting in my house possible.  Farting is looked down upon in Ghanaian culture and I’m just naturally a farty person.  I’m pretty sure people outside can hear me when I do it, so rainy days are all that much better.

I let what is left of my hair down and had a dance party.  Then wrote this post while listening to John Cougar Mellencamp and thinking about how great Indiana is.  My life could not be better.

To be noted, this morning I sent a long message to my best friend about how my life is pointless and I have not accomplished anything in the time I’ve been here.

  

A Moment like This

Monday- Team of MoFA agent, Adam (ADVANCE Business Facilitator for Rice) and Nick (Ghana Rice Improvement Body) come to check on rice demo plots.  They’re a hot mess, with miscommunication, lack of access to tractor services and inability to get water (AT AN IRRIGATION SCHEME) the demos are not off to a good start and are severely behind schedule.  I get a ride with them into town where a few volunteers are staying at the Tamale Sub office (TSO) for a Food Security Task Force Meeting the next day.  The group goes for “Beers at sunset” usually a Friday tradition of sitting at a rooftop bar while the sunsets.  Big bats fly overhead and the music is way too loud.

Tuesday- Although I preordered our snack of egg rolls and samosas, they’re not ready.  I do not know why Ghanaians lie to me and tell me they will do a job when we both knew they will not.  Meeting, meeting, meeting.  We discuss our activities for Operation Smile and the toolkits, kits available to PCV’s to teach things like soap making or beekeeping to their communities.  I am knighted into office with a scepter of tall grass and am given a grass tiara.  My acceptance speech includes the lyrics to Kelly Clarkson’s A Moment like This.

Wednesday- I am sick from eating beef samosas, I knew this would happen.  Call my boss who is picking me up on her way to work, tell her I’m sick, she brings me bananas and oral rehydration salted water. Today I am touring villages with the World Food Programme’s “Purchase for Progress”.  This project buys rice and they are coming to my site on Friday, I wanted to see what they were about.  Visiting three communities, I fall asleep at two, right in front of the farmers as we are conducting a Discussion Forum and I am sitting in front.  I feel terrible, I cannot stay awake, and I blame Joe Stein who was loudly playing euchre late into the night.  Tonight I stay at a hotel offered by ADVANCE, I accept this offer because the hotel has faster wifi than the TSO and I want to skype my family and friends.  I am really tired but stay up till 11:15 when I am supposed to skype Dad.  No one is on skype.  I skype my friend Padraig, he is in Korea teaching English.  11:45 email Dad, I’m going to bed.

Thursday- Hotel breakfast yay!  Taxi into town for the bank.  I owe ADVANCE money.  A couple months ago ADVANCE took women from my scheme to the Upper East Region to see a successful irrigation scheme and  to teach them how to transplant rice correctly.  It was a great training; they met and were taught by women who are an organized group of transplanters.  Anyway, ADVANCE gave me money to stay in a hotel, but they made reservations for me at a guest house, so I accidentally spent that money (money that was not mine) on Bolga baskets.  No regrets.  Problem now?  They want to balance their books and I owe them money.  ATM says I have no money even though I got an email from PC saying I was paid two days ago.  Into the bank, wait in lines; they say it is probably coming tomorrow.  Go to my previous bank, just in case the check went there.  Waiting in line to see if my ATM card ever arrived (I switched banks because the ATM card never came) and I see Josh, he is my closest PCV.  Talk to Josh, it is nice.  ATM is not there, Bye Josh, I go outside and pull money from my home account.  Get in a taxi for the ADVANCE office, wait 20 minutes for it to fill but it never fills.  I complain, we leave.  Argue with taxi driver when he drops me off, finally agreeing at the fair price, I am annoyed but proud.  I walk from the road to the office because if he drove me the extra 100 feet to the office he would have charged me double.  I have showered twice in the last 12 hours but have worn the same clothes for three days, therefore I smell like sweat, my hair is greasy and I am wearing a shirt given to me by a friend, it was bound for the free box and it is not exactly professional.  I was not planning on being in town for this long. **The previous day I bought underwear in the market for the first time.  They are great, they maybe the best underwear I’ve ever had.**

There is an USAID Environmental Officer from Washington D.C coming to my site today but no one told me when she was coming.  I have ADVANCE paper work to do, it is 10:00a.m, pray she does not come early.  Meet Adam* and Nick*; ask if they know when the Officer is coming, they don’t.  Adam, did you tell Bontanga Farmer Based Organizations that World Food Programme is coming tomorrow?  No, I’ll call them.  OK.  How are the demos?  Awful.  OK.  Alyssa, are you coming to Gollinga with us today, we are looking at rain fed rice demo plots.  No, I have to do paperwork.

 There are no free computers; I use Nick’s when he leaves for Gollinga.  I spend the morning writing reports on the Bolga rice transplanting training and the WFP discussion I witnessed yesterday.  Run around to different people at the office, printing this, sending that and giving the money and reports to who they need to go to, all the while uploading pictures to my blog because this is the first time in months I’ve had fast enough wifi to do so.  At noon I am invited to lunch with the Environmental Officer, she is awesome and we talk about the rare earth mines in Tanzania and how Ghana is recycling their Agrochemical bottles.

We ride to Bontanga together and end up talking about the dangers of the agrochemicals and discuss products on the USAID no use list.  It is fantastic talking to someone who knows what they are talking about when it comes to agrichemicals.  She talks about frog hormones.  Awesome.

We talk to Isaac, one of my favorite farmers and friends; he has a successful demo plot showing the differences in the traditional way to grow rice and the SRI (System of Rice Improvement) methods.  Environmental Officer is pleased by the new methods as it uses less fertilizer and pesticides. 

They drop me at my house.  It is dark, dirty and feels abandoned.  I have no food, so I walk to Madam Connie’s shop and buy Ramen for dinner.

At 8:00p.m I remember that World Food Programme is coming to Bontanga the next day.  Call Andrew, he has not informed anyone.  I have not informed anyone.  Getting farmers at Bontanga to meet is like pulling teeth.  This is never going to happen.  I call the WFP guy, he is coming at 2:30p.m, good the Muslims will have finished with prayers.  Tell Mr. Joe people are coming and we need to organize.  He is mad, this last minute stuff happens a lot and he hates it.  He says he will call Daniel and Daniel will organize them.  The WFP man says he wants to meet the women rice farmers I bragged about, I will have to call Rabi in the morning.

I am still sick.

*             *             *

Friday Morning- Wake up.  No food.  I wonder if my neighbor’s chickens laid eggs in my compost pile again?  They did!!!  I take four and leave the rest.  Stealing from my own property, HELLO BREAKFAST!

Wagashi Days

Madam give me money.

I have none.

Is that not money you just put in your pocket?

Yes, but it has to go for other things.

Give me money.

Why?

Because of this (points to drum tied on the back of his bike).

Because you are a drummer?

Yes.

But you are not drumming.

Should I drum?

No.   

Okay, then bye.

Bye.

I do not consider myself clever, nor quick witted.  Therefore when faced with uncomfortable situations like being asked for things you cannot give (like money, footballs, bikes or my glasses) I do not respond as light hearted as my peers.  I’m still annoyed every single time.  But alas I have found my response; I simply demand they give me money.

Like yesterday I was in the village for Farming as a Business training.  I’m more of a face as the whole thing is done by my colleague in Dagbani, I just sit there.  Before we started one of the men came and told me to give him money.  I turned and looked and said loudly “I think you should give me money!”  I reached out  my hand and gave the give me gesture and said louder “Give me money!”  And all the other men sitting around laughed.  It is the easiest way out.

Give Me Rice Mill

Today I sat through four hours of screaming into a microphone, that is Ghana church service.  You’re gonna yell, yell.  Get happy in the spirit?  Right on.  Scream sing praise and worship for forty minutes?  Fine.  You do not need a microphone for that.

Yesterday I went into town for the last meeting before our Northern Region Food Security Youth Camp, it is being held at my site.  You never know how much you love to hang with obrunis until you are.  I am okay happy at site.  I can communicate with people, have conversations, play video games if I wanted to (which I do not).  But then when you hang out with Americans you have not seen in a while it is kinda like coming back to school after summer, except you like everyone.

Also great about the Tamale Sub Office?  The free box.  The place where volunteers put the clothes/items they have grown out of or bought in an Indian clothing pile and decided it was not worth the fifty cents.

A girl I love, Malia went home this week after six months of struggle with an agrichemical company she was supposed to work with.  In the free box I found graffitied company shirts with strong statements about large agribusiness.  Although Malia and I butted heads on this topic, I like and respect her and I took one of her shirts (the green one Malia, what you did with the sleeves and neckline is really cute!)

I begrudgingly went home even though many people were staying to celebrate a birthday and building a CHOCOLATE CAKE.  But no, my Farmer Based Organization was had finally found the time to meet with me and since I told them I was going to be there I decided I would be there.  Even though they have stood me up numerous times and I just KNEW it was going to happen again.

4:00- I’m at the offices.  There are two women here, there are supposed to be 45 people but this is Ghana and two people on time is actually pretty good, I’m happy. 

4:30- Seven more people have shown up.  I tell my counterpart we can start at 5:00 and maybe more people will be here, he says that is too late.

4:45- We are missing sixteen men and nineteen women but we start anyway because ten people is enough.

They already know me and what I am here for.  We talk about the need to have a stronger group and I tell them what makes a group a functional one.  They tell me they used to meet every two weeks and contribute money.  I ask what the money is for.

“To keep the bank account active.”

What is the money going to buy?

“We don’t know but we add to it to keep it active, but we have not for four months because we have not met.”

Okay.  So why are you in a group?  Why did you join this group?  Why is it important to be in a group?  What are the benefits?

“We are in a group because when people come to assist us, they say we need to be in groups.  And the woman, she came and said we should have a bank account and show that it is active so people will come to assist us.  That’s why we are in groups.”

Great.

600 farmers and they are not grouped by crop but by village.  So I am not really sure what their function is.  Ten Farmer Based Organizations and none of them functional because their sole purpose of forming was to look organized when aid agencies come to “assist” them.

Is the point of a co-op not to work together?  Everyone gives and everyone benefits?  In order to buy, sell and function at a higher level?  And to have power?  More power than acting alone?   The Co-op is formed, it is in a perfect setting and yet everyone acts individually and I do not know how to change that.  How do I help that?

Start small I guess, and I am trying.

Meanwhile, this group of poor farmers meets irregularly and gives one cedi with no idea why they are giving it or where it is going.

When the lights went out at church today and the microphones cut off, I actually started listening.  And the preacher was asking us “How humble are you?”  I know I am not as humble as I could be.   And LORD WILLING humility is what I take from these two years.

It is easy to judge their actions.  To think you know better.  To think something they do it stupid.  But that is not my place.  Even in this meeting when I heard they were only in FBO’s to get assistance.  Initially I am shocked then flustered because I do not even know what to do with that, then I am mad because I do not know how to fix that.  But I do not know the right way to look at it!  What is the humble way?  The “Christian” way?  The righteous?  The right?

Put yourself in their shoes I tell myself.  But I cannot.  I just cannot.  The reason for this experience is just that.  Live in the village, live as they live, and understand why they make their decisions.  I feel like as an American (esp. in Ag.) the “Get-r-done” attitude is too ingrained.  I cannot sit and wait.  I cannot understand sitting and waiting for someone to bring tractor services, when YOUR CROP depends on getting tractor services.

Calm down, if the Lord wills it, it will come.  If it does not come?  Obviously, the Lord did not will it.

And I guess that is where the difference lies.  If I had been here for the last twenty years, I would know that an NGO almost always shows up.  Someone else will arrange the tractor.  If that is the way it has always been here, then who am I to judge? 

That is a hard thing to think.  I’m trying to make myself buy it.  I’m trying, trying to make that okay in my conscience. 

To Charlotte

The Peace Corps application process is a long one.  Passing medical can take ages.  My face to face interview was three hours long, granted I asked lots of questions.  But the interviewer asked probably an hour’s worth of questions and I do not recall them ever asking if I had any fears.

Maybe that should be asked.

I do not know that I would have admitted to them then, but my fears have come to surface like I never thought they would and the malaria meds are NOT helping.

Number One:  I am scared of the dark.

When we go to the farm, on Friday or Saturday nights my cousins and I have certain rituals.  We go climb the fire tower, we go cross the covered bridge, we might play basketball, stop at the spring, build a fire at the train tunnel, throw firecrackers into the dam etc. but we usually end up at Hindostan.  Hindostan is a small dam, there used to be settlement there but it was mysteriously deserted.   

When you park beside the port-o-potty at Hindostan, you cross the lawn and it is always wet with dew.  Then you have to carefully maneuver down a mud slope to get down near the water where we probably build another fire.  Up until a couple years ago, I made my cousin Cameron hold my hand when we crossed the grass.  I do not like the dark.  Dad never lets up use flash lights because he wants our “eyes to adjust”.  Whatever.  Night hikes are only fun because they are terrifying.

Number Two:  I really hate spiders.  I’m scared.  I am scared of spiders.

At home spiders, I do not mind much.  You kill them and you go “Ewwwwwuugggggg” and then it is over.  No big, never really thought it counted as a fear.

 I have killed two camel spiders in the last two days, granted they were babies as pictured above.  A couple weeks ago I had one four times this size and four times faster run into my room and run out.  I was on my bed.  I secured the mosquito net around me and stood screaming until help came.

When I stepped in the shower tonight and saw this once chilling on my window I went for the Raid.  Say what you want about chemicals, I want them in my house always and forever.  I saw that the Raid said “For insects” so I had a feeling it would not work on arachnids but I tried anyway.  I sprayed and ran away.   I heard it running up the shower curtain and watched from a distance as it fell and scurried out of the bathroom where I was waiting with my flip flops in hand and I got him!  Why do I think it’s a legit fear and problem?  I shake, I shudder and I shake and say “EEEWWWUUGGGG” sometimes hoping from foot to foot.  I hate it.

 I always feel guilty when I kill anything, spiders included but camel spiders are the exception.   I still feel bad if I kill Daddy Long Legs.  DADDY LONG LEGS DO NOT SCURRY.  Things that scurry get killed and I do not feel bad about it.  I do not kill the geckos, they can do their thing.  Lizards are different, get out.

Anyway, every night before I go to bed I say to myself “Lock it dowwwwnn!”  And I pretend I am on a space ship locking my capsule down as I tuck in and secure my mosquito net.  Yes, I am grateful it keeps out mosquitoes, I am more grateful it keeps everything else out too.  UNLESS something gets in here with me and that’s a big scary thought so I do not think about it.

Sometimes I think the malaria prophylaxis gives me nightmares, like once I thought there was a giant camel spider hanging in front of me.  Of course when I turned on the light there was nothing.  That does not even make sense, I do not think they web but I was still shaking.  I hate it!

This morning I rolled over face first onto a spider, a big Daddy Long Leg type.  I had pulled open the mosquito net so I think it fell off the top and onto my bed where I defiantly squished it with my face.  Awesome.  Awesome way to wake up.  No.

Dear Liza

Dear Li,

    You've asked me before what you could do to help here and I now I have the solution. As you know, I live by the malnutrition clinic. I do not have fast enough internet, otherwise I would send you some of the before and after pics of the babies they treat.

     The Kings Village clinic is different and awesome because women of all tribes are welcome to come live at the clinic while their babies are brought up to weight. All the women live in a compound together, they each have a little mud hut and in the middle is a summer hut (its open, its just a thatch roof) where the women come and cook together.

     A couple weeks ago we had a baby left of the steps of the clinic. They thought the mother was young and has traveled south for work (This is called kayayo and it is a problem in Northern Ghana. Young girls go south to sell goods off their head, often they sleep on the streets and are targets for theft and rape. Then, they cannot afford a ticket home.)

     They found the mother in a near by village, she had gone south and someone found her and put her on a bus home. She has been wandering the bush ever since, not wanting to return to her family. She is young, I saw her today, no more than 13 years old. When they got her back to her village, the family learned where the baby was and came to get it back. The baby is underweight so clinic staff said the mother and child were free to stay at the clinic, but they would not return the child without question.

     I just saw the baby, she is beautiful. Anyway, it made me think of you because I know you now have a soft spot for babies, kids and mothers. I noticed the diapers they are using, and I was wondering what you did with Zoe's old reusable ones? Because the clinic could use them for just such an occasion. I'm sure they spend so much on diapers and I talked to Matron and she said they would be appreciative.

     I am starting work next week with the women, they are taught about nutrition and how to properly care for the babies when they take them home. Peace Corps is putting on a Food Security Camp here and including the women in income generating activities like soap making, moringa powder, food storage and gardening.

Love,
Lys

Part of Your World - Disney's Little Mermaid

I had lots of fears about coming into the Peace Corps.  Thanks to my mother and negative media there were the obvious fears like illness, rape, murder and assault.  My biggest fear was the loneliness that comes with being in a completely different culture with people who do not speak your language.  How do you build good relationships with a language barrier?  And how can I be happy without good relationships?

Loneliness is not a problem at all.  Kwesi is the director or the school and clinic, he is not much older than me and he has just moved into the other side of my duplex.  That side sat empty and I swear every bump in the night, every shrieking goat and blowing wind scared me.

But now Kwesi is over there and I love that he is there.  Tonight is the Manchester United v. Real Madrid game and there are a bunch of guys over there watching the game.  They invited me over, I’ll pass.

I love my community.  I could not ask for anything more and that is the truth.  I was scared to leave college because I feel like it is an ideal environment.  Lots of people your age, and everything you want and need is in walking distance.  But right now, I feel like I am in a similar situation.  I feel like the guys next door watching the soccer could be the boys in the Methodist house watching the NBA finals.

I find community here and I love it and here is why.  I walk everywhere.  I trust my neighbors.  I let my kid neighbors borrow my bike and I do not worry about its returned condition.  Kids play soccer on my porch and all they ask for is water and I’m happy to give it.  They play soccer with a small lemon.  When I am on the farm, it smells like home.  Outside is just awesome.  I worship with my neighbors.  I have a seamstress neighbor.  The kids showed me a cashew tree, its huge.  About half a dozen kids fit in the tree at a time, all throwing fruit down to the little kids.  I found wheat at the market and tomorrow I’m going to the mill to get it ground into flour.  Then I’m going to make bread in my solar oven.

Today Janet, a 20 year old girl who lives down the street came in and I was scared she was going to ask for money because she started “I gave my friend 10 cedis…” but then she said “to buy me bras and chocolate biscuits in town, the biscuits are for my boyfriend.  Now they are on my bed and if my mother asks who they are from I want to say you gave them to me for a surprise.  I do not want her to know I have a boyfriend.  Can I say this?  Is this correct?”  So I told her she could say I gave her the biscuits and she left.  Janet’s family is my family here.  Her Dad checks in on me every night and her Mom checks in on my everyday when she walks home from work.  When her Mom walks to work she yells good morning at me through my window.

Funny story:  Mrs. Joe (Janet’s Mom) sat me down one night and told me how she has told her sons they should not marry African women.  She wants them to marry white women because African women will put juju on their husbands and make them not want to see their siblings ever again.  “White women do not have time for that!”  Oh we laugh.

The very next day I wore a juju bracelet to church and the Joe boys made fun of me for it.  

Previously written on January 12, 2013.

I am not complaining.

Fact is, before coming into the Peace Corps, I poured over Peace Corps blogs.  And for you, the kid that just submitted their application or maybe you, the one leaving for Nepal next week, you have been well warned that this is tough.  This post is for you.

Some would say I have gotten lucky with my site placement.  I am in the North of Ghana where it is less developed but I have a house with running water and electricity.  My walls do not fall apart when it rains.  I have a flush toilet.  I have privacy.  My neighbors speak English well.  I go to a Christian church that where English and Dagbani are spoken equally.  I have medical care close should I need it and transportation to Tamale, the fastest growing city in the Sub Sahara.  (Not that I love Salsa, but Tamale has a huge Salsa community that meets every Friday night, I hear it is really fun.)

That being said, I am not learning the language…not that I try to.  I have not been into the villages for any decent amount of time.  I am not building the relationships I am supposed to be building in the first three months.  I am building relationships, just not with the village people, it is more with the Southern Ghanaian medical staff of the clinic.

I do have some success stories like a couple neighbor kids who hang out on my porch.  We speak in Dagbani and they are finding me a puppy.

During training, you will see this image a lot.

We know the first few weeks and months are up and down.  We know at the one year mark, there is a serious slump.

And this is a slump.  And it sneaks up.  

We all know as Volunteers, we have way too much time to think.  Too much time to focus on the past, things you should not have said, regrets, or people you have done wrong. 

My thoughts as of late?  Why am I here?  Yes it’s a good set up, I consider myself lucky.  But honestly, why am I here?  I can spit you the answers I know they wanted to hear in the interview, and they are not untrue.  I want to help.  I think I have a skill set to do so.  I like agriculture and in studying it, Africa was on the mind.

I did not want to go into the classroom.  I did not want to buy a car, get a house and start a family.  Not yet.  I itched to get out of Indiana, as much as I love it and dream of returning.  I am happy with my decision.  I am happy but there is still a slump.

Today I went to visit the malnutrition clinic and saw my first severely malnutritioned child.  I had to work not to cry.  I had to work hard.  I have met Breann and Jerry, the British missionaries who started the clinic years ago, they are visiting for a few weeks.  Jerry told me the story of the newborn twins they first treated, these twins were reason the clinic was started.  As we speak those same children race by us now four years old, happy playful children that shout “Bye-Bye-Oh!” as we leave.

The new patient before me is three years old, he sits crying under a tree.  Because of the malnutrition, he is very small and has lost a layer of skin on his legs; his teeth are stained deep purple from a disinfectant applied to sores in his mouth.

We made rounds at the hospital, walked through the school yard and to the guest house where I am graciously served very good English Earl Grey Tea.  I see Jerry’s sports car magazine laying on the coffee table.  I tell him of Dad’s cars and the newest project, a old Alfa.  I think this is what gets me.  It’s a combination of things.  Jerry reminds me of a very good friend aged about 40 years.  As we talk, I wish Dad was here to take part.  I like talking to Breanne about religion.  We talk about the state of Christianity today and Jerry tells of his Billy Graham experiences.  We drink cold Coke and more tea.  They tell me about their children.  At lulls in the conversation, Jerry opens the magazine and shows me Alfas.  He tells me the difference in the Julia, and the Juliette.  He shows me the Aston Martin James Bond drove and tells me of his personal racing days and how fast he has gotten which car.  He speaks over my head about engines but I nod, knowingly.

I call Dad on the way home.  He is driving to Clay City where he will meet my Papaw and a cousin to watch a basketball game.   Let me say that hearing your parents happy, hopeful voice is the greatest, most tear jerking thing.  Like when I say hello to Mom and for a second she cannot believe it is me and not one of my three sisters and she says, “Lys?  ALYSSA?!  Hi!”  Dad says he is happy to hear from me and I tell him about my day.  Service goes bad and I have to make dinner, so I give up on trying to call him back and this is where it strikes.  Today has been a good day!  So why can’t I keep from doubling over in tears long enough to chop vegetables and put them in a pot for dinner?  You just have to let it happen and accept that this is a slump, and you have to ride it through.

Except that I had a slump last night too. 

Why am I here?  I am not doing anything.  I am half way done with a hammock made of water sachets, that it what I have to show for the last 4 weeks.

I do not want the things of home.  Yes I dream of dairy products and coffee houses.  The fact of the matter is, I could be home with my family making money that I could show people and prove to them my success.  See!  See my worth?  It is right here in this figure I bring home each year.  It is in my car and stocks.  It is measured against everyone else, former classmates, cousins, other people my age.  This is where I measure up to you and yours.  This is who I am above and below on the tape measure of success.

Sorry Purdue, for never writing back to tell you how much money I will make this year as a new grad.  I just figured my 1,800 dollar salary might throw off your numbers.

I do not want to be home with Dad going to the ballgame.  I have been there, I have done that and Lord willing I will do it again many more times in my life.

But I have slumps and I sob.  So the question is:  What do I need this experience to look like, for it to be worth my time and worth these slumps? 

We have talked about what successful services will look like.  For some it is completing the two years, for others it is complete integration into this culture.  I used to say that my successful service was strong, real relationships in the community, fluency in the language, learned skills I can take home and lastly, physical proof that I had made a real, positive and sustainable difference.

I guess the slump comes when you cannot see the worth of it all.  You have nothing to show and in the mean time, the mice have eaten through the lid of your vegetable oil and your hair has become one massive dreadlock. 

It is going to be okay.  I know it is.  I am going to watch Downton Abbey and sleep.  I will wake up and go to church and be incredibly uncomfortable, a stiff white girls who stands as people dance around me.  But then something will happen.  I might go deliver another baby, or maybe I go retrieve a dying child from the village and bring them to the clinic.  Most likely?  I will do my laundry, burn my trash and make a plan for the week.  A plan that involves me getting into the community and finally working to officially identify their wants and needs.

Better go bone up on that Dagbani.