I'm sick again today, but have sought refuge in the computer lab, because there is FANS! Don't worry, I don't have malaria, well, I think I don't have malaria. Did you know that after you get malaria once you can no longer donate blood? Yes, finally an excuse other than I am afraid of needles... This week I have been pushing myself to be productive, and let me tell you it is a fight. Everything seems here always takes three times as long as it would back home. If I could have my way and rewind, I would have done all of my theoretical research back home, you know the place where you have Internet at your finger-tips and you are actually allowed to check out books, and then only have field research to do here. In case any one's wondering, I am doing my research project on microfinance and women in Ghana. Tuesday I headed out in downtown Accra to the Ministry of Women and Children and was given the royal run around. I went from office to office, getting yelled at for wasting people's time, one woman repeating over and over again, "this is the government, you think you can just walk in here!" Well, I guess I did. Eventually though, that same woman sat down for an interview, became my greatest bud, told me what I needed to know and asked for my phone number. So you see, it's possible to be successful and productive, just takes forever. Oh, and yesterday, I had a meeting with my advisor for my research project, and apparently he wants me write a dissertation....so yeah. But don't fret, I still have travel stories!!!
This past weekend, I took off to Ada Foah, about two hours East of Accra. Finding the station in Accra was a trip in itself. We got lost in a market looking for the Tudu station. I was ready to pass out from the smell of fish and pigs feet, when this shriveled old woman instructed us to follow. So, desperate to escape the smells, we blindly followed, weaving in and out of little alleys of the market, sandwiched in between women selling cassava roots and dried out fish heads. Magically we arrived at a crowded station, thanking the old woman as if she had just found the cure for cancer. We sat in that crowded station for an hour, although I could of sworn it was five, waiting it to fill up in the drastic heat and humidity.
About two hours latter we arrived in Ada Foah. Along the drive there was stand after stand with mangoes for sale, I though I was in heaven. Well, then I saw the Volta river and knew I was. I believe I described some of this region to you before, but I am sure I did not do it any justice. Ada Foah is where the river meets the ocean, and it is possible one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. There is so much green on the shores of the river to contrast the deep blue of the water. The river banks were covered with palm trees to the point you could not even see dry land in most spots. Natalie and I sat there for a while, just taking it in. That's not all we were sitting there motionless for, also leading me to the conclusion I was in heaven was the breeze. It was cool, really cool. So we ate and we waited for a boat to pick us up to take us down toward the estuary where we would be staying. I was so anxious to get there so I could throw my stuff down, wiggle into my bathing suit and hit the water. (Not to mention I would have my choice if I wanted to frolic in the Atlantic Ocean or the Volta River, considering where we were staying was sandwiched in between). Thus, when a boat pulled up and I asked if he was the guy we had just talked to on the phone and he energetically ensured he was, we hopped in and were off....only to realize we had been kidnapped. Okay, exaggeration, we were not really kidnapped, but while in the boat I got a call from Winfred, better known as Rasta man, who was from the place we were going to stay wondering where we were. Apparently Theo, the man who had picked us up owns his own little place on the Volta river for guest to stay at and jumped at the chance of visitors. Well, we had to go where we planned, even to Theo's disappointment. And then, he pulled the boat over, stopping in front of a village, got out and proceeded to fight with some of the locals. Natalie and I were clueless to what the hell was going on. We got in a boat and now had fifty woman and children watching us like we were ghosts and Theo was screaming at the fisherman. I asked one of the women what was going on and she informed me that Theo's engine had cut the lines of the fisherman's nets, and they want him to pay for them. Also, apparently the argument was intensified because Theo was a Ga and they were Ewe. Natalie and I just sat there helpless with not a clue in the world what to do, just watching this event unfold, meanwhile receiving several calls from Rasta man wondering if we had capsized or something. Eventually Theo settled back into the boat and apologized, exclaiming that it took so long because they had expected him to pay two cedi to repair the net. Two cedi, meaning two American dollar would have solved this conflict. It broke my heart a little, realizing how insignificant two cedi's is to most of us international students here, and to them it was cause for world war three. Just another reminder of how fortunate I am, and that it should be continually recognized here that people are obviously not as well of. I wish I could have just given him the two cedi to avoid such intense conflict, but it's not my place to interfere, right? AHHH!
Well, eventually we made it to the Maranata, where we were staying, in simple reed huts with sand floors and a mosquito net. We wanted to take a walk down to where the river meets the ocean, for we have heared from so many that it is like a religious experience. In fact, every August there is a huge festival when people come from all around to wash their feed in the middle of the river. Well, half way there the Apocalypse came, clouds the size of cruise liners and the deepest color of grey rolled in and opened up, soaking us. Although we weren't prepared yet for a swim, the storm was very welcomed because along with a beautiful lightning show over the ocean, it cooled the Earth. I was cold. I was cold and could not recall the last time I had ever felt that sensation. We sat outside all night, just happy to be cold. I went to bed and slept through the night because I was cold. Cold is a beautiful thing.
The next day we were able to make the hour hike down to the estuary, and no description had done any justice. The violent waves from the Atlantic were crashing with the flow of the Volta river. It reminded me of some epic battle, the River pushing and trying to break past the ocean and the ocean trying to push the river back where it belongs. On our walk back, after passing fishermen out at work, we swam in the River, hoping it will not give us any diseases like, um, River blindness. The whole time I thought how fascinating that to me this is a paradise, and to all those living along the banks it is simply home, and the river, their sustenance. Interesting. Later that day, after already being burnt to a crisp, Winfred took us on a boat ride around the Volta River, stopping at a Rum making Island. Yes, this village on an Island on the River makes rum for a living. They took us around showing us how they make the rum, and "forcing" us to sample. Lucky for them, making us sample also made us happy to buy some...smart salesmen!
The rest of the weekend was spent in the water, collecting shells, contemplating the meaning of life, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, drinking rum, enjoying bonfire and writing in my journal.
So you see, I guess I should not be allowed to complain about my hectic week of research, because I found paradise baby.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
Funerals, Libations and High Priestessess
I have just recently rediscovered this past week that school work cannot be put off forever. Thus, this week I have been exploring very unfamiliar territory, the library! Yes, believe it or not, my adventures each week are now being interrupted by actual research, for my deadline for my research project is quickly approaching, and like usual, I am putting it off. However, my past weekend must be discussed.
Have I mentioned my drumming instructor? Well, if not, here I go. I adore the man. He is a musical genius, according to me, who didn't even know I was capable of liking, much less ever playing any sort of instrument. Now, don't misinterpret me, I am no Ringo when it comes to the drums and I have no rhythm, but hey, I love hearing the drums, playing them and watching others play them. And Johnson, my teacher, is both an amazing drummer and an amazing teacher. Tim, if you were not so convinced that you will die of malaria when visiting Africa, the music here would be worth the trip! Well, anyways, Johnson organized a trip for the students in his drumming class to go with him to his village, Dzodze, in the Volta region for the weekend to attend a funeral. Yes, a funeral. Of course, all I thought when funerals come to mind, was lots of black, awkward small talk with distant relatives and basically an all around somber affair. Well, I was very mistaken.
We left Friday morning for Dzodze, and the drive was amazing. I had never been to this region of Ghana, the Eastern region. We passed over the Volta River, right along the coast, near a popular destination of Ada, where I am heading this upcoming weekend. Then, later we drove through Keta, which is this small coastal town that has the Atlantic ocean on one side, and this MASSIVE lagoon on the other side. It was literally a strip of land, that according to my guidebook, is slowly eroding away, considering it's below sea level. The book mentioned that one day, that strip of land may no longer be there. I guess you could call it the Venice of Africa? The views were amazing. However, not so amazing was the road. It was an "I hope I can walk after this" moment, as the roads were unpaved and scattered with pot-holes the size of Utah. We survived of course and arrived in Dzodze, which was only about 20 minutes from the boarder of Togo.
After getting out of the car and stretching, I heard giggles from above. Looking up, there were a couple of kids hanging out of a tree watching me. That's how I was greeted. No one yelling "oburoni," just people happy to see us there, a trend that I felt lasted the whole weekend. I didn't feel like a tourist or an outsider, just a welcomed guest. Johnson had made arrangements for us to stay with his junior sister (his youngest sister). However, before we settled in, he had us lined up on some benches, so he could properly welcome us...with libations. Libations. according to Johnson, is giving thanks to God for, well, anything, like for a safe journey. Thus, he passed around a shot glass and we all took a swig of a local liquor, dumping some on the ground for praise. What a way to start off the day, with gin shots.
After a lunch/dinner of banku and very chemically flavored water, we headed off to the first rounds of celebration. We walked up to the main road where people dressed in red and black were parading through the streets. Some of them were wailing and others were rejoicing, an ever present antithesis. We followed behind the procession, behind the last taxi. I noticed that the person sitting between two younger men was all cloaked in traditional fabrics. I asked Johnson who that person was, and he simply replied "that's the dead body, that why we are here." SO, yeah, dead body, wrapped in the back of a taxi. Needless to say, ever the anthropologist, I was very curious how the rest of the weekend would pan out.
The precession ended where the music began. Dozens upon dozens were crowded into a courtyard in the town. I was instantly overwhelmed because this was unlike any funeral I have ever been to. When I think of funerals in the US, instantly I imagine a crowded rooms, with people all dressed in black, somber and forced to make painful small talk with long lost relatives and friends. In Dzodze, the funeral was a community affair. Appropriately, the family was sitting of to the side, mourning, and when I say mourning I mean wailing. I thought I would not be able to sleep after seeing and hearing the cries of one woman in particular, you would have thought she was being brutally murdered. On the other hand, those outside the family were congregated in the center and having a good old fashioned dance party. We were standing on the outside, trying to take everything in and understand our purpose at the funeral, because obviously we were totally out of place. And then, one older, somewhat crazy, woman grabbed each one of us and dragged us into the crowd to join in on the dancing. So it my function became apparent, I was to celebrate, and celebrate I did. After a bit of dancing, and watching them carry the body into it's temporary resting place, we returned to Johnson's sisters compound to rest up. Of course, considering that we are a drumming class, Johnson gathered drums from all around, and we sat in the pitch black and began a drumming circle.
Later, way past my bed time and after many went to sleep, Johnson energetically retrieved us all and informed us that we must return to the celebration. Although exhausted, we were not going to miss out on a single cultural experience. It was around 10 pm, and when we arrived, they were having a religious service for the deceased. We all sat politely in silence, listening to a Christian sermon that was in a language totally foreign to us. We continued to sit politely as people surrounding us began to pray in tongues. But, then out of no where, the music began and we were on our feet again, dragged out into the dancing circle, where we danced until it was time for bed. Oh, bed. 20 of us slept on the concrete floor of what appeared to be a living room with furniture pushed to the side. It made for one HOT and sleepless night, but that is perfectly okay, it gave me reflection time. One thing I have noticed about myself and most of the people I have traveled with is that we go with the flow and we are totally up for any sort of arraignments. I mean, I have slept under a mosquito net on the beach or in a bus station, so a concrete floor next to twenty other bodies was a piece of cake and I would do it all over again. I am beginning to believe that I can handle most any form of travel at this point, and look forward to challenging myself even more.
Okay, so day two. After waking up, eating some bread, and getting into our red and black get-up (the actual day of the funeral required you to ware such colors), we were of to visit Johnson's senior sister. Brace yourself, don't get to jealous, Johnson's senior sister is a high priestess. Yes, a high priestess. So, now my life is content. I have been to Africa and I have met a high priestess. The whole visit was fascinating and I wish I had listened better and asked more question, but there was just such a big group of us for Anthro Ali. We entered from the side, because otherwise we would have to remove our shoes passing through the front by the compounds resident Deity. We sat in a half circle facing the high priestess and what I assume were lower priestesses. We watched her eagerly as she began to pray and pour libations to the earth. My favorite moment of the visit was when someones phone began to ring during her prayers, all of us looking around wondering who was not considerate enough to turn their phone on silent for the occasion, only to realize that it was the high priestess's phone. I feel like I could write a book about the moment in time. This high priestess in a small town in Ghana had a cell phone, and thus a reason for ownership of such a phone.Talk about globalization. After she finished on the phone, she passed around shots of gin for us to give libations. Of course I could not refuse, it would be culturally offensive. This time, it hit me pretty strongly and when Johnson announced that it was time to head off to the funeral, I was paranoid that I would be stumbling around drunk at a funeral, in Ghana! Don't worry, with this kind of heat, I sweat it out just in time for the funeral. I loved the contradiction I experienced within the same hour. We went from witnessing a "traditional" religious practice to a Christian ceremony. It is so fascinating that the two coexist like they do within Dzodze. Also, traditional considerations never seem to be abandoned at the Christian celebrations, considering everyone was still dressed in traditional Ghanaian attire. It was just so fascinating bouncing form one form of celebration to the next. AT this particular ceremony, the preacher turned to us and thanked his "white brothers and sisters" for being there to celebrate with the community. I really appreciated that moment, feeling so welcomed yet again. After the preaching and prayers concluded, we followed the precession from the courtyard, to the compound of the family of the deceased, on to the burial site. I hope you don't get the wrong impression of my description, it was not all enjoyment for me, this was a legitimate funeral, and that really hit home as I watched them pushing dirt over the casket. I was sad, but it made sense. Those who needed to weep, wept. And those who needed to celebrate, celebrated. I felt very fortunate that I could be along for the ride and included for a weekend in this towns life.
Before we departed, Johnson had us stop by his senior brothers compound, where we had to offer his brother gifts, of beer and more gin. So, we had more, in the name of culture of course, before we hit the road. As I was leaving, Johnson's brother, who had to be in his 60s at least asked if we could be pen pals. So, now my life is really really complete, I can be pen pals with an sweet old man from Dzodze.
Have I mentioned my drumming instructor? Well, if not, here I go. I adore the man. He is a musical genius, according to me, who didn't even know I was capable of liking, much less ever playing any sort of instrument. Now, don't misinterpret me, I am no Ringo when it comes to the drums and I have no rhythm, but hey, I love hearing the drums, playing them and watching others play them. And Johnson, my teacher, is both an amazing drummer and an amazing teacher. Tim, if you were not so convinced that you will die of malaria when visiting Africa, the music here would be worth the trip! Well, anyways, Johnson organized a trip for the students in his drumming class to go with him to his village, Dzodze, in the Volta region for the weekend to attend a funeral. Yes, a funeral. Of course, all I thought when funerals come to mind, was lots of black, awkward small talk with distant relatives and basically an all around somber affair. Well, I was very mistaken.
We left Friday morning for Dzodze, and the drive was amazing. I had never been to this region of Ghana, the Eastern region. We passed over the Volta River, right along the coast, near a popular destination of Ada, where I am heading this upcoming weekend. Then, later we drove through Keta, which is this small coastal town that has the Atlantic ocean on one side, and this MASSIVE lagoon on the other side. It was literally a strip of land, that according to my guidebook, is slowly eroding away, considering it's below sea level. The book mentioned that one day, that strip of land may no longer be there. I guess you could call it the Venice of Africa? The views were amazing. However, not so amazing was the road. It was an "I hope I can walk after this" moment, as the roads were unpaved and scattered with pot-holes the size of Utah. We survived of course and arrived in Dzodze, which was only about 20 minutes from the boarder of Togo.
After getting out of the car and stretching, I heard giggles from above. Looking up, there were a couple of kids hanging out of a tree watching me. That's how I was greeted. No one yelling "oburoni," just people happy to see us there, a trend that I felt lasted the whole weekend. I didn't feel like a tourist or an outsider, just a welcomed guest. Johnson had made arrangements for us to stay with his junior sister (his youngest sister). However, before we settled in, he had us lined up on some benches, so he could properly welcome us...with libations. Libations. according to Johnson, is giving thanks to God for, well, anything, like for a safe journey. Thus, he passed around a shot glass and we all took a swig of a local liquor, dumping some on the ground for praise. What a way to start off the day, with gin shots.
After a lunch/dinner of banku and very chemically flavored water, we headed off to the first rounds of celebration. We walked up to the main road where people dressed in red and black were parading through the streets. Some of them were wailing and others were rejoicing, an ever present antithesis. We followed behind the procession, behind the last taxi. I noticed that the person sitting between two younger men was all cloaked in traditional fabrics. I asked Johnson who that person was, and he simply replied "that's the dead body, that why we are here." SO, yeah, dead body, wrapped in the back of a taxi. Needless to say, ever the anthropologist, I was very curious how the rest of the weekend would pan out.
The precession ended where the music began. Dozens upon dozens were crowded into a courtyard in the town. I was instantly overwhelmed because this was unlike any funeral I have ever been to. When I think of funerals in the US, instantly I imagine a crowded rooms, with people all dressed in black, somber and forced to make painful small talk with long lost relatives and friends. In Dzodze, the funeral was a community affair. Appropriately, the family was sitting of to the side, mourning, and when I say mourning I mean wailing. I thought I would not be able to sleep after seeing and hearing the cries of one woman in particular, you would have thought she was being brutally murdered. On the other hand, those outside the family were congregated in the center and having a good old fashioned dance party. We were standing on the outside, trying to take everything in and understand our purpose at the funeral, because obviously we were totally out of place. And then, one older, somewhat crazy, woman grabbed each one of us and dragged us into the crowd to join in on the dancing. So it my function became apparent, I was to celebrate, and celebrate I did. After a bit of dancing, and watching them carry the body into it's temporary resting place, we returned to Johnson's sisters compound to rest up. Of course, considering that we are a drumming class, Johnson gathered drums from all around, and we sat in the pitch black and began a drumming circle.
Later, way past my bed time and after many went to sleep, Johnson energetically retrieved us all and informed us that we must return to the celebration. Although exhausted, we were not going to miss out on a single cultural experience. It was around 10 pm, and when we arrived, they were having a religious service for the deceased. We all sat politely in silence, listening to a Christian sermon that was in a language totally foreign to us. We continued to sit politely as people surrounding us began to pray in tongues. But, then out of no where, the music began and we were on our feet again, dragged out into the dancing circle, where we danced until it was time for bed. Oh, bed. 20 of us slept on the concrete floor of what appeared to be a living room with furniture pushed to the side. It made for one HOT and sleepless night, but that is perfectly okay, it gave me reflection time. One thing I have noticed about myself and most of the people I have traveled with is that we go with the flow and we are totally up for any sort of arraignments. I mean, I have slept under a mosquito net on the beach or in a bus station, so a concrete floor next to twenty other bodies was a piece of cake and I would do it all over again. I am beginning to believe that I can handle most any form of travel at this point, and look forward to challenging myself even more.
Okay, so day two. After waking up, eating some bread, and getting into our red and black get-up (the actual day of the funeral required you to ware such colors), we were of to visit Johnson's senior sister. Brace yourself, don't get to jealous, Johnson's senior sister is a high priestess. Yes, a high priestess. So, now my life is content. I have been to Africa and I have met a high priestess. The whole visit was fascinating and I wish I had listened better and asked more question, but there was just such a big group of us for Anthro Ali. We entered from the side, because otherwise we would have to remove our shoes passing through the front by the compounds resident Deity. We sat in a half circle facing the high priestess and what I assume were lower priestesses. We watched her eagerly as she began to pray and pour libations to the earth. My favorite moment of the visit was when someones phone began to ring during her prayers, all of us looking around wondering who was not considerate enough to turn their phone on silent for the occasion, only to realize that it was the high priestess's phone. I feel like I could write a book about the moment in time. This high priestess in a small town in Ghana had a cell phone, and thus a reason for ownership of such a phone.Talk about globalization. After she finished on the phone, she passed around shots of gin for us to give libations. Of course I could not refuse, it would be culturally offensive. This time, it hit me pretty strongly and when Johnson announced that it was time to head off to the funeral, I was paranoid that I would be stumbling around drunk at a funeral, in Ghana! Don't worry, with this kind of heat, I sweat it out just in time for the funeral. I loved the contradiction I experienced within the same hour. We went from witnessing a "traditional" religious practice to a Christian ceremony. It is so fascinating that the two coexist like they do within Dzodze. Also, traditional considerations never seem to be abandoned at the Christian celebrations, considering everyone was still dressed in traditional Ghanaian attire. It was just so fascinating bouncing form one form of celebration to the next. AT this particular ceremony, the preacher turned to us and thanked his "white brothers and sisters" for being there to celebrate with the community. I really appreciated that moment, feeling so welcomed yet again. After the preaching and prayers concluded, we followed the precession from the courtyard, to the compound of the family of the deceased, on to the burial site. I hope you don't get the wrong impression of my description, it was not all enjoyment for me, this was a legitimate funeral, and that really hit home as I watched them pushing dirt over the casket. I was sad, but it made sense. Those who needed to weep, wept. And those who needed to celebrate, celebrated. I felt very fortunate that I could be along for the ride and included for a weekend in this towns life.
Before we departed, Johnson had us stop by his senior brothers compound, where we had to offer his brother gifts, of beer and more gin. So, we had more, in the name of culture of course, before we hit the road. As I was leaving, Johnson's brother, who had to be in his 60s at least asked if we could be pen pals. So, now my life is really really complete, I can be pen pals with an sweet old man from Dzodze.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Auntie Alexandra
See Auntie Alexandra. See Auntie Alexandra dance. Dance Auntie Alexandra. See Auntie Alexandra play the drum. Play the drum Auntie Alexandra. Hear Auntie Alexandra speak Twi. Speak Twi Auntie Alexandra. See Auntie Alexandra dance. Dance Auntie Alexandra. See Auntie Alexandra play the drum. Play the drum Auntie Alexandra. Hear Auntie Alexandra speak Twi. Speak Twi Auntie Alexandra. See Auntie Alexandra dance. Dance Auntie Alexandra. See Auntie Alexandra play the drum. Play the drum Auntie Alexandra. Hear Auntie Alexandra speak Twi. Speak Twi Auntie Alexandra.
I began to realize that I really only fill in the blanks after I have returned from some adventure from outside Accra. Yes, I have now been to lush beaches and crazy safaris, but the adventure I am having right here at home, well Accra, is just as deserving of a blog post.
I have just come from my second Wednesday volunteering at the University Primary school, in class 1U, with about 45 little first graders. Does it show? According to these 45 little faces, on Wednesdays I am known as Auntie Alexandra. That was how I was introduced by Ruby, the 1st grade teacher who graciously took me under her wing and refuses to tell me her last name. Thus, from now until I return, I will be referred to as Auntie Alexandra, thank you very much. I cannot wait until next Wednesday. I did not realize how accustomed I have become to having children around me. I always have a long list of babysitting clientele or I am filling in at my Mom's daycare. I have been feeling some sort of hole in my experience here since I have not had much interaction with children. Well, I have filled that hole now. I only have a few hours to spend with them, unfortunately, but they are precious. The first day I showed up, all nervous like I was on a job interview, Ruby thrusted me into the spot light. She wanted me to simply take over the class and teach a lesson. Obviously, I had no idea what was going on and chickened out completely. Rather, I circled the classroom, meeting the children, helping them with their English assignments,and slyly ignoring the giggles that surfaced when my accent was not clear. During their lunch break, I was surrounded by a mob of children. You would have thought I was Santa Clause! The children were giving me lessons in Twi, and well making fun of me, a common theme for me around children in Ghana for some reason. Unfortunately, my experience at the primary school is not a perfect one, and I have been losing much sleep fretting over the way some of the children are treated. I was lucky in elementary school, when I got out of my seat unannounced or was caught talking in class, I surly was not beaten. Ruby explained to me that she does not like using the switch, but it is necessarily. She was nothing compared to the visiting Twi teacher, he would beat the crap out of a student after shouting out threatening warnings, unlike anything I would ever imagine would be remotely acceptable in front of any child. I want to let all that are reading this entry know that I am not sharing this for you to judge. That is a fear that has caused me to hold back so many of my daily experiences. Life is different here, and because all I can expose you to is through my words, I feel like there is a lot left to misinterpretation. The way children are mistreated here is a reality. It sucks. And I have no idea what I could possibly do to alter that. The children at the primary school are receiving a very valuable education, but I feel for them as they are being exposed to violence in the classroom. I understand there are various forms of discipline, and maybe certain methods work differently from place to place, but I cannot become accustomed to that which is used at the primary school. Regardless, I will not stop showing up, because I have so much to learn from these children. Just today, I had to give a "lesson," and of course having nothing prepared, I just asked and answered a million questions. Where are you from? What's your favorite food? What's your favorite hobby? Then I had the children draw pictures to answer this question. So now I have 45 drawings of kids playing football, or jump roping, or eating fufu. I feel very fortunate to have the time to get to know some of the children of Ghana, they may be one of my best windows into the country that is still vastly unfamiliar to me.
I began to realize that I really only fill in the blanks after I have returned from some adventure from outside Accra. Yes, I have now been to lush beaches and crazy safaris, but the adventure I am having right here at home, well Accra, is just as deserving of a blog post.
I have just come from my second Wednesday volunteering at the University Primary school, in class 1U, with about 45 little first graders. Does it show? According to these 45 little faces, on Wednesdays I am known as Auntie Alexandra. That was how I was introduced by Ruby, the 1st grade teacher who graciously took me under her wing and refuses to tell me her last name. Thus, from now until I return, I will be referred to as Auntie Alexandra, thank you very much. I cannot wait until next Wednesday. I did not realize how accustomed I have become to having children around me. I always have a long list of babysitting clientele or I am filling in at my Mom's daycare. I have been feeling some sort of hole in my experience here since I have not had much interaction with children. Well, I have filled that hole now. I only have a few hours to spend with them, unfortunately, but they are precious. The first day I showed up, all nervous like I was on a job interview, Ruby thrusted me into the spot light. She wanted me to simply take over the class and teach a lesson. Obviously, I had no idea what was going on and chickened out completely. Rather, I circled the classroom, meeting the children, helping them with their English assignments,and slyly ignoring the giggles that surfaced when my accent was not clear. During their lunch break, I was surrounded by a mob of children. You would have thought I was Santa Clause! The children were giving me lessons in Twi, and well making fun of me, a common theme for me around children in Ghana for some reason. Unfortunately, my experience at the primary school is not a perfect one, and I have been losing much sleep fretting over the way some of the children are treated. I was lucky in elementary school, when I got out of my seat unannounced or was caught talking in class, I surly was not beaten. Ruby explained to me that she does not like using the switch, but it is necessarily. She was nothing compared to the visiting Twi teacher, he would beat the crap out of a student after shouting out threatening warnings, unlike anything I would ever imagine would be remotely acceptable in front of any child. I want to let all that are reading this entry know that I am not sharing this for you to judge. That is a fear that has caused me to hold back so many of my daily experiences. Life is different here, and because all I can expose you to is through my words, I feel like there is a lot left to misinterpretation. The way children are mistreated here is a reality. It sucks. And I have no idea what I could possibly do to alter that. The children at the primary school are receiving a very valuable education, but I feel for them as they are being exposed to violence in the classroom. I understand there are various forms of discipline, and maybe certain methods work differently from place to place, but I cannot become accustomed to that which is used at the primary school. Regardless, I will not stop showing up, because I have so much to learn from these children. Just today, I had to give a "lesson," and of course having nothing prepared, I just asked and answered a million questions. Where are you from? What's your favorite food? What's your favorite hobby? Then I had the children draw pictures to answer this question. So now I have 45 drawings of kids playing football, or jump roping, or eating fufu. I feel very fortunate to have the time to get to know some of the children of Ghana, they may be one of my best windows into the country that is still vastly unfamiliar to me.
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