Up-rootings, back and forth, that’s my life: Pedu, then Abrafo, now Pedu again.

The curtains were barely up in the Abrafo house and that @#%& noise drove be back to Pedu, never mind that the new Chief, the Queen Mother and countless others promised otherwise. PC more or less ordered me back to Pedu. They don’t believe that the noise situation will improve based on past experience. Call me crazy, but I’m still hopefull.

The NGO has made all the right moves—visited the paramount Chief, the local Chief, the local assembly representative and the regional representatives. Incidentally, Abrafo “enstooled” a new Chief the first of May. Nana Appiako III is the first chief in four years and much needed in this lawless little village. Chiefs here are tribally related and their power comes directly from the leaders of local clans (Abrafo has seven clans), who demand that they lead with fairness and wisdom or they are replaced. Ok, that’s the story.

The “enstoolment” was an all-day affair with loads of pomp and circumstance, the Chief carried around town on a palanquin, a shell-blowing spiritual representative (remind me to act this out later, I can’t think about it without falling over, sorry my cultural sensitivity is shot some days), lots of drumming, dancing and speech-making. The old women dance the most, except those who attend the Queen Mother and they wave cloth like fans around her all day (I could only think of queen bees—more hysteria!) I danced until my feet hurt and I was a big hit with the old gals. We made clouds of dancing dust, it was magical.

Back to the never-ending domicile story, two weeks ago I moved lock, stock and barrel (literally) back into the house that I so desperately wanted to escape just two months ago. That reminds me of a joke. Q: what’s the fastest way to get God to laugh? A: make a plan! I swear I’ve been hearing chortles.

I hate moving. Let me say it again, I hate moving!! This is a royal pain in-the-you-know-where. I’ve made up for the fifteen years of sedentary living in the past 8 months by moving-in-or-out-of-somewhere 8 times—ugh!!

Everyone in Abrafo seems truly flummoxed by the tenacity of the radio-man. I’m not. I understand the power of the microphone. I only wish mine was bigger than his. But seriously, the radio poses a unique window into cultural change, my issues aside. This is really about information and power. In most of rural areas and small to medium villages in Ghana, as well as many other African cultural groups, the chief or one of his ilk make community announcements by “banging the gong-gong,” an act that summons the community for announcements, etc. The “banging” can be as simple as two pots slammed together by children marching through the village or by the more complex practice of employing a town criers, large bells, etc. Really, it is just some audible method of alerting and gathering the populace. In a highly social, oral and communal culture that acts locally, this is an efficient method to disseminate local and larger information, especially in the absence of other forms of information—print, TV, internet, etc. Banging the gong-gong is still widely practiced in Ghana.

Until about eight months ago, “banging the gong-gong,” was still common in Abrafo. However, with the absence of a village chief for more than four years, the system failed in favor or an innovation—namely said radio announcer and the mounted speakers. The announcements, now loud enough for ALL to hear, seem like a perfect solution to a leaderless village. Heck, you don’t even need to leave your house and trot over to the community center to hear the latest because you can stay in your house with your head cocked in the direction of the Woodstock-sized speakers and get the news.

One neighbor claims that people aren’t as friendly anymore. Hmmm? Does staying in your house while noise is bombarding your every waking hour sound friendly? I think not! I’m reminded about that little snippet of research from Walt Disney World that linked a certain decibel level of sound with the suspension of rational thought (it’s a small world….).

Clearly the modern answer, or Abrafo’s answer, contains some unintended consequences. I’m just one of the casualties, certainly not the largest or however you valuate a casualty. The local students informed me that they get out of bed at midnight to study until 4 a.m., while it is quiet. Education, despite its flaws, is highly valued here and seen as the only possible escape from poverty and subsistence farming—more on that later. Adult villagers have told me that they dislike the radio and that it “disturbs” them, but, and it’s a big BUT, they have also told me that they, “must endure.” “Enduring,” I suspect is colonialism’s legacy (more on that too!). I’m patently unsuited for enduring anything without a good night’s sleep.

I’m not really happy at the Pedu house because it’s not a village. Pedu is really Cape Coast (population 110,000), ok, it’s a suburb (I was never aiming for suburbia either). For 2,800 cedis (the equivalent of 28 cents), I can take a taxi into downtown Cape, which is about 4 kilometers by pavement, which takes about 15 minutes. Once there, I can eat out, go to the internet café, shop for groceries in a shop (the size of a Village Pantry), shop in the open air markets (everything from used clothes to tomatoes), see countless tourists, go to the bank, sit on the beach, watch the fishing folks drag in the nets, visit the NGO’s office and use their computers, etc. Incidentally, taxis here are all little Daewoo jobs, just enough room for three passengers in the back and one or two in the front seat, most commonly with some sort of produce in available nooks and crannies and some serious body contortions, but I digress. Taxis deserve their own entry, yet something else saved for later.

Besides sleeping, the Pedu house offers simple amenities—no tennis court. Behind the gates, the yard is nicely landscaped with edible plants and fruit-bearing trees—mango, oranges, tangerines, palm, avocadoes and, papaya. There’s something to eat every day and there’s always something blooming, right now a lavender petunia-like plant has kudzu-ed the back garden wall. Sitting amidst the clamor of green, the house is masonry/concrete/stucco. Painted boring white and gray, the house is an anomaly in this land of bright, nearly neon houses. The corrugated tin roof is symphonic when it rains. Inside, the house features terrazzo floors, vaulted ceilings and yes, how did you guess, louvered windows. There are three bedrooms, a large living room/dining room combo, a kitchen with a sink, stove, frig, etc., 2 full baths, a storage room and a 1-car garage.

I occupy the largest bedroom, maybe 20 ft x 20 ft) with an attached bath that includes a large tub and a flushing toilet. Besides moi, there’s a night watchman who sleeps in the house, although I suspect he will soon be ejected, or so the NGO boys claim and the same fate awaits the 23-year old fellow who is nearing the end of his national service (college graduates are encouraged to give a year’s work to their country—absolutely necessary if they want any of the great government jobs—think pension!). So, soon, I’ll be here by myself, living in African suburbia with my darling dog next to beamers and satellite dishes while folks in the village can’t get enough to eat. This is surreal.


The house is on short dead-end block of gated houses. I never wanted to live in a gated community, I abhor gated communities and here I am in Peace Corps in a gated community. How did this happen? I have neighbors driving off in BMWs in the morning and the house at the end of the cul-de-sac house has a tennis court. On school days, I hear children at the Montessori school, near the end of the block, singing. This is what affluence looks like in Ghana, not so unlike the U.S. However, note that the street isn’t paved, so it’s not as cushy as you might imagine and never mind that our electricity and water both disappear almost daily. Also, there are goats, sheep, dogs, and chickens everywhere nipping at the plants and roosters are my new wake-up call—true in the village, or in town. Did I mention the landfill on the neighboring hill? (great for vulture sightings, unusual aromas, and my newest game--guess that substance). I have to remind myself that the only reason I’m here in Pedu, is to sleep until the Abrafo noise problem goes away. If the noise hasn’t disappeared in another month, then I’ll abandon Abrafo and “really” make Pedu my home. I’m still in limbo, but at least I know what it is.

Not only is my living situation non-typical PC, but the same is true for my project. I go to work in Ghana’s crown jewel National Park, not a struggling community, or a nascent NGO, but a well-funded, internationally supported NGO with 501(c)3 status. So when I travel to the park, which is about 30 kilometers away via a decent paved roadwork, I’m traveling from one gated community to another gated community. The NGO provides the car and driver. After leaving the gated streets, I ride past the red mud-brick villages and the green-green verdant fields and people walking, always walking by the side of the road, mostly carrying machetes (they call them cutlasses). Their clothes are vibrational—wild, wild colors and color combinations. Everything your Mother told you not to wear together—stripes and plaids, greens with pinks, etc. I ride to the park where you must pay to enter, unless you live in one of the communities surrounding the park and even then you must write a letter in advance announcing your plans. This isn’t what I thought I’d be doing in Peace Corps. I was thinking village, I was thinking bush, I was thinking sub-subsistence livelihoods.

In contrast to the poverty, the park’s atmosphere is celebratory and cheery. Everyday I see non-nationals, countless white faces as well as the beautiful African faces. I have PCV pals who see only Africans unless they go visit another PCV. I suffer no lack of people since the park features approximately 70,000 visitors each year. Half of those visitors hail from Europe and the U.S. and the rest are mostly Ghanaians. Of the roughly fifty percent from Ghana, half of those are school groups. The canopy walkway is a rite-of-passage for Ghanaian children; it is their motherland’s pride and joy and in their estimation one of the few things that Ghana has “done right.” Yes, Mr. Maslow, we all need a sense of accomplishment. (this is another research project)

Speaking of research, I’m still not absolutely certain about my job? What am I doing at the Park? I’m not sure and no one else seems to know either, although I’m happy to muddle along and learn the ropes (very punny!). There are days when I wonder if I’ll ever “get” the names of the 30+ employees? Not all is dismal; fun at the park comes in the form of four Ghanaian national service twenty-somethings. I’m crazy about them; they are bright, erudite, friendly and funny. Despite not knowing what I’m doing, this week I’m inventing a visitor’s survey to assess the “needs” of our customers. I should add that just showing-up for work is something special here. Customer service and punctuality are not strong Ghanaian business values.

As thought housing and work issues weren’t enough, about two weeks ago one of the consultants with the NGO came to the Pedu house and screamed at me for moving from Abrafo. It was late at night and the same man had just changed the locks on the house and I didn’t have a key to lock my door in his face. In his wake, I felt violated and vulnerable. I asked the NGO for an apology; certainly one is due, none to date and worse yet, they didn’t seem to see the behavior as a problem.

That bizarre event coupled with all the housing and work roadblocks has left me feeling shaky about the whole endeavor, especially about the NGO. They don’t seem to want me here, or rather; they don’t know how to welcome me. I know it’s not personal, but it feels crummy (is that still a word?). I am willing to model good business/people skills—communications, transparency, care, due diligence, etc., but that is exhausting and really I need to be teaching those skills, or co-teaching those skills. The NGO seems to want only two things from me: a check on the box for “Peace Corps Volunteer” and a glorified babysitter or spy at the park. The latter is especially important because they have no real site manager at the park. Currently they are trying to management the park from an office 30 kilometers away and that is not working well. Urgh!! Analyzing this NGO from the perspective of Organizational Development is another research project. Somehow, I feel that I’ve become the leading lady of an NGO disaster film, or a NGO textbook worse-case-scenario.

Luckily, Peace Corps is very supportive and I believe that they would do about anything that I requested. They have offered to move me, but I’ve opted to stay with the park. I can’t imagine moving to another community and starting over with the introduction process. Urgh!!!!

Housing and job define my most basic needs here and at best they feel shaky. I’m hanging on and hoping that time will level the rough spots. I know that finding meaningful ways to contribute will help ameliorate the challenging days. I didn’t expect this to be easy, but I did expect my housing to be sane. In fact, I expected my housing to be a refuge, a source of renewal and solace. During training, Peace Corps emphasized the importance of home-base and claimed that “home” must be a solid foundation for productive volunteers. Well, I’m waiting and hoping….

As of this week, I’m going to the park Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. On Tuesdays, I go to the NGO office and then shopping. Thursday, I plan to devote to my secondary project, either at the Abrafo Schools or the neighboring health center. Sunday is for church and resting. Besides working, I still workout everyday, somehow, by either walking, jogging-lite or biking. Physically, I’m feeling great and establishing a schedule/routine can only help the emotional/spiritual equilibrium.

Soooo, that describes in a million words or less the odd landscape of my Peace Corps life. While I’m not in the village, I certainly can sleep at night and that makes the whole world seem a tiny bit brighter. I simply trust that I’ll know what to do next. That’s my mantra and prayer. Primum non nocere. Sorry, I know that sounds like a lot of navel gazing.

Now for something more hedonistic in response to those who have inquired about my, “daily bread.” Yesterday I enjoyed a banana, oatmeal (with cinnamon) and coffee for breakfast. For lunch, I ordered “vegetable stew” with a fried egg from the park café; the stew is basically a mélange of sautéed vegetables in a tomato-palm oil sauce with ground hot peppers (palm oil is red, so many Ghanaian dishes are shades of red). Then for dinner, I made a small batch of curried lentils & brown rice, some steamed carrots, plus a Guinness, a fresh tangerine and a little chocolate (chocolate from Mom?). During the day, I often snack on roasted ground nuts (peanuts) purchased from nearly anywhere in little plastic bags, the size of golf balls, they cost 500 cedis each (5 cents).

Sorry this is rambly; I get to the internet café and my head swims, I want to remember and write about everything. Really, I’m gratefull for so much. Everyday there’s something amazing here—sky, storms, butterflies, flowers (orchids everywhere)…. That reminds me, the rainy season has begun, so next blog I’ll describe that in more detail. This a.m. it rained hard from 1 a.m. until 9 a.m. and it looks like more is coming, plus it is now cooler. Hurrah!! We can always talk about the weather, right?!

Happy birthing-day Mom, Melinda, Annie, Mary Lou, Jenna, RJ (sweet pea). I’m forgetting someone?

Healing thoughts and prayers to Lynsey, Carole’s Dad and Jen (congrats for returning to the transplant list).



Until next time,

Xoxo…sister dizzy, or Auntie Esi, (ont-tee, S-E) which means Sunday born. I wasn’t born on Sunday, but I didn’t like the day-name for Tuesday, Abena (ab-in-ah). Day names are more common than christian names here, next time I’ll give you the whole list. (next time already has a list, let me know if there’s something you want to know about from here)


Ps. I tried posting pictures today, but I got kicked off by the server. I’ll keep at it. My dog is looking really cute in that African-dog-cute way (Lynsey, she reminds me of Parker).

Up-rootings, back and forth, that’s my life: Pedu, then Abrafo, now Pedu again.

The curtains were barely up in the Abrafo house and that @#%& noise drove be back to Pedu, never mind that the new Chief, the Queen Mother and countless others promised otherwise. PC more or less ordered me back to Pedu. They don’t believe that the noise situation will improve based on past experience. Call me crazy, but I’m still hopefull.

The NGO has made all the right moves—visited the paramount Chief, the local Chief, the local assembly representative and the regional representatives. Incidentally, Abrafo “enstooled” a new Chief the first of May. Nana Appiako III is the first chief in four years and much needed in this lawless little village. Chiefs here are tribally related and their power comes directly from the leaders of local clans (Abrafo has seven clans), who demand that they lead with fairness and wisdom or they are replaced. Ok, that’s the story.

The “enstoolment” was an all-day affair with loads of pomp and circumstance, the Chief carried around town on a palanquin, a shell-blowing spiritual representative (remind me to act this out later, I can’t think about it without falling over, sorry my cultural sensitivity is shot some days), lots of drumming, dancing and speech-making. The old women dance the most, except those who attend the Queen Mother and they wave cloth like fans around her all day (I could only think of queen bees—more hysteria!) I danced until my feet hurt and I was a big hit with the old gals. We made clouds of dancing dust, it was magical.

Back to the never-ending domicile story, two weeks ago I moved lock, stock and barrel (literally) back into the house that I so desperately wanted to escape just two months ago. That reminds me of a joke. Q: what’s the fastest way to get God to laugh? A: make a plan! I swear I’ve been hearing chortles.

I hate moving. Let me say it again, I hate moving!! This is a royal pain in-the-you-know-where. I’ve made up for the fifteen years of sedentary living in the past 8 months by moving-in-or-out-of-somewhere 8 times—ugh!!

Everyone in Abrafo seems truly flummoxed by the tenacity of the radio-man. I’m not. I understand the power of the microphone. I only wish mine was bigger than his. But seriously, the radio poses a unique window into cultural change, my issues aside. This is really about information and power. In most of rural areas and small to medium villages in Ghana, as well as many other African cultural groups, the chief or one of his ilk make community announcements by “banging the gong-gong,” an act that summons the community for announcements, etc. The “banging” can be as simple as two pots slammed together by children marching through the village or by the more complex practice of employing a town criers, large bells, etc. Really, it is just some audible method of alerting and gathering the populace. In a highly social, oral and communal culture that acts locally, this is an efficient method to disseminate local and larger information, especially in the absence of other forms of information—print, TV, internet, etc. Banging the gong-gong is still widely practiced in Ghana.

Until about eight months ago, “banging the gong-gong,” was still common in Abrafo. However, with the absence of a village chief for more than four years, the system failed in favor or an innovation—namely said radio announcer and the mounted speakers. The announcements, now loud enough for ALL to hear, seem like a perfect solution to a leaderless village. Heck, you don’t even need to leave your house and trot over to the community center to hear the latest because you can stay in your house with your head cocked in the direction of the Woodstock-sized speakers and get the news.

One neighbor claims that people aren’t as friendly anymore. Hmmm? Does staying in your house while noise is bombarding your every waking hour sound friendly? I think not! I’m reminded about that little snippet of research from Walt Disney World that linked a certain decibel level of sound with the suspension of rational thought (it’s a small world….).

Clearly the modern answer, or Abrafo’s answer, contains some unintended consequences. I’m just one of the casualties, certainly not the largest or however you valuate a casualty. The local students informed me that they get out of bed at midnight to study until 4 a.m., while it is quiet. Education, despite its flaws, is highly valued here and seen as the only possible escape from poverty and subsistence farming—more on that later. Adult villagers have told me that they dislike the radio and that it “disturbs” them, but, and it’s a big BUT, they have also told me that they, “must endure.” “Enduring,” I suspect is colonialism’s legacy (more on that too!). I’m patently unsuited for enduring anything without a good night’s sleep.

I’m not really happy at the Pedu house because it’s not a village. Pedu is really Cape Coast (population 110,000), ok, it’s a suburb (I was never aiming for suburbia either). For 2,800 cedis (the equivalent of 28 cents), I can take a taxi into downtown Cape, which is about 4 kilometers by pavement, which takes about 15 minutes. Once there, I can eat out, go to the internet café, shop for groceries in a shop (the size of a Village Pantry), shop in the open air markets (everything from used clothes to tomatoes), see countless tourists, go to the bank, sit on the beach, watch the fishing folks drag in the nets, visit the NGO’s office and use their computers, etc. Incidentally, taxis here are all little Daewoo jobs, just enough room for three passengers in the back and one or two in the front seat, most commonly with some sort of produce in available nooks and crannies and some serious body contortions, but I digress. Taxis deserve their own entry, yet something else saved for later.

Besides sleeping, the Pedu house offers simple amenities—no tennis court. Behind the gates, the yard is nicely landscaped with edible plants and fruit-bearing trees—mango, oranges, tangerines, palm, avocadoes and, papaya. There’s something to eat every day and there’s always something blooming, right now a lavender petunia-like plant has kudzu-ed the back garden wall. Sitting amidst the clamor of green, the house is masonry/concrete/stucco. Painted boring white and gray, the house is an anomaly in this land of bright, nearly neon houses. The corrugated tin roof is symphonic when it rains. Inside, the house features terrazzo floors, vaulted ceilings and yes, how did you guess, louvered windows. There are three bedrooms, a large living room/dining room combo, a kitchen with a sink, stove, frig, etc., 2 full baths, a storage room and a 1-car garage.

I occupy the largest bedroom, maybe 20 ft x 20 ft) with an attached bath that includes a large tub and a flushing toilet. Besides moi, there’s a night watchman who sleeps in the house, although I suspect he will soon be ejected, or so the NGO boys claim and the same fate awaits the 23-year old fellow who is nearing the end of his national service (college graduates are encouraged to give a year’s work to their country—absolutely necessary if they want any of the great government jobs—think pension!). So, soon, I’ll be here by myself, living in African suburbia with my darling dog next to beamers and satellite dishes while folks in the village can’t get enough to eat. This is surreal.


The house is on short dead-end block of gated houses. I never wanted to live in a gated community, I abhor gated communities and here I am in Peace Corps in a gated community. How did this happen? I have neighbors driving off in BMWs in the morning and the house at the end of the cul-de-sac house has a tennis court. On school days, I hear children at the Montessori school, near the end of the block, singing. This is what affluence looks like in Ghana, not so unlike the U.S. However, note that the street isn’t paved, so it’s not as cushy as you might imagine and never mind that our electricity and water both disappear almost daily. Also, there are goats, sheep, dogs, and chickens everywhere nipping at the plants and roosters are my new wake-up call—true in the village, or in town. Did I mention the landfill on the neighboring hill? (great for vulture sightings, unusual aromas, and my newest game--guess that substance). I have to remind myself that the only reason I’m here in Pedu, is to sleep until the Abrafo noise problem goes away. If the noise hasn’t disappeared in another month, then I’ll abandon Abrafo and “really” make Pedu my home. I’m still in limbo, but at least I know what it is.

Not only is my living situation non-typical PC, but the same is true for my project. I go to work in Ghana’s crown jewel National Park, not a struggling community, or a nascent NGO, but a well-funded, internationally supported NGO with 501(c)3 status. So when I travel to the park, which is about 30 kilometers away via a decent paved roadwork, I’m traveling from one gated community to another gated community. The NGO provides the car and driver. After leaving the gated streets, I ride past the red mud-brick villages and the green-green verdant fields and people walking, always walking by the side of the road, mostly carrying machetes (they call them cutlasses). Their clothes are vibrational—wild, wild colors and color combinations. Everything your Mother told you not to wear together—stripes and plaids, greens with pinks, etc. I ride to the park where you must pay to enter, unless you live in one of the communities surrounding the park and even then you must write a letter in advance announcing your plans. This isn’t what I thought I’d be doing in Peace Corps. I was thinking village, I was thinking bush, I was thinking sub-subsistence livelihoods.

In contrast to the poverty, the park’s atmosphere is celebratory and cheery. Everyday I see non-nationals, countless white faces as well as the beautiful African faces. I have PCV pals who see only Africans unless they go visit another PCV. I suffer no lack of people since the park features approximately 70,000 visitors each year. Half of those visitors hail from Europe and the U.S. and the rest are mostly Ghanaians. Of the roughly fifty percent from Ghana, half of those are school groups. The canopy walkway is a rite-of-passage for Ghanaian children; it is their motherland’s pride and joy and in their estimation one of the few things that Ghana has “done right.” Yes, Mr. Maslow, we all need a sense of accomplishment. (this is another research project)

Speaking of research, I’m still not absolutely certain about my job? What am I doing at the Park? I’m not sure and no one else seems to know either, although I’m happy to muddle along and learn the ropes (very punny!). There are days when I wonder if I’ll ever “get” the names of the 30+ employees? Not all is dismal; fun at the park comes in the form of four Ghanaian national service twenty-somethings. I’m crazy about them; they are bright, erudite, friendly and funny. Despite not knowing what I’m doing, this week I’m inventing a visitor’s survey to assess the “needs” of our customers. I should add that just showing-up for work is something special here. Customer service and punctuality are not strong Ghanaian business values.

As thought housing and work issues weren’t enough, about two weeks ago one of the consultants with the NGO came to the Pedu house and screamed at me for moving from Abrafo. It was late at night and the same man had just changed the locks on the house and I didn’t have a key to lock my door in his face. In his wake, I felt violated and vulnerable. I asked the NGO for an apology; certainly one is due, none to date and worse yet, they didn’t seem to see the behavior as a problem.

That bizarre event coupled with all the housing and work roadblocks has left me feeling shaky about the whole endeavor, especially about the NGO. They don’t seem to want me here, or rather; they don’t know how to welcome me. I know it’s not personal, but it feels crummy (is that still a word?). I am willing to model good business/people skills—communications, transparency, care, due diligence, etc., but that is exhausting and really I need to be teaching those skills, or co-teaching those skills. The NGO seems to want only two things from me: a check on the box for “Peace Corps Volunteer” and a glorified babysitter or spy at the park. The latter is especially important because they have no real site manager at the park. Currently they are trying to management the park from an office 30 kilometers away and that is not working well. Urgh!! Analyzing this NGO from the perspective of Organizational Development is another research project. Somehow, I feel that I’ve become the leading lady of an NGO disaster film, or a NGO textbook worse-case-scenario.

Luckily, Peace Corps is very supportive and I believe that they would do about anything that I requested. They have offered to move me, but I’ve opted to stay with the park. I can’t imagine moving to another community and starting over with the introduction process. Urgh!!!!

Housing and job define my most basic needs here and at best they feel shaky. I’m hanging on and hoping that time will level the rough spots. I know that finding meaningful ways to contribute will help ameliorate the challenging days. I didn’t expect this to be easy, but I did expect my housing to be sane. In fact, I expected my housing to be a refuge, a source of renewal and solace. During training, Peace Corps emphasized the importance of home-base and claimed that “home” must be a solid foundation for productive volunteers. Well, I’m waiting and hoping….

As of this week, I’m going to the park Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. On Tuesdays, I go to the NGO office and then shopping. Thursday, I plan to devote to my secondary project, either at the Abrafo Schools or the neighboring health center. Sunday is for church and resting. Besides working, I still workout everyday, somehow, by either walking, jogging-lite or biking. Physically, I’m feeling great and establishing a schedule/routine can only help the emotional/spiritual equilibrium.

Soooo, that describes in a million words or less the odd landscape of my Peace Corps life. While I’m not in the village, I certainly can sleep at night and that makes the whole world seem a tiny bit brighter. I simply trust that I’ll know what to do next. That’s my mantra and prayer. Primum non nocere. Sorry, I know that sounds like a lot of navel gazing.

Now for something more hedonistic in response to those who have inquired about my, “daily bread.” Yesterday I enjoyed a banana, oatmeal (with cinnamon) and coffee for breakfast. For lunch, I ordered “vegetable stew” with a fried egg from the park café; the stew is basically a mélange of sautéed vegetables in a tomato-palm oil sauce with ground hot peppers (palm oil is red, so many Ghanaian dishes are shades of red). Then for dinner, I made a small batch of curried lentils & brown rice, some steamed carrots, plus a Guinness, a fresh tangerine and a little chocolate (chocolate from Mom?). During the day, I often snack on roasted ground nuts (peanuts) purchased from nearly anywhere in little plastic bags, the size of golf balls, they cost 500 cedis each (5 cents).

Sorry this is rambly; I get to the internet café and my head swims, I want to remember and write about everything. Really, I’m gratefull for so much. Everyday there’s something amazing here—sky, storms, butterflies, flowers (orchids everywhere)…. That reminds me, the rainy season has begun, so next blog I’ll describe that in more detail. This a.m. it rained hard from 1 a.m. until 9 a.m. and it looks like more is coming, plus it is now cooler. Hurrah!! We can always talk about the weather, right?!

Happy birthing-day Mom, Melinda, Annie, Mary Lou, Jenna, RJ (sweet pea). I’m forgetting someone?

Healing thoughts and prayers to Lynsey, Carole’s Dad and Jen (congrats for returning to the transplant list).



Until next time, Xoxo…sister dizzy, or Auntie Esi, (ont-tee, S-E) which means Sunday born. I wasn’t born on Sunday, but I didn’t like the day-name for Tuesday, Abena (ab-in-ah). Day names are more common than christian names here, next time I’ll give you the whole list. (next time already has a list, let me know if there’s something you want to know about from here)


Ps. I tried posting pictures today, but I got kicked off by the server. I’ll keep at it. My dog is looking really cute in that African-dog-cute way (Lynsey, she reminds me of Parker).