PC Adventure

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 15:53:00 +0000

Virgins for $50.00! Actually two virgins for $50.00!!

Yes, that is correct, or at least that is what a local fellow paid for having sex with two very young village girls. By”very young,” I mean late elementary-school-age young. In a country where 80-percent of the residents live on about $2.00 per day, the girls’ virginity was worth nearly a month each. I was told that the fee he paid was, “rather low”, by village standards because the families had encouraged earlier visits by the guy (I mean Grandfather age, ugh!!). Once the news got out and around the village, the girls’ family convened the tribal authorities to resolve the matter (versus the legal authorities). In Ghana, traditional authority resides with the family, clan, village, and chief, although not necessarily in that or any order. Despite minor flaws, family jurisdiction is how most domestic issues are resolved here. If you want a divorce, you consult the family, make the announcement and state loudly, “I divorce you,” while sprinkling white powder on the person (the white powder is not poison, clearly it deserves a little investigation). Their system has worked for centuries and now the “modern” legal system more or less runs in tandem. I heard that the family hoped for a higher settlement because the man worked at Kakum National Park, which means that he has a job whereas most of the villagers are self-employed subsistence farmers. If the family had filed charges with the police or the social services agency, then the man would have gone to jail and possibly on to prison. I have read that Ghanaian laws are strict on juvenile rape and it is now illegal to rape your wife, although women have told me they cannot really deny their husbands “their marital rights.” (I will leave this for another day….)

I personally do not know the former virgins, but everyone else in Abrafo seems to know them. The village sentiments tend to be pro girls, con parents. Blame is slung around, oddly enough, very little toward the perpetrator. Now, I look squarely into the eyes of every girl of that cohort, believing that somehow a knowing gaze might erase the trauma. Life goes on…. I had passing-and-greeting relationship with the perpetrator, but before I could see him again, he was transferred to another village, an outlier post where the only known entertainment is chasing poachers. I hope they put a very large and conspicuous bell around his neck....
Finally, I feel like writing?! I’m a little surprised by what is coming out of my heart. As usual, I want to cry for a while and I am aware that I have not done much of that lately, despite all the very real reasons to do so. There is so much to absorb or deflect, too much and some days I forget to wear my emotional armor.

Armored or un-armored, I am critically aware that I will be leaving here in less than two months and that has me in a sort of panic. Will I get everything done? Is that possible, or even desirable? Everyday becomes so meaningful. I just read a poem by a Palestinian, Mahmoud Darwish, where he describes his last day of living after learning that he has only one day to live and my days are a little like that—both random and intentional (the poem is appended below). Mostly, I try to stay on top, not below, the tectonic shifts. Some are subtle, like the San Andreas, others resemble Mt. St. Helens. Today, I was crying while riding my bike because there were at least one hundred butterflies accompanying me along the road home. Magic can completely undo me any day.

Onto lighter notes, I am enjoying a short hiatus from teaching. The school calendar calls for a vacation from early August until late September. I miss the students, but it is nice to slow down. While on this topic, I should note the latest of my teaching wonders. Sometime last spring, I became the de facto ICT teacher (Information Communication Technology) at the village junior high school. No one was more surprised. The headmistress, Madam Kate, pleaded with me and I accepted reluctantly, after-all, I am the only one there with a computer. Even after reviewing the syllabus, I had no idea how to begin for a class of 46 students, most had never touched, let alone seen a computer. In typical Ghanaian school fashion, they all had copious notes about ICT, including detailed sketches of system units, hard drives, etc. In addition, their notes contained vivid descriptions of the inner-workings of flat-screen monitors and the differences between Pentium III’s and IV’s. With great haste, I learned the meaning of CD-ROM and the difference between data and information. Despite my years of computer use, I was surprised to discover that I knew virtually nothing about them. They say, teach and you will learn—I will heartily second that. For the first class, I took my laptop and from there it just flowed. I bought a cheap desktop and had the kids march up to my house, 10 students at a time, for hands-on time. I had never seen them so enlivened. It was my favorite four months of teaching. School resumes this week and I am curious about my next assignment. Will it be bomb-making? Crochet? (School has resumed since I wrote this and happily, I have no new subjects and one of the male teachers has asked for ICT—ugh!!)
I forgot to mention the appearance of annoying Mr. Syllabus last year. He is a young energetic fellow, who teaches English to the younger JSS students. He appeared sometime last year and while on school patrol, he would stop at my classroom to remind me to teach according to the syllabus. The Ghana Education Service has one for almost everything, but as you might imagine, the syllabus will not help my students. The kids say that Mr. Syllabus does indeed teach to the syllabus; they also say they don’t like him so much. I never did learn much from teachers I didn’t like.

Besdies the drama at school, there is the persistent drama at Kakum National Park. It is a nonstop rollercoaster of personal status management. Who has the most personal status on any given day is completely a mystery; nonetheless, it is the most important plot in the soup. Loyalty is only for the day and maybe not even that. Besides power, the future is the commodity being brokered--survival of the fittest? Here the working life demands the finesse of a debutante’s ball. I am not particularly attentive to American status behaviors, but I instantly recognize their breaches or the hateful misuse against others. Having an outsider’s status, I can view the whole daily loopy-loops with some light-hearted humor unavailable to the insiders. They are all canines and claws behind syrupy sweet smiles and kids gloves (yikes, I am suddenly confused about the Little Red Ridinghood story. What was that really about? Didn’t they discover the original Dead Sea Scroll of that story with a different version--Red killing the wolf, marrying the wolf, or running with the wolf? I cannot remember). So I can march around banging pans and pulling hair, but no one even gives me a glance. The players know each other as clearly as predators and prey know each other, each weighed to the ounce, every movement anticipated, the resumes memorized, the stakes are enormous—for the future, for the children, for the grandchildren. Luckily, I am mostly invisible, but not entirely immune. Visually, the impact is like those TV weather maps of huge hurricanes, where the circular cloud pattern blankets entire oceans, entire continents. I watch the sky warily and can only wince for those without the killer instinct.

Taking a giant leap, not across an ocean, but across a sea, the Mediterranean Sea to be exact, while on the subject of watching the sky, I can report on the beautiful Italian skies I saw last month with pal Jen. I did not know I needed beauty the same way I need exercise and roughage, but that is exactly what Italy gave me—beauty, the memory of beauty and the expectation of beauty in the future. You know the proverbial “don’t know what you need until you get it” idea? Well, beauty is what I needed and what I got in Italy. The people, the art, the architecture, the shops, the food, the wine, the people, the sidewalks, the Vatican, the little cafes—all so beautiful (this is in direct contrast to Ghana). I could only weep. Even the Italian language seems to explode with beauty, it is “bella” this, that and everything. I enjoyed every moment there. I do not think I can describe even one thing with any justice, but if I could, I would describe the perfect crunchy thin-crusted pizzas, the earthy and ethereal Chiantis and the mesmerizing hills surrounding Florence, just for starters.

The Italians built upon the ancient Romans love of everything. And the Romans, well they make most other cultures seem a little tame--recall the coliseum, chariot races, gods and goddesses—what a marvelous bunch. Jen and I stumbled upon the equivalent of our dollar-store and inside alongside the normal stuff we found a Latin-English dictionary, yup, for a dollar (well a Euro). For some reason we did not buy it, but we lamented that lapse for the rest of the trip. It would have helped with the dates—MXCCI (I have no idea!!). I wish I could remember more of those miserable Latin classes I endured in high school—amo, amas, amat—is about all that remains.

Somehow, the entire trip boils down to the Pantheon. What a marvel, for 1400 years it has stood, proudly, beautifully. Besides a different form of transportation, they used to have chariot races outside, now just little European Smart cars race around—really, the big difference is only the current roster of deities. The old Roman gods were replaced by the Christians and the old statues left sprinkled across the Italian landscape, some even at the Pope’s house. And the Pope’s house? Well it is the grandest house of all. The last note on Italy comes from one of Jen’s countless tour books, it said you should not miss the opportunity to gape at anything, and we did just that with gusto. We needed an adjustment just for gaping (like warbler neck, or peregrine neck). In every picture from Italy, there is at least one if not a dozen people gaping somewhere. One last gape from that trip occurred at the Tripoli airport, where an eight-story tall life-like portrait of President Kaddafi (sp?) was muted only by the wind-whipped desert sands in the hot white air. Yes, I flew on Libyan Air and I survived—I do not know why I was not scared.

As for my peeps here in Ghana, they are all fine. My gal Alice is doing well in Senior Secondary School. All the usual suspects are doing well in the village and beyond. Most of my Peace Corps pals have left and I have not bothered to know their replacements. Another cat has “gone missing” as they say here and the two dogs, Panther and Sammo, are still making my life here brighter. This Thursday, I'm going to the Ambassador's house for Thanksgiving dinner. He is inviting staff and Peace Corps volunteers. I'm personally hoping to see what's in his wine cellar--American, International, African wines?? Anyone's guess!!

According to my calendar, I have 60 days left in Peace Corps. Officially, January 20, 2010 is my final day. There is about a week’s worth of paperwork before I am “free.” Then, I am heading south, to Eastern and Southern Africa for some spontaneous touring. In February, I will meet pal Paula for a 21-day walking tour of southwest Africa—Namibia, Botswana, Zambia and South Africa. Look for me in Indiana with the spring wildflowers, around the Ides of March. In time for your birthday Martha!! Et tu Martha??

Know that you are all missed. Until I see your lovely faces, I send you blessings and prayers from the oldest continent on the planet.

Happy Holidays--all of them!

Always love…d

ps. sorry to the birders, I meant to note my most recent finds, but the computer won't allow my pen drive...another day....

REMAINDER OF A LIFE

If I were told:
By evening you will die,
so what will you do until then?
I would look at my wristwatch,
I’d drink a glass of juice,
bite an apple,
contemplate at length an ant that has found its food,
then look at my wristwatch.
There’d be time left to shave my beard
and dive in a bath, obsess:
“there must be an adornment for writing, so let it be a blue garment.”
I’d sit until noon alive at my desk
but wouldn’t see the trace of color in the words,
white, white, white…
I’d prepare my last lunch,
pour wine in two glasses; one for me
and the other for the one who will come without appointment,
then I’d take a nap between two dreams.
But my snoring would wake me…
so I’d look at my wristwatch:
and there’d be time left for reading.
I’d read a chapter in Dante and half of a mu’allaqah
and see how my life goes from me
to the others, but I wouldn’t ask who
would fill what’s missing in it.
That’s it, then?
That’s it, that’s it.
Then what?
Then I’d throw away the poem…
this poem, in the trash,
and put on the latest fashion in Italian shirts,
parade myself in an entourage of Spanish violins,
and walk to the grave!

Mahmoud Darwish, a Palestinian, is one of the most prominent poets writing in Arabic today.

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 11:19:00 +0000

Radical continuity, that somehow describes the past few months. So much is different, so much is still the same, all-in-all everything here feels predictable. I’m surprised that the calendar says January 2009 and like the past two years, I am shocked speechless by the passage of time. How it flies?

Ok, ok, I do know about the election. Wow!! Historic!!! Wish I had been there, moreover, wish I was going to the inauguration. Here, we’re still in the midst of the presidential election runoff, hopefully the finale is tomorrow (January 3, now 6 days later and all is ok).

I know why I can’t track the passing of time; it is this absolute lack of seasons here. I’ve been hypnotized stupid. Day after day, one after the other, exactly alike, carbon copies (wonder about that, is it really carbon?? Hmmm, anyway….). While I have always loved the changing seasons of the temperate latitudes, I never recognized the influence on my sense of time. Here, there is only equatorial la-la time—now I call it the Prozac latitude. Surely that explains Gauguin’s later years. He became happy eating watermelon and painting. Similarly, I have become happy eating pineapple and gazing at the rainforest with the crazy insect sounds. So, you say,”years have passed,” and I say,”oh, really, I didn’t notice??”

Life in the village pulses forward with the clock and the calendar, but always for me at the pace of my feet. The slower pace is joyful and I have never been happier with my daily tempo. But don’t even think that means that I don’t think about anyone there. Quite to the contrary, I think of everyone and everything there all the time--my parallel universe/dual reality.

Not much has happened since last writing, nothing will ever compare with the cobra incident, but life forges ahead here. Mostly I’ve been busy working. Unlike the first year and a half of not-much-to-do, now I don’t seem to have enough hours in a day. Work in the park has evolved into serious cerebral stimulation (SCS). Due mostly to the arrival, or I should say appointment, of the Visitor’s Relations Officer (VRO), Tina. She’s Ghanaian and a delight—bright, sweet and funny. We have laughing fits together. She went to Forestry School and focused on conservation education. We complement each other and now I understand what “building human capacity” really means. It is the big goal of Peace Corps, the transfer of skills and abilities by working WITH people, and it goes both ways. I’m learning, too. It is joyful. In addition, I feel fully integrated into the Wildlife clan and believe me, they are clannish. I now have about 70 big brothers looking out for me, it doesn’t hurt that they carry guns. No one would dare to harass me in or around the village/park. Feeling safe is rare for most Peace Corps volunteers. I am lucky and grateful.

Besides work with Tina, recently I helped write two grant proposals for the park with the Senior Officer for law enforcement. The grants have nothing at all to do with law enforcement per se, but rather they aim to establish a baseline on the forest elephant and monkey populations in the park. I’m hopeful about the prospects and especially the possibility of some “real” fieldwork in the forest. As many of you know, I can cheerfully sit for hours and watch things—another one of those lovely skills that never appears on a resume (and, probably shouldn’t). That reminds me of that overused quote about the seeming zaniness of bird watching because it includes rising at dawn, sitting in dreary places like bogs and contending with the horrors of nature—yet, we love it and can’t wait to go again.

Work at the park is largely what has sustained my interest for the past year. Much of the work I do there is capacity building at the management level, somewhat like mentoring. Actually, I do a lot of listening, then nudging, somewhat like personal coaching. In addition, I get to research all kinds of cool things—like butterflies and medicinal plants. In the park we have butterflies that use termite mounds symbiotically (yes, those weird stalagmite structures). Did I mention we have over 600 butterfly species in the park? I try to photograph all that I can locate, even those stuck in the grills of cars, which makes for some interesting conversations while snooping around parked cars. If that’s not weird enough, imagine me hopping and jumping around trying to capture butterflies in a butterfly net. Looks easy right?? Butttttt, not easy at all. Somewhere I read that butterflies have 6 or 7 different flight patterns, all detected in wind tunnel experiments (does that hurt the butterfly? Marilyn B. comes to mind), and it is the reason they have few on-the-wing predators. Clearly, a middle-aged woman is no match for that type of agility, but I try (you know it is bad when your dogs laugh!!). Regardless, I have more than two-hundred butterfly photographs and no guidebook--perhaps a project for my dotage??

While on the topic of age, let me just say that I don’t feel like I’m 52 years old. I feel 26 years old, ok, half my age. Fortunate for me, nothing creaks or cranks too hard. I’m still running and biking several times a week. Physical activity is my Prozac, there’s good scientific evidence for that notion. Having said all that, I must note that just last week I twisted my ankle. I actually heard my ankle cry-out in pain—a mix of crunching and tearing. It is now swollen and discolored, but healing, albeit slowly. Finally, am I menopausal?? I can’t tell about the sweating. I sweat all the time. The Ghanaians give me an odd look, part pity-part amazement. They could wear long-sleeved black polyester velvet pantsuits under the noon sun and they couldn’t create the gallons of moisture that I can.

While sweating, I still teach in the village, at two different schools—one private and the other is public. This year the public school has 31 pupils in the JSS3 class and the public school has 21 students. They are as different as night and day. Last year’s test scores express the simplest difference: the public school scores started where the private school scores ended, 6-19 and 21-39 respectively. The private school draws all the promising students in the village and nearby environs. Folks in the village, even those without electricity, will submit the necessary funds to send their wards to the private school, leaving those without good scores or financial means in the public school. Thus, in the public school there is no such thing as the brighter students pulling the lower-functioning students higher: the brightest aren’t that motivated.

This year for the first time in three years, I have JSS3 students who can’t read English. If they can’t read English, then their performance on the national exam will be poor, since it is written in English, Ghana’s official language. I’m just stunned and I keep asking why, why, why???? The townsfolk claim that the, “public school is no good.” They also say that the children aren’t trying to learn. But, I believe it is combination of factors, not the least is poorly educated parents. Parents, who certainly care enough, but without education themselves, know nothing about what education requires of their children. They don’t know that the children need time to sit with their books, their homework—never mind any other enriching mental stimulation. That is not to imply that Ghanaian children are dull, they are not, but their informal education does not relate well with the formal education process. I can weep for this…. There’s so much to say about education, but I’ll stop there. Every day, I see that we are so blessed in the U.S. by having free education that rewards critical thinking.

I’m running out of gas and there’s more to tell. I wanted to write a long travelogue on my September-October trip to Morocco and Egypt, but that will have to wait. Suffice to say, I had a great time, but like any travel, I have endless stories to help put some people to sleep. I especially loved the High Atlas Mountains, the Berber culture in particular (their food, their rugs, simplicity, etc). I hiked to the top of Mt. Toubcal, North Africa’s highest peak. Very different from our mountains, somehow the Atlas’ are taupe, the whole place in one color—somehow calming. But Egypt was nearly as difficult as rewarding. I was so hassled that I finally added a head scarf and that made matters much better. If pictures are worth all those words, then I’ll cut this short and try to post pictures (http://www.flickr.com/photos/dxebird/ ).

Some of you, I’ve already told, for others my decision to stay here another year will be news. The primary reason is again the work at the park—it is the most fun I’ve ever had at a job…. I know some of you want me to come home and it should be comforting to know that Peace Corps has a cap on the years a volunteer can serve—it is 4 years. So whether I want to quit or not next year is the end….

Even though I like it here, I hope to come back to the U.S. for a visit in March. I don’t think I want to meet snow, I need to remember why I will move back there and spring is far more seductive.

Well that’s my story for today. I send you all big hugs.

As always, healing thoughts to Jen and anyone else.

Much love…Dixie

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 08:04:00 +0000

Broken promises, procrastination, good intentions, forgetfulness, amnesia, disorganization, poor planning, character flaws, biochemical imbalances, national electrical grid failures, the monsoon season, the dry season, lack of essential fatty acids, Starbucks, much slower planetary revolution/equator speed, peri-menopause, sweat exhaustion, humor deficit disorder, vibrator malfunction, ill-fitting shoes, new glasses, inadequate cleaning products, nostalgia or something has derailed me every time I’ve tried to write this blog. I started this installment five months ago, now it is June. How?? I can’t even blame the presidential election, which incidentally is surreal from here—bizarre snippets indeed. So, I can’t explain my lapses and I don’t entirely understand it, but I do know that a day doesn’t pass without thinking of there and visualizing your sweet smiles….

This time, there are all the usual topics to report, plus the trip home, the return to Ghana, and the big-big lunch with President Bush, Mrs. Bush and Condi Rice as a Peace Corps representative—that’s the preview. Read on if you’re so inclined, but know that I’m still very much here in Ghana until January 2009.

First for this tale, I must back-up to December 07. I was left speechless about my short 30 days in the U.S. Any attempt to describe that visit will only fall short (I’ll try anyway). I came, I saw and I left too soon (veni, vedi, lefty-too-soony, I wish I could remember some of that Latin). I cannot explain how that time unfolded, or how enormous amounts of love, fun and sweetness could dance around the rooms and hang from the ceiling, but it did. There’s just no way to thank everyone, but, I must thank Mary and Tammara for their hospitality and good cheer, despite some challenges (new job, electrical projects, car juggling, Schroeder). A big “gracias” goes to Esther for the loan of her truck, then Martha and Brenda for their van. Much gratitude goes to everyone who made the effort to contact me, whether in person or otherwise. A special hall of fame appointment belongs to Dino for safely delivering me to and from the colonoscopy (that is real love!). Shari, you get a million candles lit for the mountains, dangerous driving and all that snow. TT and Sarah for the money that I used to buy dictionaries for the kids, oops almost forgot Mom and Pop you pushed the amount past the “can do” point. Lynsey, a raised glass to you, for being so perfectly you and always making me smile. And finally, my taste buds thank everyone who cooked for me or had me out to breakfast, lunch or dinner. I was overwhelmed all the time by everything….

In the last blog entry, I stated unequivocally that I would be home for Christmas and I was, but I didn’t say that I’d be returning to Ghana after 30 days. For that little omission, I’ll apologize (as they say, it’s often easier to ask for forgiveness than seek approval!).

A limited number of PCVs can remain at their post for a third year, granted that all their planets are aligned—health, productivity, attitude, etc. My supervisor asked if I wanted to stay shortly before the snakebite and shortly after I shifted to the Wildlife Division at the park. Tentatively, I said, “yes,” because the first year and a half had been so miserable that I couldn’t imagine leaving here without a sense of progress or accomplishment. I felt that another year would give me the necessary time to balance the equation. So, I applied and I was granted the extension. Even though I was “approved,” I knew that once I was home I could change my mind and stay, also, I knew that being there would make the decision clear; besides, I needed to see your lovely faces…. After thirty days, returning to Ghana felt right. Almost everyone could support that decision, but it was still difficult. Now, five months later, I know it was the right decision.

Once back, I resumed teaching English to the JSS3 kids. Most days they make me laugh, but there are days when all goes to hell and I just have to walk away from the classroom. Cultural differences are impossible to tease from all the other pubescent issues. The other teachers liberally use canes and lash as they feel, but I can’t, which means my discipline is “odd”. Offenders in my class have fetched water for me, or written sentences 200 times, or they have stood with their noses in a circle on the blackboard. Forcing them to sit alone may be the most effective punishment—they hate it.

Ghanaian teenagers are generally very respectful and they are deeply motivated to learn. Education is the only road to escape from the village and the grinding physical realities of peasant-farming. The kids know it and they really try to excel. Just last week the JSS3’s took their Basic Education Exams (BEE). Here, the results dictate their future—good scores mean a good school and bad scores mean a bad school or no school at all. The government provides free primary and junior secondary education, but any further education requires funds, as well as proper admission to the school. Last year almost half of my public school kids got to move forward to the senior secondary school level, although about half of those are attending technical schools where they will learn a marketable trade, no one student from the village public school scored high enough to gain admission to one of the country’s premium schools. This year’s students will wait four months for their results—so, now we wait. As they say in the village, “they’re in the house”.

Everything at Moon house is good. The garden has been fenced, but for one reason or another the seeds haven’t grown. Now my shovel has a broken handle and the local carpenter isn’t fixing the thing (urgh!!!!). Perhaps by this weekend I’ll get seeds in the ground. The rains have returned and it is time to grow something. While on the topic of growing things, let me add a note about the plants of the rainforest. I grew up with four big seasons every year, here there’s really only two—rainy and dry. During the dry season many trees lose some of their leaves, but not all their leaves like the trees in Indiana. During the dry season, I always think that the trees look thin, there’s more sunlight getting through. However, when the rains return, the green growth is exponential and that is what is happening right now in the forest. Everything is exploding with new growth, the word, lush, doesn’t do the rainforest justice. I’m just smitten with the rainforest, even though I don’t understand it. It is overflowing with life, for instance one researcher here in the park found 43 ant species on just one tree!!!!!! Still, there are days that I pine for the known world of a North American hardwood forest, known trees, known plants, known sounds, known smells, known insects….

I’ve worked so hard to understand the cultural and the work environment that I’ve ignored the natural environment. As I mentioned sometime ago, I hardly go bird watching here, which seems odd. One of my goals for the year is simply to be out in nature every week sometime. So far, I’m doing ok. Just this evening I went for a little bird walk and found a black cuckoo behind my house (well, there’s one behind and one in….). I wish I could bring you all an ebony tree, their bark is so unusual, it is like a very wide wale corduroy and somehow soft—it is so sensual. Did I mention that many trees here have those enormous buttressed roots? The buttresses grow in a sort of swirl pattern, all that to keep the tallest trees standing. The forest trees are not deeply rooted and since we don’t get many winds they can stand for many, many years and become very, very old.

Besides big buttressed trees, I’ve also fallen in love with epiphytes, plants that grow on other plants, they are not parasitic. These epiphytes “make” their own soil, in fact one biologist working in the park believes that there is more dirt above ground than at ground level (the soils here are remarkably poor). It is all about sunlight. In the park we have endless orchids and bromeliads, even mistletoe. Then there’s the vertical structure of the rainforest, made even visible by visiting the canopy walkway, which offers a glimpse into that “rare air.” From the ground the only way to identify some trees is to use binoculars. In addition to trying to identify plants, I’ve also started on butterflies. With over 600 species in the park, I can stay busy. Just last week, I finally got a butterfly net. So now I can get some in the hand. I’m especially interested in getting photographs because there’s no good reference besides a $250.00 two volume set. Don’t laugh, but I’ve even resorted to inspecting the grills of cars (even more reason for the locals to think I’m crazy!!).

My familiars, the pets, continue to charm my days. My first dog’s puppy DD just had 5 puppies—all cute and now all adopted by good homes. Likewise, the cat followed suit, Crazy has two kittens and since cats are known for killing snakes, I think I’ll keep them.

The architect who designed moon house is sending a platoon of architect students to build a computer center for the village, or so that’s the story (never mind that no one here really wants the computers, they’d rather have teacher housing, but hey they’re getting it for free, this is the heartbreak of development work, lots more to say about this another day). The students will be using my house as a home base while here, which means that they’ll eat their breakfast and lunch here and as far as I can tell they’ll be here all day. So, I’m packing all my things into my bedroom, locking the door and leaving town for the duration of their visit, June 4-27. I’m not yet certain if I’m vacationing or just visiting pals around Ghana—unknowable at present.

Work at the park, improved dramatically when the new Wildlife Division “Visitor Relations Officer” appeared. Tina (there’s the first great part—she’s a female) is a thirty-something go-getter, who schooled in the U.S. (Iowa). We just vibe good together, that’s all I can say. This is a different lifetime at the park. It is now soooooo much fun!!!!

Also, I’ve become more integrated into the Wildlife Division and that translates exponentially into more interesting work. I’ve helped train the tour guides on a variety of topics—epiphytes, biodiversity, interpretive skills and butterflies. I’ve introduced a half dozen of the staff to the World Wide Web (recently I read that less than 1% of Ghanaians have computers, what is the U.S. rate?). Last week I taught a mini-class on customer service to the café staff (customer service is non-existent here, I’m not kidding, but their culture is very gracias otherwise, somehow it didn’t extend from the house??). There’s more in the pipeline and that all makes me cheerful. At last, meaningful AND enjoyable work….

And finally, there’s the village work. For one reason or another, they can’t seem to get going and I can’t seem to kick-start them. The principle players are all somehow compromised with competing personal interests—they all have businesses that interfere with their ability to create community benefits (help the person or the community—this is tough). Meetings feel positive, and then nothing happens, time after time. I keep hoping for a Gandhi-like figure to emerge, but alas, nada. This is the trench-work of capacity building. There’s one guy in the village that seems to heading in the right direction, but he disappears for weeks at a time. I need to write about the apparent lack of initiative here, but it is difficult because it is not that simple. Ghanaian culture is non-competitive and that makes personal benefits unseemly and selfish. Contrast that with an equally repugnant layer that is highly exploitive, dishonest and criminal. They call it, “chopping,” which means you “steal” money and or resources while everyone knows it; no one does anything about it (aren’t words fascinating, “chopping” doesn’t sound as bad as stealing). This is all wrapped-up in their notions of power, prestige and personal value. Remember to add the colonial era scars, deep unfathomable waters, which still inform the social structures and beliefs. Everyone suffers. Obviously, this topic deserves more ink, but for today that must suffice.

Ok, onto a lighter palette. In February, the big boss of Ghana Peace Corps called me into his office when I was in Accra and asked if I would like to have lunch with President Bush, Mrs. Bush and Condoleezza Rice at the American ambassador’s residence. Hmmmm, I couldn’t refuse. I dislike the man, but I was offered an opportunity to represent Peace Corps and that I could do without hesitation. During his tenure, Pres. Bush had not entertained any PCVs, so while in Ghana he selected reversed the slight by strategically meeting in the first country that Peace Corps entered in 1961. The Country Director here in Ghana, Bob, selected ten PCVs to represent all PCV’s. Somehow I covered a couple of strategic demographic categories—over 50, female, from the Midwest, democrat, feminist, socialist, Buddhist, humanist, bird watcher, semi-vegetarian, blah, blah, blah….

The entire event was surreal, not that surreal isn’t already an overused concept here, but we were first interrogated by the Peace Corps staff on basic stuff: what are Peace Corps goals, how many volunteers in Ghana, etc.????? Then more sophisticated matters like which fork to use when. Yes, they were very concerned that our village-ways left us unable to use cutlery. The country director assigned me to sit between the pres and Condi; I think the cutlery issue tipped the balance in my favor.

We started the day in quarantine at the Peace Corps office, and then we were driven without looking sidewise to the Ambassador’s residence, screened and led behind a velvet rope that separated us from the throng of expats, embassy staff, media reps, etc. The big motorcade arrived and they disappeared into the Ambassador’s home. After a very short time, they emerged and addressed the crowd, and finally they posed for pictures and kissed babies (I’m not kidding—since Mrs. Bush was here last year, I had more or less seen the same drill then). Our gang was slipped into the Ambassador’s dining room, where we stood behind our chairs like good boarding-school kids.

You know when you haven’t seen a full complement of crystal, china and real silver on a white damask tablecloth in a long time, it can produce vertigo. This was no ordinary table service; this was the presidential china, crystal and sterling. I held onto my Louis XVI chair for support…. The pres, Mrs. Bush, Condi and the press entered the room. #43 told us to relax and sit—we did. Then the media had three minutes to snap pictures and that’s how that “tiara” picture happened. The press was swept out and dinner was served by white-gloved staff. Since arriving here, I have been suffering from uninspired cuisine, I didn’t know it, but lunch was the proof. We had light lobster bisque, followed by a chicken mushroom béarnaise concoction, real bread, real BUTTER, did I say, REAL BUTTER??, a salad of imported greens and raspberry vinaigrette and finally, an apple tart with vanilla ice cream. All accompanied by various American wines (HE had an O’Doul’s).

The conversation was very casual. Our country director gave a few serious remarks, but then we went around the table introducing ourselves with the pres working us. He joked about PCVs home states, their schools (since many of the 20-somethings are school-identified) and their Peace Corps work. He had already heard about my snake bite. He seemed genuinely interested in all of our stories. Most of us talked about our work and how we’re making a difference. I talked about poachers at the park and teaching English.

During our hour and a half lunch, the pres poked my arm several times, called me “Dixie chick,” and “honey.” I felt like I was sitting by my younger teenage brother. Yes, there was a lot of snickering. Madame Secretary of State, on the other hand was quiet, more formal. She said very little besides stating her plans post S.O.S., “back to Stanford and teaching.” The event ended when the handlers arrived and whisked us out for individual photos (yes, if I can get it scanned I’ll post the picture of me standing between Pres. and Mrs. Bush). The entourage left for another function and we were ushered through the kitchen to the back door (literally) to wait for our vehicles to come fetch us after the motorcade had cleared the Ambassador’s residence.

I have pictures to prove all this, but some days I have to pinch myself or look at the lovely Tiffany engraved-pewter box that we all received as our “gifts” to remember that it was real. Very, very, very, very real.

Now a fitting segue? How? Coming up? Besides the unknowable, I’ll keep on doing all the usual things. I just remembered how I miss those PCV pals, especially Sarah, Katie, Kate, Mary Jane and Donna. I hope the RPCV world is sweet. I was a trainer at the SED IST and believe me, this world ain’t the same without you’ins….

Belated birthday wishes to all the January girls—lil’ sis Amy, Sarah S., Sharon L., Vicky P., Miki M., Shari S.; Feb—Miriam, Jean, Lynsey, Paula; March-- Lorri, Martha, Georgette, Shelby, Nan Joy; April—Evie (oh Evie, you’ll be missed), lil’ bro Mark, Becky L., Kate S., FJF, Kathy S., Larry Peavler; May--Mom, Deb Bussard. Then June—Jena, Melinda H., Annie B., TT, Rebecca J. (where are you??), Melynda and lovely Tammara. Whew, please forgive me if I’ve missed your day, they all roll around in my gray matter somewhere.

I send healing to Jen, Carole Edson, Shari’s Mom, Vi and anyone who needs it at all—it works.,

I wish you all great and wonderful days.

Always…xo…d

p.s. if possible I’ll post more pictures at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dixiebird/

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Thu, 25 Oct 2007 07:14:00 +0000

Sanguine or pugnacious??

Ok, ok, I’m ok; you ok? Is anyone really OK?? Then, why be only OK, why not something more interesting and complex, say like, sanguine or pugnacious? (those two words probably sum-up my personality to a “t”).

Deb Bussard nudges me with each letter to post something, anything on this blog. So, thanks to you Deb, I’m trying. I don’t know exactly why, but writing has become torture. I’m a lifelong writer and this development is perplexing. There’s no “block” to it, I just can’t seem to find words to describe much in my world. Following the cobra bite, not much seems important, my story seems a little flat, but I’ll try. Sorry for the slow speed, please don't worry, really you can trust that everything's gonna be alright (isn't that a Bob Marley song??).

Oh, well, first-up for scrutiny will be the four-leggeds. Perhaps they have a story and as many of you already know, I find animals as interesting if not more intereseting than some people....

I must tell you that Adom, that doe-eyed beauty, has gone to live with a crazy German development-worker in the closest district capital, Twifo Praso (tree-foe prah-soo). After her second litter, she adopted an obvious dislike of children, especially those capable of squealing (those being the youngest and most vulnerable of children). Before her deportation, I would be quietly reading in or around the house and my peace would be shattered by the high-pitched wails of terrified children. The red-dirt road by my house is full of children passing to and fro and she tormented one and all. Fortunately, Adom never bit any of them, but she did manage to claim a little boy’s flip-flop one day. He never came back to claim the lost item and the event only elevated her character flaw amongst the locals. I could see only misery ahead, so, sadly I began searching for another home away from children, or a place with a fence. A friend of a friend recommended Andre and after a thorough background check, Adom moved to his house and she now has a larger doting family. I saw her two weeks ago and she seemed happy. By the way, the local dogs, for all their poor treatment and lack of care, are generally very well behaved. I suspect that those dogs born with ill-tempers find their way into stew pots and thus keep the bloodlines amiable. Domestication is rightly a great mystery.

Adom’s first puppy, Wisdom, died a mysterious death. One of my students from last year had adopted Wisdom and all seemed ok, but one day Sammy appeared at my house looking sad. He reported that Wisdom had “coughed then died.” I don’t know what really happened, but I do know that dogs don’t get the same sort of health care, shots, etc., here that they get in the U.S. I’m surprised that animals survive here at all. Besides all the typical problems, I even wonder if they get malaria. I know for a fact that rabies is rampant. I’m still mourning the loss of Wisdom, but hanging in my house is a small oil on canvas painting of Adom and Wisdom by my painter pal Katie. It is a treasure.

So, G3 (generation 3), was Adom’s litter in early May. She had 6 puppies and 3 have survived. Again more mysterious deaths; two puppies seemed to die from malaise and another was eaten by a gang of adult dogs, or so says the former puppy recipient. Of that litter, I have kept a male and female and I named them “Happy” and “Beautiful,” after my two favorite perfumes (yes, I aim for shallowness some days). Incidentally, that was my previous-life in the U.S. daily dilemma, did I want to be “happy” or “beautiful,” as if something sprayed could make a difference. Ok, that’s magical thinking, but there’s something inherently appealing about magical thinking, plus can you really imagine yelling, “world peace, and I mean for everyone” or “energy-efficient, non-polluting, non-toxic and renewable fuel for everyone, no exceptions” every hour or so, but on second thought, why not?? That reminds me of an old friend, who worked as a telephone solicitor one summer and occasionally her group would be asked to go to an office window and scream, “more money,” as a motivating behavior…there’s much to scream about these days. What are you screaming about??

But seriously, I also have a new cat, her name is Crazy. She is a calico, although mostly white. One eye is blue, the other is green. That recessive trait has always sorta spooked me in both animals and people, so I give her a wide berth. She is fond of scaling the screening and perching on the breezeway columns (11 foot above ground), thus the name. Once up, she can’t get down without an intervention, which got old the second time. Ordering a cat to do anything is just plain silly. Do you recall that Gary Larson cartoon about, “what cats hear,” as I recall the text bubble was absolutely empty. Sorry, one of those tangents…. So, the best part of Crazy is her predilection for eating things close to the ground, i.e. lizards, amphibs, insects, snakes, etc. For that skill, I’m most grateful and that earns her great smoked fish everyday.

I should mention that just last week another snake appeared in the breezeway, at nearly the exact location of the biting cobra. It was evening and I bounced out of the house to visit the toilet. On my way across the breezeway, I saw a snake curl and coil, then my heart stopped, and I mean STOPPED, SCREECHED TO A STOP, THEN STAYED STILL FOR A LONG TIME. Until I could start panting and focus my eyes and gather some wits (honestly, I never understood that phrase before, but it perfectly describes my process). Everything in my possession that could kill a snake was in the storage room on the other side of the snake; so, I trotted across the road to the wildlife staff quarters and one of the senior officers happily returned with me and dispatched the snake with his machete (never mind, that the wildlife crew is sworn to protect native animal species, snakes, I’ve learned are somehow except from protection). Fortunately, the specimen in my house was a nonpoisonous species. We could only guess that it had entered via the small space under the screen door. Now, I’m keeping my machete in the bedroom and the carpenter has added a stop under all the doors.

While on the topic of snakes, I should add that while my foot appears normal, there are days when it swells without provocation, or feels hot, or my foot turns bright pink. On those days, I believe the snake that bit me is nearby and I take extra precautions. One of the villagers suggested that perhaps the snake wants to apologize?? Hmmm. Snake or no snake, I’m going back to the snake specialist in Accra Thursday for a follow-up visit. I don’t expect any real news. Before leaving Ghana, I’d like to visit the local witch-doctor-herbalist. Many of the villagers feel he could end my post snake bite symptoms. Some of them even assert that the fangs are still in my foot. I don’t know anything, but I do know I’m gonna get a snake tattoo when I get back to the U.S.

My work situation keeps improving. As I mentioned last time, I’m finally officially switched from the evil NGO to the Wildlife Division of the Forestry Commission, a department of the Lands Ministry of the Ghanaian government. That means there’s more than your usual amount of bureaucracy. On the positive side, they’re a friendlier bunch and they do try to serve the public interest. “Friendlier” means that they like to have parties, socialize and drink. But seriously, they’re rather like big boisterous Irish family— lots of internal jabbing and at the same time aggressive towards outsiders. Unlike the U.S. National Park Service, which features both law enforcement as well as interpretive focus, this group is mostly enforcement based (think military). Thus, the emphasis is on catching poachers, not on educating and enlightening the visitors. Regardless, I have been admitted to their club and I feel both safe and protected, which I hadn’t felt here before. In fact the NGO boys seemed to delight in keeping me slightly off-kilter.

The work with Wildlife will probably be spotty—something this week, but a week of nothing, which sounds ok to me. Two weeks ago I assisted in a two-week tour guide training. Honestly, it was one of the first times that I felt I could contribute and it was one of the first times that I was actually asked to contribute about the welfare of the park. Finally!!! The next project is probably some sort of fundraising or creating sound-spaces in the park (this is a “new” concept in national parks—sound as destination). Clearly the Wildlife gang is a better match for me. Even the haphazard schedule allows me to pursue other projects in the village--teaching, the girls group and other little endeavors still in the dream stages.

Speaking of dreams, last week the bicycle project finally ended. It took more than ten months, but at long last 120 bikes were delivered and distributed in my village. The half-day workshops empower all the recipients and I can only swell with awe seeing the bikes around the place. They call the bikes, “Auntie Esi’s bikes.” I only pray that no one perishes while riding one.

Another dream came true in August (gosh that was over a month ago, what have I been doing??). While I was waiting for the transfer from the NGO, my supervisor asked me to assist with a community cultural tourism assessment of a weaving community in northern Ghana. I jumped at the chance since I’m totally and absolutely enamored with textiles here (remember Ghana is the home of kente cloth, prized throughout the world for its beauty and history—if you don’t know anything about it, “Google” it). I spent a week in the community with a young woman from Ghana, who had recently graduated from one of Ghana’s universities. It was a first experience of working with a bright, young female from Ghana (oh, I have never given up on feminism….). At the park I have encountered countless well-educated young men, but this was my first well-educated young woman. Patricia was just lovely and the time was productive.

The village, Daboya (da boy yah) is renowned for their traditionally woven smocks, also called fugus. They are worn all over Ghana, but most common in the Muslim northern half of the country. The smocks are made from three to four inch woven strips that are sewn together to create a rather oversized shirt. (I’ll try to post pictures at--sorry, i didn't get this done, but will try again later). Besides weaving and sewing, the community also spins thread, dyes the yarn and sells the end product. I was simply speechless at the dye pits that use locally grown indigo. Indigo and other ingredients make the pits rather fragrant. In fact it is both the scent and the color blue that makes the Daboya smocks distinctive. (I recall that African slaves were used to farm indigo in the pre-Civil War south). The report is 90 percent done and essentially we are recommending a Peace Corps volunteer assist the community develop their tourism potential (human capacity building--help train tour guides, develop marketing strategies, etc.). I only wish I was going there to work for two years, I would love it. While there, I remembered art, how did I forget art?? Now, that’s a subject for another day….

My not so small girl Alice has finally left Abrafo for senior secondary school, but not without a big fight with her father, which has left me irritated and annoyed. Alice scored very well on her exams last year and her father, who works at the park as a maintenance supervisor, claimed he would send her to school. However, when it came time to pay the fees, something close to $180 for three months, her father claimed he had no money. School began two weeks ago and this, “has money” vs. “has no money” story continued while Alice sat at home. (I should add that Alice is the oldest of 14 children and her stepmother just gave birth to her 8th child. Families this large are no longer that common in Ghana, but it used to be the norm. Alice is treated like an ugly stepchild by the stepmother, who often refuses to feed her—urgh, urgh, urgh!!) Finally, I agreed to pay her school fees if the father would buy some petty, petty things. It took more work, more talking and finally threats to get the man to do what he said he’d do. I’m so sad that girls have to struggle here for education—this story is not unusual. I’m mad at Alice’s father and the whole system. This is a rant that might never end, so I’ll stop here…. Suffice to say that I’m happy Alice is now staying in a hostel at the nearby school. I’ll be able to visit her on weekends. For her father, I can only hope for a public castration.

And finally, my last news. Since I last wrote my dear friend Kate has returned to the U.S. after her two years at the Cape Coast School for the Deaf where she taught art. I spent time with Katie almost every week and her absence has been like a missing front tooth, you know how your tongue won’t leave the space?? Here in the x-pat/development work world, friends are fast to come and go. Some don’t leave the heart so fast; Katie is like that. That is also true for my other pal, Sarah, who is leaving this week after a big send-off party in her village. I’ll try to include some pictures soon of that event—drumming, dancing and merrymaking are planned. Like Katie, Sarah’s departure will leave another big hole. We have been meeting almost every week since arriving in Ghana at the same time, plus we were assigned to the same NGO and endured the same crap. Oh, woe!!

Let me end this prattle with gratitude. The letters continue to brighten my days. Packages full of goodies make my life sweeter—chocolates and body creams couldn’t be more perfect. Goodies for the kids make them feel oh-so-special. I want to especially thank Kathy Shrum, a RPCV (returned Peace Corps volunteer) and former resident of Indianapolis who has adopted me.

Also, belated birthday wishes to Shawna, Brenda, Kathy Egli, brother-in-law Brad, Gayle H., Kris and Barb, sister-in-law Missy, my twins Jane Barker and cuz Diane (both 14th girls), Donna Jones, Pop, nephew Jon, sister-in-law Lynda, Ruthie B., niece Nikki, Terri Mc, Joy, Sara Lenahan and forward to Marilyn P, Susan and Becky Whitney. Sorry, I know I’ve forgotten someone, or something???? For just ebout everything that needs and excuse or explanation, here in Ghana we say it’s due to the heat. It has been really hot lately, I think!!

Healing energy to Jen and everyone else…believe it, it’s real and it works….

Much, much love to all…d

ps. You might be wondering when I’m coming home. Well, definitely I’ll be home for christmas and that’s not so far away….

pss. my photos have moved, now they are at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dixiebird/

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Wed, 20 Jun 2007 21:50:00 +0000

DANCING WITH THE COBRA

Or how I landed in a Ghanaian hospital for ten days and accomplished something that no one in my village had ever done before: I survived a poisonous snake bite.

Of course that title is intended to pique your interest; however, you’ll need to wade awhile before you get into that deep water. First, I offer my most sincere apologies for taking so long to write. In the past, I’ve used writing as a form of discovery and an accounting of the days, at least the highlights, but somehow the flow had stopped and even though some of you nudged, I couldn’t get going for awhile. That being said, don’t think for a moment that I’ve forgotten anyone or anything

Nonetheless, it has been so long since I wrote a blog entry that I don’t know where to start—ok, I’ll start with some good stuff. The single best news is Moon House. I can barely believe that I’m living in a house with that name, it makes me giggle. Although, I’ve been there nearly four months, it still feels like only a few days. I am shocked by the comfort, like the deep pleasure of breathing for the first time after a long dive underwater. Moon house is simply the most serene place I have lived while in Ghana and perhaps ever—the place just has good mojo. (check out the cool pictures at: http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/dxebird7/my_photos , but bear in mind it might take a day or two). The rains have returned and I’m planning a modest vegetable and flower garden. Also, the JSS3 boys are coming to build a bamboo fence to keep the “lawn-mowers” at bay, honestly I don’t know why the goats and sheep won’t eat anything you really want them to prune, but that’s how it goes out here on the open range of the rainforest….

In hindsight, I now know that I was suffering from what Maslow might insist is a basic human need, namely, “shelter.” Silly me, I only thought of shelter as walls, or protection from the elements, a woefully inadequate definition. The elements, noise and bad energy, were beating me as surely as a cold rain. Once moved, I realized how tightly I was wound (is that the same spelling as “wound,” wind vs. wound, what you do to a clock vs. a knife injury?, now that’s a typical tangent). When I first moved, there wasn’t electricity at the house, which meant that I didn’t have all the conveniences of the earlier house: no lights, no refrigerator, no iron and worse yet, NO CEILING FANS. Yet, I was happier and not surprising, more productive.

The lack of electricity meant that my days were a lot like camping, sans the nightly fire. Why no fire? Because, it’s always too hot for a fire; hell, it’s nearly too hot for light bulbs. Candles are just fine for me, but that light is insufficient for reading. While I was hand-twisting about the electricity, the Wildlife boys offered me a room in their nearby quarters with an electrical outlet (more on the Wildlife boys in a bit). Thus, I moved frig, iron, camera charger, etc. into their house about 100 yards away from Moon house and that arrangement was ok, although I really, really wanted electricity.

Beginning back in August, I started the process of getting electricity to the house, long before I ever moved. The builder/architect had already wired the place and they had powered it with a gas-chugging-loud-as-a-jackhammer generator (happily long gone). Even with electrical service, power outages are a common event here in Ghana, land of power shortages/outages (do you really want to know about the politics of energy in a developing country??). The Electric Co. of Ghana is a little like the ol’ Lilly Tomlin-Laugh-In skits about the telephone company—they’re not only omnipotent, but they’re also on the-take.

I knew getting electricity would take a lot of money and I was prepared, but I wasn’t prepared for the ordeal. Getting electricity required 9 months and 28 trips to the local district capital, a town 20 kilometers north and costing 14,000 cedis roundtrip. In addition, the prelude required much smiling and nice-making with the BIG BOYS, never mind the “palm” money paid up and above the actual fees for the service. Oh yeah, there was a pole involved and the community cheerfully donated that, but the Electric Company vacillated back and forth on the pole’s viability—pole ok, pole not ok, pole tall enough, pole not tall enough?? We might as well, just roll the dice. Somehow, I decided that having electricity in the house was worth about 10 therapy sessions and that is just about what it cost (you won’t be surprised to know that I still need the 10 sessions!!!!).

Finally, in early May, the men and the truck arrived. They installed the pole, ran the wire, and lit-up the house. My village neighbors still praise my patience and resolve, of course they didn’t see the logs that I chewed through to maintain an exterior calm and single-minded purpose. Since Moon House ostensibly belongs to the community, they provided nearly constant support for the effort, which included several members of the local political structure visiting the Electric Co. and the neighboring district administrators. They also came and cleared the small trees and brush necessary for the wire to be unrolled on the ground. My electricity was a sort of “lightening rod” for the village, even community members that I barely knew would talk and laugh about the electrical vicissitudes—it provided a forum to discuss the various village problems—lack of electricity, inadequate wells, paltry medical services, etc. Overall, I felt the experience became an empowering drama, although a bit heavy on the drama.

So, now I’m electrified—it’s a little irrational exuberance, but I’m pleased, especially about the ability to read at night (remember its dark from 6:30 p.m. to 6:30 a.m.). Due to growing demand for electricity and questionable government deals with neighboring countries, Ghana now has an inadequate domestic electrical supply, which means we have rolling blackouts every three days that last for 12 hours and that is just long enough to spoil all the sensitive items in the refrigerator. I still keep candles on-hand as well as a rechargeable flashlight. That pretty much sums-up my electrical drama, but of course there are other dramas….

The next drama was more like a disappointing overly-hyped film, namely my switch from the NGO boys to the Wildlife clan (I can’t honestly say “boys” anymore about the Wildlife gang since nearly half their staff is female, however, their senior mgmt. is all male and they get their umph from military training, sorta the equivalent to our law enforcement arm of the National Parks). I don’t remember if I’ve mentioned this before, but the NGO boys and the Wildlife Division co-manage the park. The NGO runs the visitor’s center, commissions the café and the gift shop, and provides all the maintenance and repair of the visitor’s center and the canopy walkway. The Wildlife Division is a governmental agency and they provide tour guides for all visitors, protect the flora and fauna of the park (that includes armed surveillance and anti-poaching teams) and maintain cordial relations with all the 400+ communities surrounding the park. I’m still unclear about what I’m doing with this new bunch, but I do know that they’re friendlier and overall, far more humane with their staff and more business-oriented in their approach to the work. I nearly cried when I learned that they have quarterly goals (by contrast the management of the NGO has no plans and any and all proposals seemed to threaten them somehow).

You might correctly suspect that the relationship between the NGO and the Wildlife Division is uneven at best and territorial at worst. Really, I’m hoping to bridge the gap for the sake of the park and the many lovely stakeholders. The Peace Corps really pushed the move forward, especially once my supervisor started to get the same run-around that I had gotten for the past year and a half. Make no mistake, it is a serious slap for Peace Corps to remove a volunteer from an organization, after all Peace Corps’ mission is to support development and that approach must honor those early, nascent steps toward greater human/organizational capacity development. The evil-NGO-boys had no redeeming capacity and I’m so happy to be away from them. I hadn’t even realized the frustration until it was gone and I noticed how sore my head was from hitting the proverbial wall…. Enough said on this topic since I don’t know what will unfold, but I’m thrilled with the possibilities ahead.

Hmmm, now what to do?? While waiting for a clearer vision of the near future, I’ll continue to teach and help the community with their plans to do something. Helping them define what needs to be done is as important as accomplishing the actual thing--maybe it’s a new water pump, maybe an early childhood educational building, perhaps adult education, who knows?? Also, I really enjoy my basic business advising work. Last week I worked with an electrician who wants to expand his business—mostly what he needs is a better location (remember that ol’ adage—location, location, location….). Next week I hope to help with a basic business seminar in the district capital. Basic business skills are so necessary here, often people have no idea about basic accounting—are they making a profit?? If you ask most small-scale business people, they don’t know. These are skills that can be taught and Peace Corps has a ton of resources to help.

What else?? Oh yeah, my dog. Adom had her second litter. The puppies are almost a month old. What an ordeal…. First, there’s that miserable courtship zaniness, dogs urinating snarling and growling all day and night for a whole week. Then there’s the poutiness of pregnancy and finally the big dance. Fortunately, we were both better prepared to be parents. I heard squeals at 4 a.m. and thought there was a new bird species in the vicinity—ha!! It wasn’t until 7 a.m. that I discovered Adom curled into a corner with 3 little ones. Three more came later and one was born dead. Presently, my little mother has 3 females and 2 males, but one of the females is not thriving even though she gets hand-fed, I don’t expect she’s long for this world. The other four are robust and a tumbly-bumbly clump of fur. By the way, Adom’s first pup, Wisdom, went to live with one of my favorite students, Sammy. Now and again, he appears like a ghost and pokes his nose around the place, then disappears. I don’t think Adom even notices, but I smile.

Now that I’m rolling, there’s so much else to say, but I better start on the cobra story—it requires serious pulp. Well, at 3:15 a.m. on Saturday, June 9th, I got out of bed and padded barefooted out to my toilet, which is separated from the living room and bedroom of my house by a concrete breezeway that is about 20 feet long. I didn’t really NEED to go to the toilet, but due to the past five months of nearly constant urinary tract infections, I decided to go anyway. After sitting on the toilet, exiting the room and closing the door behind me, I stepped on something—something that wiggled and hurt me like a bee sting, it also seemed to wind around my foot, so naturally I kicked it forward like a ball. All this happened within seconds and in complete darkness, even the moon was absent. Oddly enough, the breezeway light had died just the week before, not that I really ever turned it on when visiting the toilet at night or for any other reason to be outdoors at night—moon, stars, or odd sounds. Anyway, without moving a step forward I reviewed the stinging options. In Ghana there are biting scorpions, millipedes, centipedes, spiders and lizards, just to start the list. I thought I should look at the thing to know how to proceed and by turning on the toilet light I determined that I had kicked a snake, at least that is what the coiled mass under the chair looked like.

When I got back into the house I could see blood oozing from my top of my right foot. Immediately, I began reading the Peace Corps Health Handbook (yup, I’m ridiculously logical in an emergency). The book said to “seek immediate medical attention” and not spend time searching for the snake. I knew from the park tour guide’s schpiel (is that a word?) that the locally prevalent green mamba’s venom could kill in about 30 minutes; thus, I decided I needed to know if I had 30 minutes or a little longer. Back outside I limped, this time armed with a flashlight (yes, for a short minute I wanted a gun, but I don’t really believe in killing anything). What I saw wasn’t the bright lime green colors of the green mamba, but rather a mossy-green-gray tail end of a snake as it crossed a short wall to the courtyard. I happily skipped thinking about who I’d try to call in thirty minutes, what would I say, or what I’d try to write (probably the happiest moment of my life to see that snake wasn’t bright green….).

Hurriedly, I got into clothes and hobbled to the Wildlife quarters, where after banging on two doors I roused one of the senior staff members. He quickly rode his motorcycle into Abrafo, about 1/3 kilometer away, and fetched Ken Asare, he is Alice’s father (my student-watergirl-friend), he works at the park and he owns a taxi (cars are uncommon in most rural villages, although Abrafo probably has 8-10 vehicles). Within a few minutes Ken arrived with his car and he sped toward Cape Coast. Within 15 minutes my foot was already swollen and painful. We arrived at Cape Coast’s relatively new hospital by 4 a.m. and then nothing much happened. They hooked me up to a saline drip and let me sit while they sent for the pharmacist to unlock the drugs—the anti-venom. Well, I don’t know what the pharmacist was doing, but when he finally arrived about 2 hours later he discovered that there wasn’t any anti-venom in the hospital’s pharmacy.

Somehow time wobbled, by 8 a.m. I still didn’t have anti-venom, although all the staff seemed to agree that was what I needed. Finally, my friend Sam was sent by taxi around to various Cape Coast pharmacies to find anti-venom. The husband of a Peace Corps nurse who lives nearby was similarly sent searching for the same. The whole affair was getting mythical and if I hadn’t been on a hospital bed, I would have laughed. The venom was spreading up my right leg and I was swelling inch by inch. I had read all the symptoms of venomous snakes at home, so when I began getting nauseous, clammy and having difficulty breathing, I knew time was getting short. Miraculously, the anti-venom arrived, shot into my saline bag and within minutes I could feel the easing of my panic.

The lack of treatment continued all day, mostly the staff just ignored me and the Peace Corps nurses were so unhappy with my treatment that they decided I needed to be in the nearly first-world hospitals of Accra. They arrived at 7 p.m. and whisked me away. Instantly I felt safer in their possession; the language barrier alone made matters miserable. Once back in Accra, their first choice hospital declined my care, stating that they were incapable of caring for a snake bite victim. The Peace Corps nurse Cynthia was so mad I thought she was going to throw a chair or something. Indeed, earlier that day via phone, they had said they could admit me.

Onward to hospital #2, 37 Military Hospital, where at 2 a.m., I was finally on a bed. Before the bed, they rolled me into the emergency room; I followed what must have been a multi-vehicle-passenger traffic accident. Everywhere—on every bed, on every chair, lined up against every wall and sprawled on every part of the floor--were bleeding, moaning, and screaming people. Somehow, our little Peace Corps entourage was swept past all that in a slow-motion sequence by a sharp-witted female doctor. It is almost always true that a “white” gets preferential treatment here and the hospitals make that statement louder than anyone else I’ve encountered (too sadly true….).

The next day, I was seen by the resident snake specialist, Dr. Akotoo. He said they should have continued giving me anti-venom until the swelling had ceased. Ultimately, the swelling had stopped at mid-thigh. My foot was so swollen that I couldn’t move the ankle joint or my toes. The anti-venom was sufficient, but just barely. Now, they grew concerned about the possibility of bacteria and infection, which is exactly what was happened. By Monday afternoon, by foot was hot and turning red—really red, carmine, angry red, blood-blood red and moving up over my ankle. Cellulitis, which is a deep tissue bacterial infection, became my new nemesis, scarier somehow than the snake, and it was actively altering my cellular construction. Only massive, broad-spectrum antibiotics could stop and hopefully reverse the trend. On Tuesday, I was convinced I would lose my foot. Even though I was glad to be alive, I cried and cried over my scary foot. Let me add that the swelling was intense, mid-foot was 2 inches larger, mid-calf was 3 ½ inches larger and mid-thigh (not that my thighs aren’t already big enough) was 5 inches larger. I felt like a monster….

Luckily, PCVs came to visit and made me laugh; they brought levity and treats. The Peace Corps nurses came too and brought me every treat and trinket I could name—juice, books, etc., but frankly I had no appetite. The nurses supported me in everyway possible, especially the basics. In Ghanaian hospitals you don’t get toilet paper, or towels, or even flatware for your meals—you’re supposed to bring that from home (I didn’t know….). I received parallel great treatment from the Ghanaian nurses and doctors. By Wednesday afternoon the infection was subsiding and the angry-red was reducing rather then increasing. While my foot and leg were better, my hands were swollen, bruised and sore from the multiple, large-dose antibiotics they were pumping into me day and night.

After a full week and a day, on Monday, June18th, they released me to the Peace Corps nurses, who promptly took me to the Peace Corps compound and propped me up in one of the medical-unit rooms. They have a great medical ward here, but they can’t administer the kinds of meds the hospital could, nor are they capable of 24-hour monitoring, which is what I needed at first. Incidentally, the med rooms are rather spartan, but comfortable with a bed, shelves and air conditioning. The compound contains all the administrative offices, plus a library, a computer room, toilet/shower facilities and a lounge with a TV and DVD player for volunteers to enjoy when in town. However, PCVs can’t overnight at the Peace Corps office unless they’re admitted to the medical unit; they can only stay from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m.

So, that’s nearly the end of it. I’ve been out of the hospital for 2 days and I’m still at the med unit in Accra. Happily, I’m off the IVs, but I’m still taking oral antibiotics and walking is moderately tough. Generally, I feel a little wobbly. My foot is still slightly swollen, but reducing by the day. Honestly, I expect a fang to pop out of that foot some day. If so, I’ll have it made into a necklace or something….

I may return to Abrafo on Friday, although I’m not sure—maybe next Monday. I don’t need to push anything. Rest is my only agenda.

So, my dear friends and family that’s my story for today. Please forgive my long absence from new words and know most certainly that I think of you more often than you’ll know. This work continues to be the hardest job I’ve ever loved. There’s never any rest, but I don’t think I really want any, I want to absorb it all, let it nourish me in a way that staying comfortable can’t….

Know too that your letters and goodies are treasured, but Deb Bussard takes the cake by sending dog food and puppy chow via the mail (Kathy Shrum in on that too). Thanks to all for the Christmas goodies—wow!! The kids especially love the goodies that come their way.

Also, because some of you asked, the balance of the bicycles, 120 more, should arrive in Abrafo in September (for info on the Village Bicycle Project, see their website at: http://www.pcei.org/vbp/

Healing energy to Jen and Shari’s folks….

Xoxoo…dxe

Ps. I’m lost on the b’day folks, I think I had gotten up through March?? Sorry, if I’ve missed you, but know that I always remember—belated to birders--Becky L., Lynn; Deb Bussard, Mom, Mylinda, Jena, MSH, Annie Barker, Miss Daisy (Tammara-did I spell that wrong??) and Rebecca, down there in the holler. Advance greetings to the fabulous cancers—Mary Byrne (a million times), Dino and amazing Amy Benckart. Miss you all….

Pss. In my spare time I’ve been thinking about reverse alchemy and the miracle of rain (vs. drought). Also, how to teach my student’s to type without computers or typewriters. Next time, I’ll write about my student's taking their national tests, my experience getting stuck in the water tank and any other absurdities that have crept into the day….

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Wed, 21 Feb 2007 14:46:00 +0000

Moon House and more....

Past the mistletoe, past the flying champagne corks, past an epiphany, past the Muslim New Year (1428), past the damn groundhog: past it all!

Once again, whole months are missing. How does this happen??

I was keeping company with a slippery little funk, but now I’m better. I think it was just everything and then Christmas thrown-in as a special topping. I can’t really account for the two months; however, I know that I spent Christmas close to the hospitals in Accra. My recent urinary tract infections (UTIs) transformed into an ugly kidney infection that was leaning toward sepsis. It became serious enough that I was having trouble breathing two days before Christmas (don’t worry, it was referred pain). I was lucid enough not notice my breathing difficulties-ohhh my gawdddd???? So instead of going off to explore an interesting part of Ghana for the holidays, I saw the interesting parts of Ghana’s medical system. I’m still scared stupid and I hope I don’t ever have any real medical issues here.

After the breathing difficulties appeared, then not long after calling the PC nurse and seeing the PC doctor, I got drugs. Then, lots of tests, a week of shuffling from place to place, lots of pricks and prods, I was finally announced, “healthy.” Of course there are endless layers to this tale. First, they suspected my gallbladder. Then it was a kidney cyst, which could be cancer?? Near the end they were convinced it was my heart because they had written my birth year 20 years before I was born-1936 instead of 1956. So, the cardiologist, who was interpreting my results, looked me up and down and remarked several times about my “good shape”!! I didn’t realize the error until later and then I rolled on the floor laughing (you’re damn right, I look good for 70!!!).

Ultimately, the infection diagnosis became a quorum and copious amounts of antibiotics solved the problem. The UTIs that started the drama are part and parcel of the traveling in Ghana because it’s inconvenient to stop the tro-tros to go urinate (of course they will stop, but tottering off into the bush isn’t always easy or even available-ugh, this is one of the most irritating and troubling aspects of traveling here and all the female PCVs have travel/toilet stories). So, every week at least once, if not more often, I either dehydrate or hold my urine to travel the 35-40 minutes into Cape Coast. In hindsight, I think the UTI that I had back in November never really resolved, but who knows. Ok, there’s my long-winded tale about my health-ugh!!! (Or, was I just really pissed!?)

I arrived back in Abrafo on the 31st of December after my pals, Urji and Sarah, had pampered me in Accra during the holiday medical extravaganza. Once home, I cleaned the house from top to bottom (I’m slightly superstitious about having a clean house on January 1). Then, I went to church a little before 11 p.m. and listened to the great drumming and singing before retiring and sleeping soundly into 2007. Incidentally, the locals go to church on New Year’s Eve, they do not go out anywhere else--no bars, no dancing, no champagne, no nothing-cold turkey New Year’s. Anyway, the revelry is in the pews and lest you think this isn’t serious, let me mention that they start the evening around 7 p.m. I thought they were kidding when they said 7. By the way, Sunday’s are only slightly less intense; say 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. I need gallons of Gatorade just to attend church here.

Did I mention that Christmas in the tropics is just wrong? I miss snow!! I miss “real” Christmas music-ol’ blue eyes, Burl Ives and Ray Coniff. I miss baking, gawd, how I miss baking. I miss all those great Christmas foods (while reminiscing I could faint on this cascade of dopamine). I miss the Christmas Birdcount, but most of all; I miss my friends and family.

Oh, by the way, now that I mentioned birds, then I must add that they figure into one of my New Year’s resolutions-identify more birds, no matter what!! Otherwise, I have all the usual resolutions-be kinder, be most generous, eat more fiber, be more compassionate, read a book a week--be, be, be, do, do, do….

Valentine’s Day?? (Lynsey, I did not forget your b’day!!!! I’ve thought of you more than I really want to admit….) I spent it at home with the kids, Adom and Wisdom, both of whom are trials in their own little canine ways. I’ve put some new pixs up, so be sure and check: http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/dxebird7/my_photos. Wisdom makes me laugh everyday-he lies around like a dead dog, he eats everything, he’s part male teenager and part old man-farting, itching, scratching and then dragging in dead, stinky things. My dogs are unusual for here--they bark-like me they wanna talk about everything. Adom has a high-pitched wailing squeal and Wisdom howls-they’re quite the duet. I can see my neighbors clucking their tongues and shaking their heads in disapproval. Dogs are type cast here in Ghana-either they’re dinner, or they’re working animals, which means that they are taken to the farm and put to use, for amongst many things, “ratting.” They certainly aren’t pets in the American sense and most of the dogs look sick, infested and/or injured. A vibrant healthy dog is an anomaly here. Yup, my dogs look really healthy and I feel especially protective when someone is complimenting the dogs. Do they see dinner on four legs?

Speaking of rats, last week someone asked me if it was true that “Americans just kill and throw away rats?” Gulp, er, well. While scuffing my shoes into the dirt, I finally answered, “yes.” To my village, that’s an unimaginable waste. Since arriving in Ghana, I’ve increased my life-list of gustatory animals. Here, I’ve added rat, snake, sheep’s head (I thought it was brains, but not sure??) and grasscutter, which is a rabbit-sized rodent. I resist all dinner invitations for cat, dog or songbirds. Local children make sport of killing birds with slingshots (they are really, really good) and I’ve made a corresponding sport of bringing the stunned birds back to life. Especially the littlest children seem to know that killing is wrong and they bring these little lifeless forms, cupped gently in their little brown hands. Sometimes it works, after holding and breathing into the bird’s beak, it will revive and I can let it fly away…. I’ll take any success here….

Hmmm, what else??

Happy days, yippee!!! I finally moved into the cool house up on the hill, although I still don’t have electricity, which is another story altogether. I waffled on this move, but two weeks ago while walking with one of the young, adorable teachers from the private school, he told me that the house was called, “moon house.” Well, that cinched it, period!! I must live there, or anywhere named Moon House. So, I’ve changed the locks, cleaned out the place and rearranged some of the furniture. I’m still unpacking and trying to stuff the 4 rooms of accumulation into 2 rooms. Despite the organizational challenges, I’ll happily report that for the first time while living in Abrafo, my morning alarm is consistently birdsong. I’m so cheerful…. Even the dogs like moon house much better. They romp, they roam, there’s a yard…. But my cat is another story, he has returned to the old haunt twice. I won’t move him again, he has voted with his paws and the women from the house of beautiful women promise to feed him.

I’m hoping for electricity in the next two weeks, but who knows. I may need to pay more bribes; of course they call it something else. For the time being the NGO house, where I lived before, has all my necessary electrical gadgets-computer, camera charger, rechargeable light and iron (yes, I iron my clothes here, which is another long story, but suffice to say here, a woman of any substance doesn’t not go about unpressed here). Which also means that moon house doesn’t have working ceiling fans, although they’re there. A couple times this past week, I’ve returned to the NGO house just to sit under the fan. Currently we’re having hot weather (ha!!). Even the Ghanaians say it’s hot, which means that the rains haven’t returned yet. I think that happens in March, regardless, the rains bring cooler temps, although I’d hardly notice since the humidity also seems to rise. This week someone broke both my outside thermometer and my rain gauge-death by a thousand needle pricks….

So even without electricity, I really need to have some peace in this village before leaving. There’s much to like about here-er, that really means that there are many people to like here in Abrafo, especially the students. Last Friday, the day after I moved, my public school students came to the house and worked. This is quite common here; regularly students fetch water, haul trash, or do little odd jobs for their teachers. I should note that in many small villages the teachers are at the top of the status food chain, since most have at least completed Senior Secondary School, if not gone to a teacher’s training school (thing US about 30-40 years ago-didn’t teacher’s have more respect??). So, the students came over and they cut the grass (with their machetes), they burnt the trash (yes, everyone burns everything here, esp. plastic and rubber-yummm) and, they fetched some water for me (yes, buckets on the head).
Of course I loved having all that work done, but what was most magical was seeing the kids outside the school environment-seeing them play. I got to observe some of the quietest students playing, or joking around and others just being curious or freer than I’d ever see them in the classroom. It was a day I’ll never forget.

Next week the first 80 bikes are scheduled to arrive, finally. This has been a challenging project for so many reasons. After starting on this project, I heard from several other PCVs about the delays, frustrations, etc. I know once everyone has their bike I’ll feel happy, but in the meantime communication failures plague this project…. I’m just praying that we don’t have another postponement.

Ok, that’s enough of a ramble, next time I’ll write more about moon house. I haven’t written here for so long, this all seems so lame. Please know that I think of everyone. Not a day passes. I’m homesick for real friends…and I know the difference.

Belated b’days to all the great January gals, Sarah S., Sharon L., Vicki Perry, darling little sister Amy, my mountain friend Shari S. Then Lynsey and soon Paula R., and my other sweet sister Lorri, Martha (the Ides blow calm for you) and Shelby S. Sorry, if I’ve forgotten anyone.

Healing to for anyone who needs it-Jen, Shari’s Mom, Carole’s Dad, my cousins Diane and Melanie….

Many thanks for recent holidays and care packages-not a day passes that I’m not grateful for all the love, it really makes a difference. Also, please forgive me for not writing for awhile, I just got behind in my correspondence and now that I’ve moved, I hope to resume with vigor.

Sweet wishes to you all…

D

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Fri, 08 Dec 2006 17:01:00 +0000

Dancing with the Chiefs and Queen Mothers

Last week was unforgettable for too many reasons to describe; obviously, reason has never stopped me from yammering on before, so I’ll persist. Last week, I was invited to attend the local tribal festival as an nkosowahemaa for my village, nkosowahemaa means development queen mother (in coas ah wah heem maa). I was thrown into a cultural blender set on HIGH. The contrasts most define what was unforgettable--from abject misery to breathless ecstasy and back again—whew! I’ll try to describe or explain.

But, first you’ll need a little context. Last week was the beginning of this area’s traditional festival, the Odwira, which of the various Akan festivals focuses on purification. Purification, in this sense, requires the “feeding” and honoring of the traditional gods and ancestors. And, yes, there were animals sacrificed. Besides the spiritual matters, the festival is also a time to socialize and play (pagans do have fun!). The festival is a two-week long celebration that is hosted by two towns in the Central Region—Jukwa (joe kwa) and Dunkwa (dune kwa). Jukwa is located near Abrafo, only 14 kilometers south and it is my bike path turn-around spot. Dunkwa is located approximately two hours north of here by bad roads. This area is defined by the culture, history and beliefs of the local tribe, the Denkyiras (dent’ traz) and I live in the middle of them. They represent one of the Akan tribes alongside the Ashantis and Fantis. Their history is both marvelous and ancient. The Denkyiras ruled what is now Ghana from the 15 -- 19 centuries and they wrote the first contract with the British in 1844. Later they were “conquerer” by the Ashantis, by virtue of insider information (what’s different now?). There’s so much to say about everything and I can barely scratch the surface….

So, I’ll begin this little tale with one of the contrasts—ok, a misery. On the first day that I danced before a 200+ audience of local African chiefs and queen mothers; I also urinated directly into one of my sandals—luckily not at the same time. Urinating (yes, that is what they say here), into one’s shoes happens here all the time because there are no proper toilets and that means squatting in a tight skirt which is impossible unless you take the whole kit-and-caboodle off—not advisable since you’re standing somewhere outdoors trying to go unnoticed to begin with. So, one must simply stand and attempt to miss anything important, all the while appearing nonchalant and not exposing the anything—yeah right! Ghanaian women can do this beautifully and they should since they have practiced since toddling began, but, for me, more often than not, some article of clothing or footwear and sometimes both becomes a casualty. (I do hope to acquire this useful skill before coming home!)

But back to the sandals! If urinating into the darn things was all to this tale, then there would be no story at all, so of course there is more. Imagine my horror when trying to look cool and walk like a Ghanaian queen mother, very slow and erect, my sandals began making a really loud squishy-squashy sound with each step. All that noise prompted great concern from my companions who thought my shoes were falling apart. Incidentally, my companions were ladies-in-waiting—I’m not kidding, they were assigned to schlep around for/with me all week and if my sandals were failing they would have to improvise something…. Soooo, without admitting to my folly, I did the only thing possible in polite circles, which seems like an atavistic trait that will disappear in some future generation, I feigned an undefined malaise and sat down long enough for my shoe to drain and the squishing to end. Then, the whole entourage merrily continued to the paramount chief’s palace.

At the palace after the sandal debacle, I made my dancing debut in Ghana, although like the shoes, it was also a bit of an embarrassment mixed with ecstasy. By dancing, I entered local history--first “white” woman to dance at the festival. (Let me briefly mention that “white,” or more often, “obruni,” which is the Twi word for white, and the word ‘black” are used here in ways that PC people in the US would find troublesome and I’ve come to accept in a benign manner. Ghanaians just don’t have the racial history to tiptoe around skin color, for them it’s white and black. I find myself cringing often. Nonetheless, tomes could and probably are being written about this, but for you dear readers, I only want to highlight the notion that color of skin could have an entirely different context and for me here in Ghana, people are either white or black.)

As per usual, there is a mountainous tangential back-story about dancing with and for the locals. For Ghanaians, dancing is both ordinary and mythical/mystical. I suspect entire kingdoms have fallen based on someone’s ability to dance (think Scherazade). Children, teenagers and adults, all spring to their feet for spontaneous dancing in the presence or absence of music. If there’s music, which there almost always is (remember my nemesis the radio??), well then there is serious dancing and it’s a lot like “dirty dancing,” crossed with the coolest, smoothest dancers you’ve ever imagined. If you know me at all, then you probably know that I love to dance: however, dancing here is a little odd because if I’m dancing the Ghanaians will stop me to discuss my apparent ability and ask if I learned to dance in Ghana? Most of the Ghanaians believe that dancing is an African phenomenon (actually, I told them that most white men can’t dance….). Last week I went to a little outdoor dance party in Abrafo (yup, you guessed it, the speakers on steroids) and I danced in a large group that included some of my junior-high English students. I nearly died of shock when the 15 year old boys danced with me like Patrick Swayze (sp?). For them it’s normal, I could only helplessly blush while continuing to dance!

Really, I’m still working up to the ecstasy part. During the festival, the “royals,” meaning the chiefs and queen mothers sit inside the Paramount chief’s palace grounds where they are entertained by various groups, mostly traditional drumming groups, but also some dance troupes and some vocal groups, the latter from nearby churches. The paramount chief’s palace is an oversized two-story house with a large grassy lawn enclosed by a six-foot fence. The royals sit on plastic chairs under large party awnings. The audience surrounds an open u-shaped area; say 30 x 30 feet for the dancing and entertainment.

Believe me, there is a pecking-order to who sits where. The order of status seems to be known to all (but me) and begins with the paramount chief surrounded by his most important sub-chiefs, their respective queen mothers, the staff/totem bearers and the chief’s linguists, which are the men you can talk to directly (you are not allowed to directly address a chief.) All the non-royals, stand on the outside of the fence and look in (ugh!!).

Fashion is different here, now that’s an understatement. All the royals are dressed in traditional garb: men in “sheets” and the queen mothers in a pair of sheets, usually their unmatched. All are wearing traditional sandals and copious beads—lots of cowrie shells. More on this later and even some pictures soon. Sadly, my digital camera has gone missing, oh course right before this event, so I couldn’t get photos, but my pal Kate appeared one day and has some.

The chiefs and queen mothers are famous for their dancing and most of their dances are associated with one kind of drum or another. In fact, many of the drums have names, such as “Moses” and “Methuselah,” both were at the festival. Moses has the biggest breasts I’ve ever seen on a drum. Dances are associated with particular types of drums, end of story. I was told that before the festival started the royal drums were ritually “fed” and cleaned. Drumming is a major activity of the festival and during the day entertainment, there are countless drums being played for the royals. I only wish I could adequately describe them. For the simplest drum description, some are standing drums, towering over 5 feet tall, and then there are sitting drums, they’re only played while seated. During some of the palace festivities, 30-40 drums were being played simultaneously. Recalling those palace drums and the accompanying horn blowers still raises my hair the same way it did during the festivities. By the way, the horns are modified elephant tusks, collected by permit, or so I was told!?

Regardless of the kind of entertainment, the chiefs and the queen mothers are free to dance. When they do, the audience shows their appreciation by giving a sort of horizontal peace sign, pointing the index and middle forward (remember the 3 stooges??). This gesture is both a sign of respect as well as a vote of appreciation. All dances are rather slow, but one in particular is slower than molasses and is generally danced as a series of three separate dances. I can only hope to know more. So this entertainment, sitting at the palace with drumming began on Monday (Nov. 20th) and continued for an entire week.

Ok, really, I’m back to the ecstasy and dancing. The Queen Mother of Abrafo had been teaching me a dance called the kete (kitty), which is danced to the kete drum. After four short lessons, I thought I could probably do something similar to her instructions, which is really more about hand movements than anything else. The feet simply shuffle forward to the beat. While at the palace grounds on Sunday and Monday, the Queen Mother looked over her shoulder a couple of times and said, “Go dance!” But, I was feeling shy, so I declined. Finally, on Tuesday afternoon, she stood and said, “Get up,” which I did and followed her onto the dance area. Once there, she beckoned me to dance behind her. I was proceeding nicely with my little kete dancing and getting lots of hand signals of appreciation, but after about ten minutes I suddenly reverted to some kind of dancing more appropriate for a drag bar. I was shaking and shimmiing some things that hadn’t been shaken or shimmied for awhile. The crowd went wild!! Then, I looked over at my Queen Mother and the horror on her face said it all. Quickly, I returned to my staid kete dancing. Despite the apparent faux pax, the rest of the week chiefs and Queen Mothers greeted me with smiles and pointed fingers. For those most in my village, who weren’t there, they have heard and I’ve heard over and over, “wo sa pa” (you dance very well). I can only laugh about it….

While my wild dance at the palace was herstoric, I continued dancing the rest of the week. Even as the chiefs and queen mothers were carried through the town, those walking, dance. I danced until my feet were sore and blistered. I danced beneath the hot African sun and remembered all the dancing that had come before. Nothing from the past holds a candle….

A million other scenes fade in and out of this wild two weeks, but I’ll remember most the pageantry and the solemnity. Some day soon, I’ll try to describe the adomfuo, the traditional executioners from my village, and their roles at the festival, never mind their outfits. They’re part history, menace, comedic relief and crowd control…. Ironically, their god doesn’t like noise (imagine that with the loudspeaker going day and night??). So many layers, so little time.

Well, I’ve been on a rant and haven’t really said much. Somehow the time continues to slide past. I don’t know how it could be December and here in the land of endless summer, it seems even more impossible, although the daily doses of Christmas music remind me otherwise.

Of course the radio continues and I vacillate between leaving and staying. The school children help me stay; I love teaching them (or is it vice versa?). The park is the same ol’ same ol’ nothing to do. I’m frustrated about it, but I have refocused on what I can actually do here, rather than stay stuck on the things I can’t change. The electricity connection at my new house is a close third place behind the NGO boys and the village radio for daily frustration levels. The electricity folks now claim that anyday the electricity estimate will be made and then they’ll hook me up (how much money do I want to throw at this??) More than anything else, I get to practice patience. Do you know what you get when you want patience? More patience! Really, I’m abysmal at patience.

My health has been ok, I’ve had two really miserable UTIs, bloody urine here isn’t fun. I’m always happy when I can buy antibiotics at my neighboring “chemical store” like we buy aspirin in the U.S. While on the topic of health, my darlin’ dog Adom, had puppies about a month ago. Sadly, she laid down on the first three and killed them, or at least that seems to explain their deaths, I wasn’t home, but I did manage to help her deliver the 4th pup. Yes, I cut the umbilical cord and helped massage the little guy to life. One of my favorite boys from the village dropped-by after the birth and suggested I name the puppy, “Wisdom,” so I did. Now, he’s a fat sausage on wobbly legs and he’s the source of endless laughing. Now, when I call the dogs, I’m either calling for grace or wisdom, fitting?? The cat just endures us all.

I’m going to Accra tomorrow to fetch my mail, etc. If you haven’t heard from me, it’s because I haven’t had mail for over a month. I’ll get caught-up soon. Also, since someone asked (Temple?), my address here is: c/o Peace Corps Ghana, P.O. Box 5796, Accra-North, Ghana, West Africa. For all those great correspondents, thanks for your words, they really make my days sweet and those who send goodies; well the dictionary doesn’t have enough words to express my gratitude.

Of course, I’ll think of everyone for the holidays (I think about you everyday anyway). I’ll wish you all happiness, love and peace. Tentatively, my pal Urji and I are planning a short vacation/tour of Ghana’s eastern region (the Volta) around Christmas and New Years.

Ms. JEB, yes-yes, our favorite day of the year is approaching, I’ll always think of you on winter solstice. Here there is no difference in the day lenghth year-round, we have light 12 hours a day, dark 12 hours a day. It’s weird…. Speaking of the reminds me to mention that the Southern Cross, a constellation, is now visible and yes, the night sky is totally different here at 5 degrees north of the equator. If I get up at 4 a.m., I can sometimes see the Big Dipper and that makes me miss North America.

At least my life is interesting; I hope the same for you.

Healing energy to Jen and anyone else.

Happy Birthday wishes belatedly to Becky W.,Laura J-R, Jen, Carole Edson, my dearest brother Tim, then soon for Esther and Miki.

Love to all…d

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Sun, 08 Oct 2006 10:20:00 +0000

If, good intentions are truly the path to hell, then I’ve been feverish. All writing interest and ability abandoned me for nearly a month. Please accept my sincere apologies for the time lapse and any un-necessary concern.

(early September)

I don’t want to go on-and-on about the blasted speaker again, BUT, let me just say that we are both still here. Even with the certainty of moving, nothing really ameliorates the misery of that noise, or sitting in my house after dark wearing earplugs hoping the time will pass quickly and I’ll be able to fall asleep even more quickly. All attempts to live gracefully have failed me today—I’m red-headed mad.

If I wasn’t going to meet Carole in London next week, I’d leave this nightmare tomorrow. Really, I’m over it. I’m delighted that I can’t buy a gun because I’d sure love to shoot that thing into bits (Ghanaians think we all (all Americans) have guns anyway and as you know, I’m all for upholding stereotypes!).

Besides that misery, I’ve been sick again, this time, the lowly intestinal woes. I won’t bore you with the graphic details, but please know that PCVs discuss our physical maladies in great detail—it’s a reliable conversational commodity. Most of us are charter members of the PIYP club--Poop-In-Your-Pants club--given that we must hand-wash everything, this is a serious problem (ok, TMI??). Health, and the lack thereof, constitutes endless hours of chatter on the pros and cons of various medications, treatments, medical personnel, etc. On the general health scale, I consider myself very, very lucky. Thus far, I haven’t been hospitalized, I haven’t lost any organs and I’m still standing fairly straight.

Currently, I’m treating my discomfort as if it’s giardiasis (an intestinal parasite) with flagyl and if that doesn’t work, then I’ll take Cipro, an antibiotic that seems to work for just about any- and everything. The pharmacy around the corner has a wide selection of drugs: common, we would call them, “generics,” although mostly manufactured in China and India; the ubiquitous herbal remedies; and traditional treatments (i.e. from fetish priests and priestesses, which I’m going to consult about something before I leave here). I suspect that any drug ever created is available here somewhere, legal or otherwise. Some of the illegal stuff I often smell. For the legal stuff, you simply consult one of the countless pharmacies, confirm your symptoms, then, they’ll recommend something an appropriate treatment for you, you pay and go. Oddly enough, all the drugs seem really cheap here; the flagyl and cipro cost only about 20,000 cedis (about $2.00).

Besides the common gut issues, for the past 28 days I’ve been taking a HIV/Aids-post-exposure-prophylaxis, due to blood contact from a car wreck where I helped the dozen and a half or so injured/bleeding folks (at the time it didn’t occur to me to wear the gloves that I had in my medical kit—next time? Yes!). That this type of medicine even exists is a miracle—protected from HIV/Aids, really?? I believe the drug is somewhere in the pre-FDA approval state—fortunately we have the developing-world drug trials. Nonetheless, I’m grateful to sidestep even the slightest possibility of HIV transmission; however, the medicine has wicked side effects, short term immune-suppression, nausea and exhaustion. So, I’m limping forward, sick everyday, but hopeful.

For something completely different, on Wednesday, the 13^th, I’m flying to London to enjoy a holiday with my pal Carole. She’s there now working, but she’ll extend her trip so we can have some fun. We don’t have any hard and fast plans. I hope to return from this little trip restored physically, emotionally and spiritually. Besides all that, I have nothing exciting to report--it’s not for lack of trying. In the past week or so, I have revised my hopes for this whole experience. “Revised,” is too strong, actually, it’s more like dumbed-down my hopes. Development work is not as easy as it sounds and my idealism has worn thin from the grind of reality in Ghana—mismanagement and greed (mostly the legacy of colonialism and slavery….). I feel so very disappointed for the rural poor of Ghana, like the folks in my village. They work so very hard and get so very little…. On top of all that, the villagers are accustomed to folks arriving with “things,” money or goods, rather than the “real” tools to improve their lives, such as skills, tools and improved methods (I’m not even talking about the conscious raising necessary for them to believe that the deserve or could even attain anything different or better….).

I can’t believe that I’ve been here almost a year—unbelievable!!

Here I am feeling so low and I just learned that the American Ambassador will visit the park tomorrow and wants to meet the PCV there. Can I plaster a smile on my face or what?? I’m just glad that the ambassador is a woman….

What else is in my heart?

Earlier today I was thinking about the students returning to school here soon and wondering if they still write those, “what I did on my summer vacation” essays. What would the students in Abrafo-Odumase write about? I’m thinking about this since I’ll soon be teaching English to the Junior Secondary Form 3 class, which is roughly the equivalent of 8^th-grade or last year of middle-school. I hope to be more creative than pedantic, but I have no idea what to expect. I’m still waiting for the headmaster to give me last year’s syllabus or this year’s textbook.

Since I last wrote, I’ve acquired a cat (ah-gin-em-moi) and named him Ano (aah-no, twi for mouth—enough said). I came home from a day in Accra last week to find my little dog in heat, is it still called that? I felt like crying when I saw the number of males surrounding the house. My neighbor, Sister Sophia, calls them my “new in-laws,” which doubles me over laughing when I think about it. I’m hoping Adom is too young to conceive, after all, she’s only 6 months old?? Who knows, perhaps, I’ll become both a grandmother and a queen-mother in Ghana. In the meantime, I have to clean the dog urine off the porch daily—urgh, males!!

Before I go further, let me mention the birthday love that arrived via DHL and USPS. Wow, I’m still speechless. I came home and unpacked everything, then both wept and giggled in equal measure. I’ll send appropriate missives to all, but let me just say that the wine from Nancy and Joyce takes the cake, which incidentally arrived with cake, icing, candles and balloons, further accompanied by wonderful scents, cheese nips, books, treats, an angel, a Jesus, a moonstone, leopard-print shorts (Dino, you’ll always make me laugh), goodies for the kids, envelopes, cards, tape…. Thank you for the thoughtfulness and generosity. Any word/s feel small when compared to my gratitude. For the record, let me say that the best part of any largess is sharing the joy with my Ghanaian friends and neighbors. They love anything—the kids have been playing with the balloons for days and the candy is quickly savored.

I can’t believe that I’m fifty years old….

The Peace Corps’ mail-man, Sammy Appiah, asks what I’ve done to have so many friends and I can only blink at him, clueless and appreciative. That reminds me to add, totally unrelated to anything, that this is not the best time of my life, if it was, I would be tempted to stay here beyond the two year period. This is surreal, still! Everyday, I miss my friends and family more than I miss NPR, M & M’s, a car, sipping champagne and the zaniness of American politics, and that’s a hefty heap of love. Please know that you’re missed.

(late September)

Whew!! Scotland in September? Perfect!

I loved everything, especially the cool temperatures and cold toes. I felt a little like one of those lab rats that gets pulled out of the water barrel for awhile, only to be thrown back in after a respite of champagne, food, history, fluffy white sheep in green rolling pastures, bagpipes and friendship. I’m still swimming…. What’s not to like about civilization? Starbucks? Washing machines?

Yes, yes, of course I wanted to buy yards of wool and those exquisite ancestral tartans, but due to luggage restrictions I settled for restocking my deodorant, q-tips, silk slips, etc.

Since I’ve only been back in Abrafo for a week, I don’t have much to report.

( now, early October )

Time is marching along and I simply try to keep up.

This week I started “teaching” at the local school. I’m teaching both Form 2 and Form 3 English (something similar to 8^th and 9^th grade). I’m at the school on Monday and Wednesday mornings, promptly at 8 a.m. so I can see them dance, drum and sing before settling into their classes which begin promptly at 8:15 a.m. Oh, what smart-smart teenagers sit in front of me. This past week focused on introductions and then, questions and answers; they’re keen to know about the U.S. and I’m keen to know about them.

I wasn’t the least bit surprised to learn that after school most of these students go home, help with dinner and then, study for a few hours. They view education as their only hope for life “off the farm and out of the village.” Of the 26 students, the Headmaster claims that only half will proceed to Senior Secondary School (SSS), their equivalent to our high school. I hope to help them increase that number, but it’s not just brains, it is about money. The Ghanaian government provides primary and junior secondary education free of charge (well, kinda, parents must pony up the money for uniforms, books, etc.), but SSS is purely out-of-pocket. Reason enough to love the U.S. The equation is simple, the better you score on the exams, the better your chances of getting into a subsidized school, less money from the parents. Let me add that their English is far better than my twi ever will be and they know much about the world in a spotty-dalmation way.

Going to school is already the highlight of my week. I can barely think of the NGO without wincing (NGO = Non-Government Organization, sorry Lynsey, I forgot this earlier). Luckily the few bright spots continue--the funny/sweet employees, the park’s biodiversity and larger rainforest ecosystem. Sadly, I can’t have the forest without the NGO. So, my answer is simple, I just go less often, which leaves me rather adrift since my primary project is de-structured, or perhaps deconstructed?? When you add the miserable loud radio days to the miserable NGO days, you get obsession about greener pastures. I think I wrote this before, but I loathe leaving before getting the bicycles here in January. I would disappoint so many people and the bicycles will really, really help so many.

Meanwhile, I’m still waiting on the electric company for an estimate to hook-up the house across the village, which is a good half-kilometer from the speaker, but don’t think for a moment that it’s really that much quieter. I’ll still be wearing earplugs. Breath in, breath out… My pal Kate, the art teacher, is nudging me to repaint. I don’t know why, but I’m dragging my feet. Monday, I plan to visit the electric company and retrieve the estimate—one step toward the thousand miles.

For something more upbeat, did I mention sleeping in the rainforest? A married couple from my training group, Sol and Kendra—Minnesotans, wanted to camp in the rainforest and so we did last month. The park has a camping area, or so it’s called; it’s not camping as we know it. From the main visitor area, following a hilly half-kilometer trail you arrive at the campground. The forest is so dense that you can’t see the campground, but you sorta stumble onto the component parts. There is a composting outhouse, a cold-water shower, running water spigots and about 6 concrete platforms with corrugated tin roofs. The park provides both sleeping mats and mosquito nets.

It is a gi-normous understatement to say that the rainforest is noisy at night. I can’t begin to describe the sounds, we have nothing like them—more cell phones tones and odd video-game soundtracks. Nocturnal things, things that go bump in the night, whatever it all was kept the three of us either laughing, gasping or speechless all night. We got very little sleep, we held hands and we didn’t go to the toilet until dawn. I can’t wait to do it again.

Coming to a close, I want to report that for today, I’m healthy, no problems and I’m feeling fine. Following the HIV/Aids prophylaxis, the medical unit will monitor my blood for the next six months.

So, that’s my story, what’s yours?? Write me, tell me!!

Birthday wishes to Nikki, Missy, Susan Patla, Sara Lenahan and Miki (was it 12?).

Healing energy to Jen, Carole’s Dad and anyone else…

Peace and love to all…

Xoxo….dixie

AKA Auntie Esi

Ps. The American Ambassador, Pamela Bridgewater, came to the park and it was fun. I hope to post a picture soon.

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Tue, 15 Aug 2006 09:19:00 +0000

Warm, but cooler greetings from the rainforest! The Ghanaians claim that they're freezing, I know need a sheet some nights. But, this is never, never, let me repeat, this place is never COLD. Sorry, I've been slow to write anything here. I've been just muddling along without much change to report. Don't think for a minute that I haven't thought of you'all. It happens enough that I'm reluctant to admit the truth. Basically, I'm ok and I hope that's true other there..... The first chunk of this is about birding, so skip to below if that's not your cup of tea.

Ok, ok Temple, thanks for the nudge! But first, I must warn you that I’ve done far less birding here than I ever imagined. Why?, a myriad of reasons--weather, noise problem and security issues, etc. Weather, more correctly the heat which dictates activity timing and that means that I can either exercise in the morning or not at all. As you know morning is the best birding time, so birding time is trumped by exercise time. I’m more depressed without exercise than without birding—the pecking order. I can’t seem to mix the two, at least not while maintaining my target cardio level.

Then there’s the loudspeaker/noise problem. I never hear any birds at my house due to the incessant noise, whether from the loudspeakers or my neighbors’ radios. Since I’m a sound-birder, not a sight-birder, I’m missing my best bird-finding skill. There’s simply no running outside to identify that odd squawk, peep or whistle here. About once a week the electricity is off in the a.m. and I’m stunned stupid by the morning chorus. Even if I could hear it, looking out of my house doesn’t work since I need curtains to curtail prying eyes. (I’m the source of great curiosity and some days it is simply overwhelming and I want to “flip-off” everyone. Just so you don’t think I’m angelic, note that I’ve screamed at the local children more times than I care to mention, esp. when they’re screaming, “obruni,” which means “white person.” There are days….)

Another reason for my slim birding is safety; I don’t go birding by myself for fear of assault or even worse. Weekly, people are attacked somewhere in Ghana for their cell phones, etc., so I don’t want to tempt anyone with my binocs. That’s not to suggest that I live in fear, but rather I’m very, very careful. I do go birding in the park alone and I feel utterly safe there. I’ve identified about half of the “published species” in the park (100+ of the 200+ species—Ghana has over 600 species recorded??). Also, I’ve birded in and around the village. That reminds me to mention that there are great birders in Ghana, just like everywhere else, but finding them is no picnic (I’ve now met Larry P’s equivalent here—similarly encyclopedic and that makes me homesick). Regardless, the Ghanaian birders are an elusive lot and some don’t even own binocs, so identifying them by “plumage” isn’t reliable. Along the same vein, the park hosts a birding tour group nearly every month or so, mostly European and African birders. I watch them with an odd mixture of curiosity and awe, noticing too that my birding identity has been surgically removed, albeit temporarily I hope. (I’m not worrying about this, although it’s certainly odd. I must believe that this is simply another casualty of all things new and challenging!) By the way, many of the birders here are “family” listers, just last week I met a pair from Rochester, NY and they were flying into Cote d’ Ivoire for the helmeted (?) guinea fowl; they promised to send me an update.

And finally, there’s the rainforest itself—it is visually impenetrable, so unlike the visually spacious savannahs or prairies. The rainforest presents a nearly solid wall of tangled greens. If a bird slips out to the edge, it just as likely slips back in more quickly. Following a bird on foot in the rainforest is impossible, chainsaws and bulldozers would work, although that is exactly the problem all over the planet. So, the canopy walkway is great for mid- to top-canopy viewing, although the birds pop in and out and following them is impossible. I’m always grateful for the predators (diurnal raptors); they generously soar or lurk about most of the day. Birding from the walkway is tough; it is shaky, but possible in early a.m. before all the visitors arrive. The seven tree platforms are terrific for viewing, they’re about the size of a modern gas station bathroom, 10 x 10ish with a big tree in the middle. (I could stay there all day, but the visitors are annoying—squealing children, obnoxious teenagers with knives to carve initials in the trees, etc.) By the way, pishing doesn’t work at all, although some S. African birders claim to the contrary. It could be my pishing?? (Dear Non-birders, “pishing” is a funny sound that birders make to entice birds out of the bush, at best it really works, at worse you’re simply a little daft.)

Ok, that all means that my birding time has been slim and much accomplished without binocs. Oh, one minor footnote, I almost forgot about the insect challenge. Insects here mimic the birds (and I’m told vice versa), especially calls and flight behaviors, not to mention their comparable size. I wish I could adequately describe the insect sounds, they’re otherworldly. For the longest time I thought someone (a teenager?) was goofing around with their cell phone in the park. I then thought it had to be an employee!? I’ll try for a recording; otherwise no one will believe me. (Yes, all the sounds are novel here, nothing is recognizable. Just last week I learned to distinguish the haunting-wailish-cry of the bush babies, they’re a native nocturnal primate—have I talked about the animals?? Check out pangolins for comic relief. Soon….)

Ok, so here’s the park bird list to date (my Ghana list is longer, but I haven’t organized it yet--soon):

Gray Parrot
Yellow-billed turaco
Cassin’s spinetail
Common swift
Forest woodhoopoe
Piping hornbill
Red-rumped tinkerbird
Bristle-mosed barbet
Vieillot’s barbet
Yellow-billed barbet
Cassin’s honeyguide
Buff-spotted woodpecker
Rufous-sided broadbill
Lesser-striped swallow
Grey-baked camaroptera
Sharpe’s apalis
Ashy flycatcher
Chestnut-capped flycatcher
African yellow whiteeye
Copper sunbird
Little green sunbird
Superb sunbird
Large-billed sabine’s puffback
Western black-headed oriole
Plum-colored starling

And now the update on all other matters….

First, I’ve posted some other photos at: http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/dxebird7/my_photos

The work at the Park with the NGO is effectively at a standstill. I’m caught on a slippery bureaucratic slope. The NGO wants me to “run” the park and Peace Corps wants me to work with a Ghanaian/s to “run the park.” Peace Corps maintains that no volunteer may take the job of a host-country national, which is exactly what the NGO proposes. The NGO said they would hire someone last fall, alas no has been interviewed yet. I understand how volunteers can look good on the financial statement, however, the NGO’s attempt to solve their staffing issues with volunteers and interns isn’t working so well, not to mention in direct conflict with Peace Corps policies. So, work at the park is on-hold, regardless, I go there everyday and work on my social capital. I love the employees, they make me laugh everyday. Working “retail” takes special people—they must like people!! The real concern is my Norma Rae complex; I’m secretly afraid that I’ll become a union organizer. I hate how the management of the NGO treats the employees (chattel). One foot in front of the other….

Luckily, community/development work is rewarding. I’ve met with several groups in town to discuss business, all small scale issues, but at least engaging. The schools want me to do anything and I plan to teach English at the local J.S.S. (our Jr. High equivalent) and help with evening tutoring at the Primary School when both resume after their August recess. Earlier this month I took the headmaster from the local school to the internet café and helped him establish an email account and then I tutored a bit about browsing, etc. (I’m simply amazed some days….) Mr. Ghanni (gun-knee), er, ah, Isaac, the headmaster with the softest-ever-voice asked me to teach the kids something about HIV/AIDS in the fall, which will happen if I can get a Ghanaian teacher to co-teach/facilitate. Peace Corps is big on HIV/AIDS education and in African it’s a really big deal…sadly….

In addition, I’ve met with two local chiefs (called Nanas), at Jukwa Banso and Frami, to discuss development issues. Jukwa plans to extend their water pipe and Frami wishes to build a market area by the roadside to sell their local produce. The countryside and villages are littered with the skeletons of good-intentioned projects that have failed, mostly because they weren’t sustainable (give a fish or teach to fish?!). Despite the years of unfulfilled government promises, misguided NGOs and other development debacles, I’m amazed that communities remain hopeful about their futures. (What else do we have besides hopes and dreams??) To my surprise, both communities want to “make” me a Queen Mother (yes, the Brit legacy). If it happens there will be a really big party with lots of drumming, music, hoopla, funny hats, shoes and careful draping of native fabric (then I’ll be called Nana He-ma and people will curtsy before me—eye rolling now for sure!).

In three nearby communities, I’ve arranged to bring a bicycle project that offers half-price bikes and teaches the recipients how to maintain them. The workshops are scheduled for January 2007 and I’m jazzed about it. So far, over 60 people have signed-up and 120 bikes are reserved. You can learn more about The Village Bicycle Project at: www.pcei.org/vbp

Besides all that, my other job in Abrafo-Odumase is simply to be a U.S. representative. These poor people, they got a moody, odd-ball eccentric with leftist-feminist-organic-DIYer-yankee-ingenuity notions, none-the-less, I give it my best effort and always strive to stay on this side of the propriety. Mostly, I’m good. I’m far more social than I ever imagined. Sociability is the most defining aspect of this culture, at least in the villages. In the morning, it is important to go greet your neighbors, just say “hello” and move on. Greetings are so important that they devote at least a week to all the nuances during training. Because I’m “mature,” I’m given much more respect than my younger PC pals. This is an elder-centric culture. Young children will attempt to carry anything in my arms. Seating is by age, starting in front with the oldest, they get the best seats. The shift from the U.S. youth-centric culture is palpable. I feel oddly pampered.

Besides everything else, presently my biggest challenge presently is learning to walk like a Ghanaian woman. They are so incredibly smooth, strangely a gait similar to geishas, even at my slowest, they think I’m running. Their posture is perfect, honed under buckets of everything. My next tactic is simply to get a skirt made like theirs—tight-tight and ankle length. I don’t know how I’ll get on a tro-tro, but I’m going to learn this, it’s so-so sexy….

Rough segue, actually no segue…. Inhale, exhale….

The noise in Abrafo continues. I spend a lot of time in earplugs and I hate it. The earplug world is surreal—hummmmmmmm. Tonight there’s a wake-keeping as a prelude to a funeral tomorrow, so even earplugs don’t work that well. Have I described funerals yet? It’s the largest cultural expression here—that sentence isn’t “right,” but I can’t fix it. Since I’m going to a funeral tomorrow, I’ll be able to write more about that next time, suffice to say that funerals are the most common and attended social activities in Ghana.

There’s a really big chance that I’ll be moving to a cool, “architect’s” house on the outer edge of town. Miami University Architecture students have been coming to Abrafo-Odumase for several years and they’ve built a community center, a market area, a library and this great little bungalow of a “guest house.” I’m waiting to hear from the electric co. Currently, no pun intended, the house is wired, but not connected to the grid (grid = wire and maybe or maybe not pole). The village elders seem evenly split between, “yes,” I’ll need a pole vs. the “no pole,” camp. I’m cautiously optimistic. The NGO, Chief Appiako and the Community Committee want me to be there. I’m just hoping that I can afford the pole or whatever. NGO probably won’t pay for the connection and Peace Corps doesn’t guarantee electricity, so if it can happen it will be on my dime. I’m thinking it worth about $100-200, which here equals 1 or 2 million cedis. I can’t live in this climate without a fan. I could do without just about everything else. There’s no way to know when or if this might happen—everything here is on “Ghanaian time.” There’s a website about the house/project, but I can’t seem to locate it today?? Next time, or search Miami University for Ghana.

What else? I’m healthy and mostly happy, although some days I’m so grumpy, I wonder if I didn’t fall out of bed on my head during the night. The Peace Corps types all say, “it’s the heat, or the malaria medicine, or it’s the culture.” Whatever….

In about a week I’ll be 50. I can’t believe it. Of course, I wish I was there and having a big party--postponed until I get home. In the meantime, I’m gonna celebrate here with PC buddies in Techiman, site of our training and home of my first Ghanaian family—Mommi Jane and the kids. Many volunteers are converging for the swearing-in of the new teacher group, which marks Peace Corps 45^th year in Ghana and the Ghanaian President will be there (not at my party). My pal Katie, the art teacher at the deaf school, has created beautiful invites out of watercolor paper with a cut-out bluebird that somehow comes apart origami-fashion to reveal the inner text. There’s a metaphor here somewhere, but I’m gonna leave it alone….

I think of everyone more than seems normal and the oddest little things get me started down the nostalgia path. Songs remind me of people, this week it has been a song about laughing that reminds me of Martha’s invincibility and joy (sorry the title and artist both elude me at the moment, which isn’t unusual, I spent most of last week trying to remember Roy Orbison’s name--I could sing about 20 of his songs—oh well—welcome to peri-menapause!).

Thanks to all those who write and/or send goodies—it is such a treat to hear from home and the goodies, well words are insufficient.

Mary and Tammara, you deserve a medal for continued support and care packages and kudos to Ms. DHL herself, Nancy D. you’re my lifeline!

Healing thoughts to Jen and Carole’s father, everyone else.

Always…xoxo…d

P.S. Birthday wishes to Pop, Jon, Bloomington Cindy, Dear-dear birthmates--Cuz Di and JEB, to OT before the end of the month; then belated wishes to Landis and Kathy E. I’m forgetting someone?? Sorry!

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Tue, 27 Jun 2006 09:47:00 +0000

First, the good news—I moved back to Abrafo. Actually, I’m back in Odumase. I’m living in a hyphenated town, Abrafo-Odumase, that’s purrfect somehow. Just yesterday my neighbor informed me that I’m actually living in Odumase and she indicated the dividing line, which is more or less the Methodist Church and clearly downhill from my place. Odumase literally means “under the odum tree,” and odum trees are native to the rainforest. The suffix “ase” in Twi means under (O-dum-aussie). Sadly, there are no odum trees left in town; however, they’re numerous in the park.

The new chief, Nana Appiako III (na-na op-pea-ack-co), put the cabash on the radio people. After the order held for two weeks, I got all my things and moved back to A19. Even though the villagers aren’t certain why I’m here, they seem genuinely glad to see me back in town. The park employees, who live in town, seem especially thrilled with the return of their prodigal volunteer. The NGO boys don’t seem to care, or notice for that matter, except they wanted the guest house for another visitor, oh well!!

The bad news is that the radio has come back on as of just yesterday. I enjoyed the two weeks without it, but they can’t seem to maintain that silence. I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m frustrated, mad, simply beyond words. I won’t be able to live here with it going again and I’m not moving back to Pedu. This might just be my pink slip so to speak?? Should I buy the thing? Even thought that’s the wrong message to village--white girl shows up and wants things changed?? Urgh!! Obviously, more on this later…. I can’t think about it yet….

Despite that grim news, I have lots of little things to note since last posting: the rainy season has begun and that means that it rain everyday a little or buckets. This place gets 200 inches in a year and that’s 5 times Indiana’s average. Oddly enough, the rains bring cooler temperatures. I can’t find Cape Coast temperatures online and I don’t have a thermometer, so I often note Accra’s temps, which now are something like 72-84, whereas, before the rainy season they averaged higher, maybe 74-92. Storms here are spectacular, incredible lightening, but no real winds, tornadoes, or hurricanes (odd!). The slightly cooler temps translate into a sheet some nights, but not the whole night. The Ghanaians exclaim, “it’s cold.” They have no idea!!!

My dog, Wyoming, or Odom, which is her Ghanaian name and means grace (ah-doom), is growing by the day. She has an even temperament, likes to chase goats and sheep, and especially likes to sit on my lap—an African lapdog. In the next week or two, I’ll drag her into Cape for a rabies shot. I don’t know what I’ll do about her reproductive system, esp. since I’ve heard that Ghanaian vets aren’t very good. One thing at a time….

Once back in A19, I decided to hire my favorite girl, Alice, to fetch water, sweep, etc. Life is just too short to dislike your “small girl,” which is exactly how I felt about the earlier gal that the landlord recommended. I pay Alice well and we have started a savings account for special things. On the subject of hiring, I also have a Twi tutor, although Peace Corps will reimburse my tutoring expenses. “Master Paul,” as he is called at the private Jr. High is quite patient and helpful. I’m feeling hopeful about this language thing, but it isn’t easy for me at all.

Then there’s the World Cup insanity. Ghana is wild for their Black Stars. There’s a really sweet unity here for their team, actually I’m told all of Africa is cheering. I watched the Ghana vs. US match with a room full of Ghanaians and it was an Anthropology moment—for those goals that jumped up and down, hugged, danced and screamed, not so unlike us, but distinctly African. I have a Ghana flag hanging on A19. If they win today, I expect riots of celebration. Stay tuned!

Now for the longer story, one close to my heart or more accurately closer to my stomach; I’m thinking about food, actually, I’m always thinking about food. No sooner do I finish one meal than I start thinking about the next. Besides Mom’s goodies, I thought that my food focus originated with hiking and backpacking, keeping the fuel coming, but evidently not, since it persists here and this is not quite hiking or backpacking. Really, I do wish it otherwise so that I could wear size 8 pants, but oh well!! By the way, here “pants” means underwear, and “yes,” I’ve blundered more than once causing the Africans to blush. They’re called, “trousers,” here, which sounds slightly more civilized anyway. Ok, where was I going with this ramble?

Oh, yeah food. The food topic is mammoth, just think of the enormity, all the processes--packaging, advertising, storing, shipping, preparing, production, etc. Drug around by the food chain could be interesting, maybe? I wonder, how did we get this particular stuff and not some other stuff? For instance, what about pasta? How many wet and sloppy or worse yet, hard leather-tough prototypes came before someone perfected lasagna noodles and what about THAT shape? What made that shape ideal? I’m certain someone knows the answer (probably that Kimball guy from Cook’s Illustrated and I miss that rag more than I can say). Regardless, I’m heading for Darwin and food evolution (would elegant design work as well?), so I’ll just stop there, but you get my drift. The subject is too enormous to get your mouth around.

Obviously, I have enough spare time to think and last week I was thinking about all the kilocalories involved in growing the food in Ghana. Industrial farming hasn’t reached this shore, at least not yet. Here, farming is hard manual labor with bad tools on clay soils. If you’ve ever had a garden, you’ll understand all that; if not then use your imagination because it is grueling, back-breaking effort to feed yourself and your family from the earth. I’m convinced that our ancestors were a hearty lot, in other words we came from good stock.

My Ghanaian home-stay brother, Stephen, who works for an agri-chemical firm said that the largest field currently cultivated in Ghana is only 20 acres (this is why they don’t have tractors, no need!!). If you know me at all, you should know that I’m crazy about farmers, they are part of my DNA. I can’t imagine a harder working, smarter bunch, who incidentally don’t seem to get there fair share of the pie. So go out a support your local farmer, they’re nearly an extinct species. But, I digress. Since I don’t have access to hard data, I’m guessing that in the US, you’d need to go back 100 to 150 years to find a time when the average farm was just 20 acres (and that probably came with a mule, or was that 40 acres?).

This is subsistence farming, providing only food for families with possibly a little excess to sell, but since everyone has the same excess the income for the producer remain very low, although good for the consumer. The farms here are what I’d call country-garden size with a little orchard somewhere in the mix—maybe an acre or two at most. None of them are linear either, the township and range concept never migrated this far west—so, all the gardens/farms look crazy-quiltish instead of the straight lines of the US. Which brings up the land ownership issue, suffice to say that ownership is nothing like our understanding of land ownership. Historically, the land was owned by the chiefs and parceled out according to some mysterious calculation (another thesis topic). People either tend their family land or hire the labor. The land issue seems a little feudal, a little share-cropping and then some component that has no equivalent in English, all in all a little confusing. At best, I’m attempting to describe moving targets—this is a complex and not easily reducible world.

I’ve been to “farm” twice with my Odumase neighbor, Sister Essi (s-e). Both times, I thought I’d die—I’m not kidding and you know I’m very hardy in most planting zones. While at the farm, we dug cassava, big bread-loaf sized tubers that want to remain in the red-red earth. We weeded with the cutlasses and a short-handled hoe that left me pitched forward in pinched agony after half an hour. Ergonomics is about fifty years away. We collected oranges and tomatoes. Then we cut two plantain stalks, one for her consumption and the other one to sale in the market. Plantains grow like bananas, they are biologically related, and one stalk sprouts about 20 bright green plantains, weights about 40+ pounds and is about 2+ feet long. We carried the whole mess back to her house, about 3 miles, er, well, actually, she carried most of stuff on her head and I had about 30 pounds of cassava in my backpack. I’m not kidding I was exhausted and dirtier than I’ve ever been in my entire life.

Women seem to do most of the day-in-day-out work on the farms. I don’t know what the men do really, besides sit around and play checkers, which they call, “draft.” To their credit, I’ve been told that men clear the land for farming--slash and burn agriculture. Geez, I started out just to talk about food and see where I gone and I’m about to launch into men, so I’ll stop this tangent and leave the poor men for another day.

Whew, I’m tired and I haven’t even gotten to the food yet. Growing the stuff and eating it doesn’t even begin to touch the full socio-cultural-environmental matrix. I’ve often wished that I was a little less interested in everything, but that’s me and if you’re reading this you probably know that’s how I think/feel. Everything here is somehow fascinating.

At the local open-air markets you can buy the following vegetables almost every day: tomatoes, green peppers, scotch bonnet peppers, yams (not like our sweet potatoes, think more like bland potatoes, but big as footballs), green beans, onions, cabbages, carrots, garden eggs, cucumbers, eggplants, summer squashes, fresh and roasted ground nuts (peanuts), cassavas (another tuber, bland in flavor), and kontomires (kohn-tome-air-ray; a green, which must be cooked due to possible amoeba infestations). Seasonally, we have avocados; they just went out of season. Many fruits seem to be year-round: bananas, plantains, oranges, lemons, limes, pineapples, papayas, and watermelons. Mangoes, star fruit and apples seem to be seasonal, although honestly, I’m still working out all these details.

Another day, I’ll try to describe the markets--they are other-worldly and the bigger the town, the wilder it gets. Cape Coast is the 5th largest town in Ghana and the market is big. Just about anything can be found there, next to the tomatoes you’ll find knock-off cassette tapes, next to black-black charcoal for cooking (oops, don’t wear white to the market). Generally, the markets are a series of small stalls, sometimes all of a particular item is together, other times not at all. In Cape they line the already too narrow streets, leaving pedestrians, bikers, cars and taxis vying for the open space. You dare not wobble into the road. Besides the roadsides, there are large roofed and unroofed market areas, again with either wooden stalls or at the very least wooden tables for goods. Always there is filth, goats, sheep, rubbish, the bump and grind or capitalism. The market people, esp. the market women are another story, another day….

While on the topic of markets, with great certainty I can say that southern Ghana is the better place to live for food availability and variety. I am deeply grateful to be in the southern, food-rich portion of the country. My PCV friends up north where the Sahel plays its magic say that they have less food available year-round. Northern Ghana is more savannah than garden and the dry season there is really, really dry, dry-brown to be precise and while it’s a dry hot, it’s still hot, think Phoenix in the summer but without the rains and without the cool nights.

Besides the fruits and veggies in the market, there’s also fish in a million forms--fresh, smoked and dried, with endless permutations on those themes. So many varieties—things that swim, crawl, creep, slither and some things I’m certain don’t move, or have never moved, nonetheless, they’re all somewhere in the market. Some days in the market I simply marvel at the eye location of individual species—one top, on the sides, in-between, are those eyes? I’m a little embarrassed to admit that the sea is mysterious and a little unnerving to me. There’s something about the sea that I don’t trust, but more likely that I don’t understand. I find myself tiptoeing around the sea as if she’ll wrestle me into her watery depths over some old, unknown grudge. I’m always wary around the coastline—I know it’s a little crazy….

Seafood is the most common food in Cape Coast. For cultural realism, I sometimes bike/walk the side streets near the ocean where the fishing folks live to admire their nets and buoys, all in great heaps outside their homes. I’ll save the descriptions of their “from-shore” fishing methods for another day and never mind what is happening out in the brightly-painted boats with ragged flapping sails—maybe I’ll hitch a ride and tempt the Sea Gods? Incidentally, they don’t fish here on Tuesdays; it’s a day for the sea gods to rest (no fresh fish on Tuesdays).

Other meats, beef, mutton, goat, dog, chicken, turkey, pork, and guinea fowl are all readily available in the market and they are also in various configurations—still breathing (you’d like the white one with black speckles?) and in a multitude of post mortem options. I never really knew what slaughtering meant until I got to Ghana. I spent one unforgettable afternoon observing the creative use of hatchets and machetes on a beef carcass—it’s a miracle that I haven’t denounced meat, or more succinctly, butchery. No one has mentioned the animal gods resting, or for that matter the plant gods either?

Now that we’re past growing and gods, it’s finally time for eating. To my palate, Ghanaian cuisine lacks the variability of the US’s culinary hodge-podge and pales when compared to the robust flavors of so many others--think China, India or France. Ghana honestly earned this gustatory boredom, after all this was a British colony, the former Gold Coast. If not for high tea, you’d die in the UK from boring, dull food. Colonialism aside (as it that’s anything anyone could say that flippantly), food here is interesting if for no other reason than it is perfectly matched to the botanical setting and history. Recall that this is the equatorial zone and food is plentiful and seasonal, albeit somewhat restricted in variation. What is consumed by the locals is easily cultivated, cheap and consistently available. Actually, I’m rather fond of their simplicity—we are either having A, B or C—that greatly reduces the shopping/preparing/etc. process, so get used to it. Ok!

Besides the raw materials, you can easily obtain already prepared street food. The omniscient options on the street are called “chop,” and nearly the same menu is available everywhere from sit-down restaurants to street-side stalls. The restaurants just have more variety, whereas the street stalls usually have a specialty, such as fried egg-sandwiches, roasted maize, wachyie (beans and rice with a bevy of condiments) or my favorite treat, red-red, which is fried ripe plantain slices with an accompanying bean stew. (*Red-red recipe at the end of post.) Related to the “chop” option, there’s the fantastic phenomena of “head food,” or more succinctly food carried on the head in some sort of container—meat pies (pie crust around a wad of meat or onion), boo-fruit (Ghanaian donuts, round fist sized fried dough balls), Fan Ice (their idea of ice cream, more like icing in a plastic wrapper that you chew a corner off and suck dry), ground nuts, and my other favorite tro-tro snack—plantain chips, yup, thinned sliced, fried things with salt.

Because this is a pedestrian economy vs. a car-based economy, food stalls and everything else stalls, sell goods at foot intervals—or where another bunch of consumers might walk by—that means they are everywhere. Now this is empirical, but I’ll guess that there’s a stall selling some type of prepared food every ½ block in Cape Coast. There’s just one onerous aspect of street food, it is served in plastic bags that are filled then tied closed. Most people eat the contents of the bag by biting off a corner and squishing the bags contents, toothpaste tube style, into the mouth. Yeah, I’m learning some valuable skills while in Peace Corps.

I’ve described some of these options before, but as a reminder, here’s the prepared food primer. Most of the indigenous food consists of a carbohydrate-base then a soup ladled over all. The carbohydrates are all bland and the soups are similar, although native peppers sometimes add a little tongue sparkle. Fufu is the most common carb and it is made from cooked, mashed plantain with either yam or cassava. Rice is made into rice balls the size of two clenched fists and corn is cooked and fermented and appears in several forms, from stew consistency to something resembling sliceable tamales sans innards—local names vary, but the maize stuff is known as either teasit (tease-it), kenkey (ken-kay) or banku (bahn-coo).

Soups are usually tomato based with onions and fish heads leading list of ingredients. Really, fish is in everything because it is cheap here and once dried or smoked it can be kept without refrigeration (most villagers don’t have refrigeration, keep in mind that 78% of Ghanaians earn less than $2 US per day or 20,000 cedis). During training we joked that even the breakfast oats smelled a little like dried fish—ugh! Regardless, the most common soup is called light soup and it rather like Old Mother Hubbard’s soup—some bones and some water. Palm kernel soup just adds those red colored kernels, the size of walnuts, to the light soup, and add ground nuts (or peanuts) and you have ground nut soup, although the peanut flavor rarely transcends the hours spent at a rolling boil. I don’t know why, but all Ghanaian foods seem to need the more-is-better cooking method, especially when it comes to boiling. I like to think that I’m eating highly sterilized food—auto-claved foods.

Fufu is the national food. The guys at the park even have it for breakfast down at the local chop bar, at the entrance to the park. They have told me that other food doesn’t rate as food. If they haven’t eaten fufu, then they haven’t eaten. This is a cultural thing. I can’t think of a similar American sentiment, but maybe it is there? McDonalds? Krispy Kreme?

Besides the raw ingredients and the prepared foods, you can buy canned goods and non-perishable groceries in little stores or stalls. One store that I frequent in Cape is about the size of a 7-11 store, but packed floor to rafter with mostly canned goods. They also have some cleaning products, liquor (nothing worth drinking) and most of the basics like flour, sugar and salt. I hadn’t seen tuna in oil in years until I got here. I can buy tomato paste, powdered milk (of course not skim), olive oil (on occasion), white rice and white pasta (don’t worry Mary, there’s still plenty for you), canned mushrooms, corned hash and what they call biscuits, but I’d call crackers. Some days they have bizarre stuff, like Big Lots, there for only one week, for instance a whole shelf of white vinegar, then poof, gone, never to be seen again.

Ok, now I’m out of gas and nearly out of time. I hope that’s an adequate peak into my wild world of food. Clearly, I can survive here and I manage to eat pretty well, considering all. I can buy enough vegetables & protein, although nothing here is fast, as in MICROWAVE and my electricity is out enough that I can’t keep perishables very long. Yesterday, for breakfast I had a banana, oats and coffee. For lunch I had a meat pie and an orange, then for dinner I had a beef stir fry with my daily Guinness.

Sure, there are foods I miss that I can’t buy here—Oreos (which I never ate that often, but here I’m craving), Cheetos, what are those little square cheese crackers called?, sugar free colas/gum, a tall skinny latte (special thanks to those keeping supplied with coffee, that one cup really makes my day), good cheese, healthy cereals, artisanal breads, lemon tarts, jerky (I can’t seem to get enough, maybe it’s the sodium?), toll house cookies…. Please don’t read that as a “please send” list. I’m in good shape right now, except for gum and jerky.

All in all, life is good. Ok, that’s my story. What is yours? I’d love to hear about it. Miss you all!

Healing to Jen, Carole, everyone!

As always, mucho love…Xo…d

P.s. Birthday wishes: Melynda Brackman, Mary Byrne (x 1000), Shawna, Reta, Dino, Amy and Brenda (oh, you fabulous cancer girls—miss you!!) Belated to you Miss Daisy—sorry!

Red-Red (or bean stew with plantains)

(a serving is approx. 1 cup of beans to 2 fried plantains)

--Puree an onion and a couple of seeded tomatoes and add to beans while cooking
--Cook 3-4 cups of white beans (these here are smaller than navy beans)
--Once cooked, add enough vegetable oil for the beans to move (guess ¼ cup?)
--Stir well and add cayenne and salt to taste (this dish should have a little fire in the beans)
--Keep warm while preparing the plantains
(here the palm oil adds a shade of red, food color? Just a little.)

--slice ripe plantains into 2-inch diagonals and fry in vegetable oil (they will need more time than you imagine, go for brownish but not burnt)

--serve warm, side by side on a plate

most Ghanaians add fried chicken or fish to this traditional dish

Enjoy!

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Thu, 25 May 2006 12:29:00 +0000

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).

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Thu, 25 May 2006 12:29:00 +0000

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).

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Wed, 26 Apr 2006 21:11:00 +0000

Good morning to all from sunny, hot-hot Accra,

I'm feeling a bit guilty for not writing for so many weeks, but I've been in a centrifuge of activity for an entire month and most of that time focused on health--mental, dental or physical. So, here is a quick update and a stab at loving the ambiguity and fits and starts that defines this Peace Corps life.

I am in Accra for medical/dental reasons and don't worry because I am basically well, although I'm frustrated with all that is Peace Corps and all that is Ghana--bureaucratic slowness, the absence of personal transportation, foreign illnesses, different cultural values, the emphasis on "togetherness," weird food, you name it--I'm grumpy. All that, plus I have been sick. Absolutely, without a doubt, I know that if I don't feel OK, then nothing is OK. Nothing has been OK.

My last entry introduced the noise drama-trauma in sleepy Abrafo. The noise has not changed, but my residence has changed. I moved out of A19 and back into the Pedu house. You may recall that I desperately wanted to leave the Pedu house for the Abrafo house. Definitely not OK! I now live 30 kilometers from where I work, which means some sort of transportation challenge every day. (I'll leave that for another day!)

Thus far, I have only moved a few things--clothes, toiletries, etc. I most definitely moved Wyoming (now there's an unforgettable notion--where?). During the 30-minute tro-tro ride she puked, pooped and peed into her transport box. At least I found out that she needed to be wormed (but every thing here needs to be wormed!). At Pedu, my housemate Joel cannot pronounce Wyoming. It sounds like, "Yoni." We're quite a pair--Sister Dizzy and Yoni. But I digress, back to the noise problem that ultimately chased me out of A19 in Abrafo. Wellllll, it was too much to live with and it did not go away for a month--day in, day out--blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.... Mudville was not happy and I'm smart enough to recognize when my sanity is at stake, so I moved back into the Pedu house for the third time. The NGO boys are on the problem (wasn't 40 years the biblical measure?). Incidentally, Abrafo is getting a new chief and the "enstollment" is scheduled for May 1-5th. I received an official invitation and my neighbors insist that I wear something Ghanaian (more on this later too).

No sooner had I moved back to Pedu than I had a toothache, which meant a trip into Accra and the Nigerian dentist. He sorta looked at my mouth, but since it was the Thursday before Good Friday and the fella was leaving for the UK the following day, he suggested I return when the pain was "keeping me awake at night." I left his office in mild discomfort with another appointment in two weeks and antibiotics and pain killers (codeine). I'm a big fan of modern medicine and legal drugs. After the codeine, NO PAIN. So, off I tottered back to Cape Coast and the Pedu house.

Two PCV pals, Urji and Mary Jayne, came to visit Easter weekend. Of course, we couldn't stay in Abrafo, so we piled into my room in the Pedu house, which was like hosting houseguests in your hotel room. Hey, we're Peace Corps, so we made the best of it. Despite the lodging, we enjoyed a giggly, busy weekend. We visited Elmina's castle, the local Cape Coast destinations, and Kakum National Park. The best fun was cooking for them. We dined on fresh fish, loads of veggies and the sweetest pineapples you can imagine dipped in melted chocolate. Thanks to K. Shrum we even had Easter chocolates--yippee!! Great fun, especially singing with Mary Jayne, thanks to her parents, we know many of the same songs. Again, all that with NO PAIN.

Let me add a note about chocolate. Chocolate from the US is such a treat here. Even though most of the world's chocolate is made from cocoa that is produced in Ghana, their locally produced chocolate is bland and waxy--not worth eating in my opinion. I'll leave the international cocoa market, or why Ghanaian farmers get screwed for another day.

The day after Easter, the three little PCVs traveled to a beach resort near Accra for our business-sector in-service training. The "resort" is really an educational/cultural center and the African-American proprietor, Renee, is part visionary, artist and historian, plus, a great chef. The atmosphere was healing and the food was sublime--curried chicken, pesto, cheeseburgers, french toast--big yum! Besides meetings and eating, we played pictionary, charades, volleyball and ping pong, then we would sing any song that anyone could remember, even hymns (the old rugged cross is buried deep in my brain??). I gave a workshop on listening skills and appreciative inquiry, which asks, "what's right" about an organization rather than, "what's wrong" (cool research on this topic if anyone is interested). Just a nice week by the ocean and by Saturday morning, still NO PAIN.

Then, while trying to leave the resort for Cape Coast, just last Saturday, I started heating up. I mean, as in FEVER heating up. My pals had enough sense to direct me toward the Peace Corps Accra medical office. Actually, there was a prelude by three other PCVs earlier in the week and I had "nursed" one of the sickies. I limped into Accra and my fever soared to 104 degrees. Even with malaria my temp wasn't that high. Our PC nurse looked me over and ordered, "rest, fluids, and a phone call if anything changes in four hours." I crawled into the PC medical unit "sick room" with all my clothes on and besides going to the toilet, I stayed there in the same clothes for 24 hours. I wasn't delusional, but I was physically disorganized--my legs, feet and arms did not respond well to instructions. I must have looked like a day-old calf; I drunkenly bounced from surface to surface when I tried to walk. Sometime during the night, I had to crawl to get back to bed--perfect misery. I was beyond gratitude when the fever left and I was exuberant when on the third day I felt "pretty good." Diagnosis? Flu? Food poisoning? Not certain, but still NO PAIN.

Today, I had that #*%%$ root canal from the dancing Nigerian dentist (oh, I miss you Jennifer Taube). Tomorrow, I'll return to the Pedu house and I'm hoping, yes, by now you have guessed, that I'll be traveling with NO PAIN.

See, how a month can pass? Blink, blink!! What did I do? Darn, if the answer isn't simple, I did my best despite countless obstacles and blunders (mostly mine). Since, I'm still trying to define my work here, spending so much time on health and logistic issues feels frustrating. I'm trying to be patient and centered. I hope that the move into a quieter, more peaceful home will help with the soul work. Regardless, I know: to trust the breath, trust the feet, trust the friends, eat well, sleep well, exercise, balance people and alone time, learn something everyday, give something everyday and remember to smile at the moon...that should be enough, no? (Did I mention that my Spanish has improved here??). So, how was your month?

Of course, "NO PAIN" is illusionary. Everyday, I try to hold that which is nearly unbearable--the distance from the beloved.

Thank you, thank you to all the faithful writers and for all treats sent. My life is sweeter thanks to ya'all.

As always, healing thoughts to Jen, Lynsey, Carole...everyone!!

Also, birthday greetings, sorry some belated, to Becky L., darling "little" brother Mark, Jeanette, Larry Peavler, Deb Bussard...

Special greetings to the falconheads! I miss our time together. Kudos to Laura, the blog is great. Big hug to Richard!!

More soon...love to all...xoxox...d

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Tue, 28 Mar 2006 11:04:00 +0000

Village life, like just about everything else, is a bizarre admixture of the mundane and the sublime. Life in Abrafo is no exception.

I have been in my house a little over three weeks and I must admit that I’m truly sorry about whatever horrible offenses I committed in my past lives that involved tyrannical loud music (anyone remember my old nemesis, neighbor Wayne??). Whatever I did must have been unforgivable, I'm glad that I can't remember.

In Abrafo, about 100 yards from my house is a 20 foot bamboo pole that sports four loudspeakers, pointing in the four cardinal directions. It blasts to life around 4:30ish a.m. every day, remains on-or-off throughout the day and generally concludes after 9:30 p.m. A drunk-sounding guy talks in Twi (the local dialect), he plays a mixed format FM radio station out of Cape Coast and then adds his personal musical favorites as time allows. Often he sings. In addition, he makes community announcements or so the local kids tell me; such as when your money, “has gone missing”. (GONE MISSING??—are you kidding, the money is never coming back!!). But, I’m thinking that the speakers should “go missing.” A gun has never seemed so tantalizing. Don’t worry, but the fantasy is worth every second.

So, the dumb thing permeates my house and my brain. The volume is louder than someone shouting in my house. I’ve tried various kinds of earplugs, nothing really works, and there is no relief. I’m not sleeping well and so this is serious. This is another insanity to endure in GOG (good ol’ Ghana). Since I go to the Park most days, I manage to have some peace, but the evenings and mornings are pure hell. Reading is not an option and talking is difficult too. I politely voiced my complaint, but whiskey-breath didn’t appear too interested. I really don’t know how I’m going to deal with this one. Today the Peace Corps Medical Officer (PCMO) visited my place and suggested I go immediately to the police since disturbances are “against the law.” Evidently there is another PCV currently in court over a similar issue.

Sorry, if this sounds like whining—it is. I expected difficulties and challenges, just not this particular issue. For balance, I know I’m blessed in a million ways. I see it every day. In fact, I can’t look beyond A19’s walls without recognizing my opulence and privilege. Regardless, I still need some comfort and calm in my home and creating that evidently will be the next challenge. Peace, I need solace at home.

The local NGO boys think I’m deranged and they’ve been no help, although they admit that the noise is a problem at the park, a full kilometer away????

Before contacting the local gendarmes, I will inform the Abrafo chiefs of my intent. Currently Abrafo has an “acting” chief (yes….) and legions of subchiefts. Here, proper information dissemination is critical for the success of any endeavor and I don’t want to move forward only to discover that I’ve forgotten a chief, big man, MP, District Assembly Rep, or anyone in the endless chain of command. The etiquette of information, yes, it is dizzying. At the moment, my attitude is ok, but I loop-de-loop throughout the day and I get out of bed cursing most days—that’s ugly.

Relatively speaking, all else is progressing nicely in my world—home, neighbors, work and new friends in Ghana. The house is basically outfitted, although I’m still waiting for some furniture to appear--the clothing shelves, a bench and a kitchen work table. Curtains are up and the furniture grouped.

From my porch I can see coconut palm trees, the top of the local Catholic Church, a school yard on the hill to the south, some open space and many houses. Everyday I see countless people walking by or nearby, as well as dogs, cats, chickens, goats and sheep. Barn shallows dive past by place during the day and bats squeak at night. I’ve started to draw the wild insects that appear around my place—they are otherworldly. Did I mention my dog?? I’m now a mother. My little darlin’ is mostly white with caramel colored ears. I named her Wyoming. She is really small, more cat-sized than dog-sized. She follows me around and bites my toes. I feel happy about my quadruped.

What else? Last week I bought a shovel and soon I’ll start moving dirt around for the garden. By the way, getting a shovel from Cape Coast to Abrafo on a tro-tro was a trial, but nothing when compared to moving goats, chickens and stalks of plantains, which are somewhere on nearly every tro-tro on tires here. Really a shovel is nothing, but I felt both conspicuous and normal.

Of course I’m disciplined and I trot off to the park nearly everyday. Mostly I hang around--watching how people use the park, the space—people watching. I lurk, isn’t that a wonderful word, around the gift shop and the café. I hang with the employees and chat with visitors. I’m more affable than I have ever been in my whole life and I wonder how long I can keep this façade going? Was I secretly an extrovert before? Never! I’m sure this will resolve and I’ll return to my previous taciturn self.

In the village, my house is surrounded by other houses, but only close on one end of my house. The neighbors to the north and most of the east have a “chemical” business in their compound. They sell all sorts of remedies and much of it looks like snake oil. I believe there are three generations in that house. Certainly the oldest man and woman I’ve ever seen still walking live there. I love all antiques and they’re not excluded. I do not understand a word they utter, but between the utterances we always smile and wave. I feel better afterwards, I hope they do too.

Perhaps I should step back and explain compound as it relates to housing. While single family houses are becoming more abundant in this country, esp. in the urban areas. Villages are more commonly composed of multi-family dwellings and most of those are built in a u-shape and include an enclosed courtyard (of course the courtyard must be swept). The definition of family here is quite elastic and “family” might include several generations or even several discrete families that are somehow related.

Back to the neighbors, to the west is a sort of duplex where the twin Essies live (Essie in Twi means Sunday born and one’s birth-day name is often more common than any of the other names given. Incidentally, I was born an “Abena,” but I liked Essie better, so I’m called Sister Essie as well as the previously mentioned and it-always-makes-me-laugh-out-loud, Sister Dizzy). To my south are the beautiful sisters, Georgina and Comfort, again living in a large compound with millions of little squealing children. So, that’s my hood here in fabulous Abrafo, home of the world’s most annoying radio despot. Tune in next week for an update!

Ok, I’ve run out of steam here at Oceanview Internet Café on Commercial Street in busy, busy Cape Coast. Now I’m headed for the crazy, insane Kotakraba market (COAT-ah-crob-ah) and my weekly goodies, on this week’s list—oatmeal, whole-wheat bread, fresh veggies, fresh fish (maybe barracuda), garden seeds and a new journal. I’ve already been to the NGO’s office, the bank, the post office and had lunch at my favorite haunt, Global Mamas. In a little bit, I’m gonna cross paths with Sarah and we’ll travel together back to Abrafo for dinner and chatting. Then, watch the eclipse from the park tomorrow.

Healing to Jen, Carter and Carole’s Dad, actually, why not full healing for the entire planet. Let it be….

Live juicy!

Xoxo…d

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Tue, 14 Mar 2006 09:37:00 +0000

Yahoo!! I’m finally living in the Abrafo house--Number A19--that cute, big yellow house with a new outhouse!!

The NGO boys moved me a week ago Friday. I was shocked when they actually appeared with a truck to move me, even more shocked when another truck appeared with furniture. So the suspense, the drama, the pivoting is over. Fini!!

Now, I’m settling into my own space for the first time in six months. The suitcase is almost unpacked.

The house has good energy—of course it does!! I don’t know anything about the house’s past and gratefully no one has offered any of those gristly tales of past murder and mayhem. However (you knew their was something, right?), today one of the park guides told me that my village name means “executioner,” and that historically the village was responsible for killing the folks necessary to accompany the chiefs into the afterworld (think Egyptian funereal practices!). OK, so now I live in Execution-town. Believe me; I’m watching my back even though the swords have gone the way of plowshares. This is now mostly a farming village, although many of the park’s employees and wildlife guides live here.

OK, ok, the house?? I know someone will want to know! Well, A19 is one-story bungalow. The house is stucco/masonry construction with a corrugated gabled roof. It is a rectangle, approximately 24 x 60 ft. There are 3 bedrooms, a living room (they call it a “hall”), a kitchen, a storage room (my bike garage), and a shower room (a 5 x 5 ft room that is tiled with a drain hole to the outside). There’s a u-shaped porch that wraps around from one side of the house to the over and splits the house between bedrooms/living room and kit/storage/shower end of the house. This is harder to describe than I thought, but at one end of the house the space is divided into two equal sized bedrooms from which you can either enter from the porch (via doors) or from the living room (again, via doors and both of those doors in both of those rooms are located on the same wall). The living room is a sort of peninsula with a total of four doors—two to the bedrooms and two in opposite directions onto the porch. Next to the living room is a single bedroom (the end of the peninsula) surprisingly with only one door from the porch. All the rooms have two large windows and when the wind is moving the house has good air flow. Incidentally, the house does not have a single closet! The inside colors are Caribbean.

The furniture is fine. I have a nice bed with a head/foot board, a new firm mattress, a desk with a chair, a 3-piece living room set (chair, loveseat, sofa—in brown herculon, whew, no flowers!). The NGO boys claim that a kitchen table and shelves for clothing is on the way. It will take time to repair my trust with them….

A new bamboo fence surrounds the backyard, which is roughly the length of the house by 15 ft. and includes my outhouse. I plan to have a vegetable garden as soon as the rainy season begins next month. For now, there’s no reason to carry water for vegetables. Speaking of carrying water, that is exactly how water gets into my house and now I have someone to help with that chore. Rebecca is an eleven year old who comes every morning to carry water and sweep the floors. Mr. Geenah, the owner of the house, is a charming ancient who started a private elementary/jr high school in town and he insisted that I have some household help. Rebecca’s father lost a leg somehow and my remuneration will assist her family with school fees—this is the right thing to do although it feels more than odd. Mr. Geenah also thinks that I’ll be teaching in his school soon—it could happen, at least a couple hours a week.

In the past week, I’ve gotten curtains up on all the windows. A curtain here means a cheap sheet from the market vendors. I spent about 150,000 cedis, about $15, for all the curtains--10 large windows, or $1.50 each?? Any kind of clothing or textile is here for sale somewhere in Ghana—the world’s largest Goodwill Store, sans house wares and furniture. Sunday is clothing/textile day in most of the markets and you can find some amazing stuff—cow girl boots, jogging pants, sweat suits, sweatshirts, down jackets (why?). While on this topic, let me just add that money here is really weird to me, it seems fake somehow. I understand that I must live on the 1.5 mil cedis that they give me each month, but it is somehow divorced from me. Did I earn that money? Is this the first time that I’ve gotten money from somewhere else?? (Besides you Mom and Pop!). I’ve never felt this awkward about money before. Then there’s the whole expenses issue—how does this all equate into food, transportation, entertainment, etc. costs?? I’m still trying to understand it all. Some days I spend hundreds of thousands and other days not a portion of a cedi. I don’t know how to start besides tracking my expenses, so I have some good data. Yup, I guess I’m a nerd.

I’m running out of steam for the day. I'm in Cape Coast for groceries and a meeting with the NGO boys. While in town, I’ll also mail some letters have my favorite lunch, red-red. Incidentally, I can buy real butter in Cape Coast, not much else, but I’ll take what I can get.

Next time some details: what am I eating? What’s happening at the park? What is village life really like? Birds?????

Healing thoughts to Jen, Carter, and Carole’s Dad.

I miss everyone and everything. I can’t think about what March means in Indiana or the bulbs and spring flowers that will soon dot gardens and slopes….

As always…xoxo…d

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Mon, 27 Feb 2006 10:15:00 +0000

Yup, I’m still hanging in Cape Coast, although I enjoyed a weeks respite in Accra at a workshop designed to evaluate the training I just survived last fall. I was honored to be one of the five from my group asked to participate. Not a surprise to be the oldest and the mouthiest. I had three agendas that I wouldn’t rest: self-defense practice for the women trainees here (most important for the young women); increased women on the PCs training staff to reflect the proportion of women trainees (we were roughly 50/50 as trainees, but trainers were 80/20—men/women); and, finally, use evaluations during training, even daily—include all the stakeholders and especially the trainees.

Besides feeling that I contributed something, I also had the joy of meeting four PCVs from the teacher group. They are definitely a fun bunch. Currently, about 50 teachers volunteer with PC in Ghana. Their focus is math, science, IT and art in deaf schools. Guess which bunch I liked the most?? Art-deaf teachers, you bet!! Two live near me, both gals--one in Takaradi (toc ah rod dee) about an hour west, another only about a ½ hour away at Cape Deaf School—Kate and Erica. Yippee, new friends!!

So, after a cushy week in the capital in an air-conditioned hotel with a per diem, now I’m back in house-limbo-land. STILL in the Cape Coast guesthouse, but I’m now decidedly closer to the Abrafo house than ever before (ah-bra-FOE, last syllable rises in pitch, almost always). Or so the NGO boys claim. They say that I’ll be moving by the end of this week. Show me the keys, boys!! Show me the house, boys!!

I have been informed that the toilet is finally installed, although I haven’t inspected the work yet. The toilet moved from the inside of the house into an outside latrine, which looks like a modern cement version of our old outhouses. They evidently couldn’t plumb the house—yes, hole digging preceded plumbing in our evolutionary past. For safety reasons, I’m not especially keen on trotting outside in the middle of the night and for that very reason I was thrilled to discover that this country sports a brisk commercial trade in modern chamber pots. I bought one for only 6,000 cedis (see dees). Next, I realized that I’m not really keen on carrying my “pot” around either, what would be the appropriate gait, posture, facial expression for such an endeavor? (Lynsey, I know you’d be able to advise). Luckily, I won’t have to perch the thing on my head, which is the preferred method of transporting nearly everything here—old, young, male or female can carry nearly anything on their heads with grace. While on the topic, let me add that my favorite “things carried on the head” list includes the following: sewing machines; large trays of—anything, tomatoes, fish, rice (with measuring cup); racks of—again, anything, sunglasses, handkerchiefs, crackers, soaps, cooking pots; then 55 gallon drums of ______??; or huge sacks of _______??; impossibly huge pots/buckets of water (of course the carrier remains dry); and, really huge, I mean HUGE piles of firewood (they aren’t on fire). But, I digress.

Today, I was told by one of the park employees that the glass louvers in the Abrafo house have been installed (picture horizontal glass slats, or a “Florida room,” at least that is what I’m imagining). I believe that only two tasks remain for the domicile to be habitable--cleaning-up the construction debris and placing the requisite furniture. Peace Corps “demands” a bed with a mattress, a desk, 3 chairs or any type, a table and some sort of shelves for clothing.

Let me note that beautiful furniture is made here in Ghana. Overstuffed sofas and chairs are handmade in little wooden huts beginning with the logs (I hate the upholstery fabrics though—think floral herculon). I’m afraid to know where the logs come from, nonetheless, sometime in my tenure here I intend to befriend one of these furniture makers just so I can spend whole days watching the process. Besides upholstered goods, rattan and bamboo furniture is also ubiquitous, including very modern and simple interpretations. Knowing all that, I’m curious about what will migrate into my house—please, please no floral herculon and please, please no used mattresses!! By the way, one of the other PCVs that I trained with has a funny story about her used mattress. She suspected something was living inside her bed and no one believed her until she took it outside for closer inspection. Then mice ran in every direction from a large hole that contained an even larger nest. That’s just the thing I want to avoid. I suppose poisonous snakes would have been worse!?

On a different note about the house, in general I believe in divine right order, so all things happen at the “right” time, in the “right” order, etc. The right time is getting closer for the Abrafo house, but is it the right thing? I left Accra with the surest knowledge that if my house wasn’t done, that I would leave Kakum and Cape Coast with PCs blessing to investigate other sites for my assignment. Kakum (cah-koom, like kaboom), or more correctly this NGO, may not be organized enough for a volunteer. Their ability to acquire the requisite house, etc. is only part of their agreement to secure a volunteer. The house should have been done back in December, when I first arrived here, since then I have heard one unfulfilled promise after another. Besides the house, there are other organizational challenges that I can’t detail here, but in-toto suggests the NGO needs more help than a PCV.

I’m not holding my breath, but I trust the universe on this one. When I decided to return to Ghana, I did so especially for the opportunity at Kakum National Park. I felt then and I still feel today that their challenges--a blend of organizational development issues, community involvement issues, park management issues, conservation issues and interpretation issues—perfectly fit my interests, skills and talents. But, now, I’m not so sure. Despite wishing to stay positive, my trust level is damaged. If the house can be done this week, then I’d like to stay. On the other hand, if the house can not be done this week, then I get to decide—wait longer or go somewhere else. It is a tough choice….

So, stay tuned. This week, in this month, in this year, my world pivots on a house.

Please know that I think of you all more often then seems healthy. Thank you to those whose words and goodies reach this distant shore—all treasured! I’m about to get caught-up on correspondence, sorry to be slow.

Healing thoughts to Jen, Carter and Carole’s Dad.

As always…xoxo…d

Ps. To Sarah Schweizer’s parents: your daughter is a lovely young woman and I’m grateful for her close proximity and company. I saw her last weekend and she was vibrant. Also, birthday wishes to Sister Lorri, Martha, Georgette and Rob Rutledge.

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Wed, 08 Feb 2006 14:03:00 +0000

I’m back in Cape Coast and finally out of Accra. Accra was a fine resting spot, especially good for seeing other PCVs and having the computers at warp speed, however, I was tired of living out of my suitcases and eating out all the time. There, the “out” food if just not that great, or if it is great, it nearly destroys a PCVs monthly budget. Not that Cape Coast is much different, but at least here in the guesthouse (yup, the same one as before), I have room to spread out my suitcases, not to mention the use of a kitchen and my own bathroom. The only downside here is the lack of water, it only flows a couple of hours per day--so laundry and flushing follow the flows.

My toilet still is not done, so what’s new?, however, I have heard that there is progress. Besides progress, I also heard that I’m to have a housemate of sorts, of course that was not included in the PCs plan, so who knows?? Incidentally, I would offer to install the toilet, etc, however, I don’t want to make a career in plumbing here, just touching the water is scary, nevermind any other substances….soap, soap and more soap, then remember to never, and I mean NEVER put your hands in your mouth!!!!!

My mood is slightly better, but to be honest not great. The house delay is taking a toll. I can’t really settle-in anywhere and I’m frustrated, not to mention the organization’s conundrums--personnel problems, money issues, downsizing, blah-blah-blah…. And it is hot and especially humid day and night with no relief until the rainy season returns in late March, when it cools just a little with the rains. So, I hope to buy a fan by weeks’ end and I hope to live until late March. Did I mention sweating???? It is not a pretty sight and they weren’t kidding about the necessity of natural fibers. I brought a little tank top to sleep in and then realized it had 10% something less than organic—yes, abject misery, or “being stewed in one’s own juices” comes to mind. I can’t believe that I take three or more showers a day….

When I’m not too hot to think, I’m endlessly reading: technical PCs publications; various books on ecotourism and park management; organization development (dry stuff for sure). I try to exercise everyday, either walking or bike riding. The new PCs bike is OK, but it isn’t a Cannondale or a Trek. The upside is that I can get parts for it here in Ghana and riding around town to buy stuff is a lot easier than walking or taking taxis or trotros.

Also, I’m trying to write something descriptive every week—deep description is an anthropological notion, one that always intrigued me. Many of you have asked me about smells, sights, sounds, and the stuff of everyday living, and honestly, I have been too overwhelmed to really observe, much less respond coherently. With all the intensity of training, homestay and then grief, I could barely focus on my next step, much less the complex world around me. Writing feels like a big breath, which helps me to focus, see, listen and observe. Soon, I hope to bring some of those observations here.

Technologically, I’m trying something new this week at the internet café. Will the pin drive work or not, only time will tell. Regardless, I was getting spoiled in the Accra office with fast internet, now I’m back to the slow-slow speed (but not the slow-slow-slow speed of Nkoranza). While not technology exactly, I can also report that my new baroque soprano recorder has been fun—I’m clumsy and forgetful, nevermind the silly little songs….

Ok, mail, etc. I hope to change my mailing address for letters to the NGOs office, but I haven’t gotten that Ok’d yet. Any packages should continue going to the Accra address, at least security there seems good. I’ll probably go to Accra once a month for mail, etc. So don’t be surprised if I’m slower than ever—your letters really mean so much to me. This is not the best expression of gratitude, but know that I’m treasuring those letters and goodies.

Back to Accra for a second, it is a 3 ½ hour trotro ride away at 25,000 cedis (roughly $2.50). Many PCVs “beg” for rides and get faster, friendlier service in private vehicles. I’m not sure what my transportation future might hold, but public transportation here is not much fun.

So, that’s my news, sorry that this isn’t more exciting. Oh, but I forgot, Laura Bush came to visit us in Ghana. Nice champagne pant ensemble and she was far more articulate than her husband (I'll say no more....).

I hope the best for y’all. Healing thoughts to Carter, Jen and Carole Edson’s father.

Miss you, love you…xoxo…d

Ps. Happy b’day to Feb friends: Lynsey (new boobs and all), Paula, Miriam, Jean (60, really—you go girl!!)

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Wed, 25 Jan 2006 13:22:00 +0000

It is time to clear the air and address the black hole that I crept through in the past month and a half. I have not been totally honest with you my faithful friends and especially the comments of late (esp. yours Paula) leave my heart heavy.

I have not been writing here of late because I haven't been totally honest, actually, I have not been in Ghana the whole time. So here goes, back to the beginning.

Following training, I moved with all my stuff to the NGO's guesthouse in Cape Coast and was waiting for my toilet to get installed in the Abrafo house so that I could move in and get settled, which is the general PCV goal for the first three months at your site. However, before I could move-in and onward, I received the news of Grandmother's death too late to attend her funeral. That simple reality, a funeral too far away for me to attend, left me more distraught than I would have forecast. As many of you know, she was a guiding light throughout my life and continued to shape and sculpt my life in ways that I'm sure I don't understand now and possibly never will. Simultaneously, I learned that another dear friend was doing poorly in the hospital in Indy. Those two people and the reality of distance left me feeling too far away and I questioned my choice to be a continent away. I couldn't stop crying and pacing.

After a couple of long-distant phone calls, I decided to return to the US. PC, of course, had some other ideas about my future. They happily arranged for my transportation to Accra with all my stuff. I cried myself through several days of discussions--did I want to quit?, take a break? I was so confused that I couldn't really decide what to do. I was precariously balanced on the fence and I just felt like I needed to go/be home. I thought that I could make a better decision after going to Grandma's grave and visiting Jen, who was still in the hospital. Ultimately, PC gave me a 30-day "interruption of service," which allowed me to leave the country without deciding (via my checkbook, but hey I saved for some reason!). Yes, I was very, very grateful for the option.

So, the very week before Christmas, when all the airlines in the world can not add one more person on any flight, I was on my way from this continent back to the US. It took more than a day and an overnight in New York, but I got back to Indy in time for the snow and pageantry of Christmas. More than anything else, I remember that lovely cold crisp air--I cried about that too!

I certainly was in shock, my parents were in shock despite some warning and Jen was just sleepy and groggy from drugs in the hospital. Almost immediately I went to Grandma's grave and visited my Aunt Marilyn. After visiting Grandma's grave, I felt more peaceful about Grandma's passing (yes, we had a good chat!!) in the white snowy cemetery.

Jen, however, was another story, but she was improving by the day and had rosy forecasts of getting out of the hospital before Christmas. (Eventually, she was "released" a couple of days after Christmas.)

The two big reasons for returning were feeling less urgent. Nonetheless, I resisted input from the few who knew I was in the US. My parents especially did not want me to return to Africa, or for anywhere too far away (understandably Mom!). I decided not to contact any friends until I knew I was staying in the U.S., I wanted a clear sense of direction, plus I did not want to repeat the "goodbyes" that were so difficult the first time. So, I stayed in a wierd halflife limbo for about 2 1/2 weeks--I wrote and thought much about everything and I cried some more. If I didn't return to Ghana, then what was I going to do? What was happening with Jen? And how could I live so far away from those I love? I vascillated, I recapitulated, I teetered.... I really wanted the opportunity that PC and Kakum offered, but without the loss of family and friends.

Finally, I decided that the real question was not whether or not to return, but rather how could I maintain a more meaningful connection with home. So that instead of finding out that someone has died and their funeral was the following day, how could I know something before that part of the story--live more of the process, more present, more immediacy with those I love?? To that end, I discussed those preferences with my family, Jen and Mary B. and I bought a cell phone, which allows for instant contact if necessary. Please do not imagine that I will idly be chatting away for hours, the thing is too expensive for that, but it gives me a little peace of mind.

I will continue to use the internet for the blog, especially enjoying those fun comments.

Soooo, I returned to Ghana after nearly a month in the US. Tough, tough decision. Of course, PC was delighted, although I was shocked to learn that my site still was not ready--the toilet is not completed (does this mean something??).

I have been in Accra for nearly two weeks, biding my time, reading, researching and reacclimating to the heat (today, 77-92). As of Monday, the NGO claims the toilet will be done in 10 days. I will not hold my breath (although that is one normally does here around toilets).

So, that is my story. Now, I can move forward after getting honest with ya'all. This has all been very hard....

In the meantime, I am thinking about what it must be like to be a PC volunteer and as always holding those I love as fiercely as possible in this heat.

miss you, love ya...d

ps. please forgive my slow correspondence, I getting there. Healing thoughts to Jen and Carter

Shawna, my heart is with you all about Jean Ann. Amazing, amazing woman!!

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Sun, 15 Jan 2006 10:17:00 +0000

Cheery greetings from Ghana!!

I recognize that I've done poorly lately as a correspondent, please forgive me. The aftermath of loss from a distant quarter without friends or family is more ghastly a trial than I would wish on anyone. Having said that, I hope to resume my chatty posts from the land of hot-hot soon.

I finally got around to those parcels at the Peace Corps ofc. Several to thank: Cuz Di, Mike and Rita, OT, Sarah and TT, and Dino--Wow!! I feel blessed...

Thanks too for all the comments, I do read those and for those of you new to blogging, you can add a comment at the end of my posts by clicking "comments" and following the instructions. Which reminds me, Lynsey if you're reading, please know that I'm never gonna forget about anyone there, esp. you!!!

Also, birthday wishes to you fabulous Jan. gals: Miki (I really missed luncheon), Sharon L., Sarah S., Vicki P., Shari S., and little sister Amy.

I miss you all...xoxo...d

ps. Healing thoughts to Jen and Carter

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Wed, 28 Dec 2005 22:27:00 +0000

Another quick post, but this one with some photos, hopefully. All this technology is a challenge.

So, about the park, check out: www.ecotour.org/destinations/kakum.htm
or, just search for Kakum National Park.

Also, I've tried to post some photos. See if this works: http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/dxebird7/my_photos

more soon...

xoxo...d

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Wed, 21 Dec 2005 20:13:00 +0000

Bear with me, this must be an abbreviated post as I don't have much time today, but soon I should have more to post and time.

I know that I have several packages at the Accra office, so if you've sent me something, please know that I'll have it as soon as I can get to the big city to claim it from the PC mailroom. Incidentally, Accra is a three hour tro-tro ride from Cape Coast and my trips there require at least an overnight stay in the PC-provided lodging (not quite a vacation). In the near future, I might move my mailing address to the NGO here in Cape Coast, however, that may be less secure than the Accra office--urgh!! Getting the package vs speed--a tough decision, I'll probably stick with the status quo. Regardless, I really miss the ol' USPS. Letters from the US seem to take 2-4 weeks to arrive and packages take equally as long. The DHL packages are far faster (thank you, thank you Nancy D., you're an angel despite the mischievous grin!!!!).

So look for more of a post soon, hopefully before x-mas, but if not, merry solstice to all and lovely wishes for a meaningful and joyous new year.

Healing thoughts to Jen and Carter...

xoxo...d

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Wed, 14 Dec 2005 11:12:00 +0000

I'm still in Ghana, however, very sadly in Ghana. Last Friday, I got word that my beloved Grandma Brackman had died. With her funeral scheduled for last Saturday, there was no way for me to return for her service.

Those who know me well, do know that she was a guiding light for my life. She was self-possessed and caring--a tough balancing act. At 95 years old, she was blessed with a long lovely life and I'm grateful for all those years.

I'm very sad to be so far away without familiar hands to hold. I'm as ok as possible, just painfully aware of the vast distance between here and there.

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Mon, 05 Dec 2005 14:21:00 +0000

Hello, hello!! I'm a newly minted PCV, V for volunteer, as of last Friday. The swearing-in festivities followed a busy week of moving from the host family's home and PASSING my language exam. I'm still not certain how that happened, but I was rated "intermediate low." That language rating basically means that using rudimentary grunts and lots of hand gestures that someone will take me to the hospital not because I'm bleeding, but because they believe I need to be committed. Regardless, I'm thrilled.

I was really sad to leave my homestay family. Nurse/sister/mommi Jane and the kids had been so sweet to me. As a parting gift they gave me two outfits, one is a traditional garment from their homeland in the upper western region of Ghana. It is woven strips of cloth sewn together to form yard goods, basically mine was a vertically striped shapless bag of a dress, although highly prized and valued by some Ghanains. I believe that once I cut it into pieces that I'll have a great kitchen towel assortment. The second outfit is completely different. It is s tie-dyed deep purple 2-piece slack ensemble. The top's collars are deeply notched, the buttons have been covered with the same fabric and the trousers have pockets, a non-native species here in Ghana. The outfit makes me look like something from Sesame Street, all I need is a big red rubber nose and a little more hair gel. As you might have guessed, I'm not one-with-the-clothes here, neither the styles nor the colors, perhaps the last lifetime??

Back to the swearing-in for a note about African ceremonies, they are marathons involving speeches by everyone and anyone who might be remotely politically related, drummers, dancers and hoopla. In this case we also heard from the recently arrived American Ambassador. The local chief chanted and poured libations on mother earth and we had prayers from both the Christians and the Moslims. In addition to the dignitaries, all the trainees participated in some way. My language recited Fanti proverbs and their English translations. Mine was--agor hia sen hia pa--lack of friends is worse than poverty (actually in this extended family culture, lack of friendship means poverty). So the end of training, yahoo!!!! Now the 49 are dispersed in every direction in Ghana to fulfill our respective missions.

So, here I sit in Cape Coast in the whiz-fast internet. Sarah and I arrived y'day and we weren't met by our counterparts, actually they thought we had keys to their guest house and instead we spent the night in another accomodation, frustrated and weary from a day of travelling. Four hours on a crowded, sweaty and dusty 30-passenger bus can deplete every molecule of good humor from a girl. AFter some apologies, we moved into the guest house this morning. We'll use the guest house as a home base this week to accumulate our new household supplies and hopefully get moved into our places by the weekend. It is Africa and nothing happens the way you plan....

So that's my story this week. I hope to get some pictures here soon. X-mas?? I can't even imagine from here in the tropics.

I miss you all. xoxo...d

ps. healing thoughts to Grandma and Jen. Bravo Brian, I'll come visit in Uganda!

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Sat, 19 Nov 2005 13:00:00 +0000

Greetings to all!

There's so much to write this week. I'm back from the site visit and this post is a rough sketch, an opening, or at least a stab at describing a really big week in the life of a pc trainee and what will be my home for the next two years.

Before leaving for Kakum and Cape Coast last week, I discovered that another trainee from the ecotourism/biz group was going to work with the same NGO that operates the park. Sara's site is only 20 miles as the crow flies from my site, but by road it's more like 2 hours. She's at least 1 hour by bush road from me (there are only two kinds of roads here--bush roads aren't paved, paved roads are only slightly better). So, Sara is from Alaska and lived in Indy for 2 years, even worked at Chelsea's in B'ripple for awhile--so rather sweet connection there and no doubt she'll be my new best friend. We travelled with our three male counterparts--Michael, Francis and Bismark (the boys) to Cape Coast last Thursday. The trip via a Mercedes Benz 16-seater bus (called tro-tros here) took 8 1/2 hours and that's lot of joustling, dirt, dust and fumes. In Ghana there is no such thing as Air Quality Controls, EPA, or really many rules, besides the almighty dollar. So when I think of travelling, or much of anything here, I think of odors--sewage and exhaust. The absence of either is notable!

Back to Cape Coast, the "boys" provided lodging at the NGO's guest house. It was perfectly comfortable with clean beds and running water from 9 am to 2 pm. On Friday we visited Kakum and walked the famous walkways--7 in all, strung between 9 trees and stretching up and over the rainforest for 350 meters (oh, yeah now I'm thinking in meters and centimers, but not centigrade!). After quick introductions and lunch in the park's cafe we wisked away to Sara's village, which does not have electricity. I felt really bad looking at her kerosene lamp.... Her job is to assist the community's traditional bamboo orchestra--cool, but "orchestra" might be stretching it a bit. Africa is all about hyperbole.

Sat and Sun I spent at the park, 8-5ish. Mostly I observed people--some employees, but really the visitors--schools groups, ghanains and non-ghanains tourists. The park is a one-trick pony and part of my "job" is to expand that horizon, hmmmm???

The park is in the rainforest and the humidity is intense, in fact it reminds me of August in Indpls, where I always wanted to escape. Of course due to the rain, the forest is a verdant, impenetrable tangel of bromeliads, orchids, bamboos and trees (teak and ebony). The biodiversity is overwhelming--butterflies, birds, plants, etc. I have much to learn.

Already, I see 100 things in the park that need attention--lots of little things, like trash cans, broken picnic tables, etc., but I'm there to operate more like a consultant than a do-girl. I'm to focus on building human capacity in and around the park, including my "home" community.

Ok, now as per usual, I'm in the internet cafe with another hour of thoughts and the clock is ticking. For the record this cafe charges 12000.00 per hour, which is about $1.20 per hour/US. $ is not the issue, I seem to have plenty, but the frustration of bad keyboards and molasses slow speeds is tiring. In addition, the hour ride here and back means that I must allow for enough time to get home by dark. Trainees have a curfew here, really it is for our own safety--women aren't safe here at night. No problem, I got it!!

Again, back to the story at hand, my house looks great. It is 1 kilometer south of the park in Abrafo, which is a community of about 100 people and many of those work at the park as guides, etc. My house is a rectangle, roughly 40 x 20, masonary bungalow. I have 3 bedrooms, a "hall," there equivalent to a living room, a kitchen , a shower room and a toilet room. I couldn't stay at the house because the toilet wasn't installed, but it should be done when I return in December. The house appears to have electricity, although it wasn't working. The house doesn't have running water, but a good borehole pump is about 100 meters away from the house and I'll probably hire young children to carry water on their heads to my house (that is how it is done here, I'm not kidding!!). The house is painted mostly light yellow with some very, very hot pink hallways. It really is OK.

Besides working in the park, the villagers also farm, which means subsistence farming here. There raise enough food to feed themselves and sell the excess in town. The rainforest has been the biggest casuality of farming demands here; it is being cleared not only for farming, but also for the lumber. Clearcutting should be an international crime!! But, I digress.... Kakum and my little village is only about 39 kilometers from the big touristy town of Cape Coast, which boasts several universities, a slave castle, fabulous remnant european architecture and really fast internet cafes. While there I also found a neat women's coop that serves great food and sells great batiks, textiles and clothing (www.globalmomas.org). So, Cape Coast will be my sanity.

Ok, I'm running out of steam, so here are some of my random tidbits. Ghana doesnt' have Walmarts, or other dept stores, but they have endless open air markets where everyone sells mostly the same goods--cheap crap from China, besides the farm goods. Well-mde goods do not exist here and everything has a million uses or reuseses--nothing is wasted. I laughed out loud this week when I zealously snatched a used hacksaw blade from the road--one never knows, but I do wonder what weird things I'll collect in the next two years.

Yes, everyone carries everything on their heads here, or at least the women and small children carry buckets of h20, grain, etc. Fruit is unbelievable here--fresh bananas and oranges, sweeter than anythere.

And finally, Ghanains can not pronoun Xs, so I'm now called Dizzy, better yet, Sister Dizzy. What can I do but laugh??

Well, that's my story this week. Know that I carry all your lovely hearts with me and in all the faces I find, I search for your sweet smiles. Miss you!!

Always healing energy to Grandma B and Jen.

Sweet packages and cards. Sorry I'm so slow to respond, not because I don't care. M & B thank you for the lovely refrigerator art and goodies; M & J, likewise, but x-mas in the bush?? And Mom and Pop, thanks for all. If anyone is within listening distance of Amy Beckart, please tell her that nothing she could say would ever bore me, ever!!

xoxoxo...d

ps. bird stories soon, I've up to about 100

noreply@blogger.com (Dixie) — Sat, 05 Nov 2005 13:30:00 +0000

Mema wo akye. Wo hotse den? Mere sua mfantse. Yehebyia! The quick and dirty translation: Hello; how are you?; I'm learning to speak Fanti; goodbye. I'm slowly making language progress and another week has passed (how?). Language work now dominates every day, even into the evenings--my ears are crossed!! The schedule is grueling--yes, I'm whinning. I want to believe what other Pcvs say, that we'll have lots of free time after training.... I'm looking forward to some fiction, more time for letters, etc. Now, only 4 more weeks of training, yahoo!!!

This week my homestay Mother's Mother died, suddenly at ge 78. Great plans are afoot for her funeral. She lived about 100 miles northwest of here and the funeral is now scheduled for next Friday and Sat.. I'm disappointed that due to the scheduled site visit that I'll miss the big, big event. Here funerals top the see & be seen affairs. I will however, not miss the loud music coming from stacks of crackling speakers.

For funerals, men and women both wear only black and red traditional clothing. In fact the market women who sell cloth will barely let you look at the funeral cloth without a funeral invitation. Of course, I feel in love with an orange print fabric only to learn that is is "funeral red." I'm having evil thoughts--sneak it home, sleep in it....Little rebellions!!

I believe I'm waking-up from the culture shock, but I'm not at all recovered from food shock. Ghanaians eat lots of starches with a little stew or soup that contains a little protein. There is not dairy here--no millk, no yogurt, no cream, no WHIPPING CREAM, no cheese; the latter is nearly intolerable, laughing cow is not. I'm so ready to start cooking for myself. While my homestay family meals are better than most other trainees, last night I had a soup with a fish eye looking at me--I lost my appetit. I'm thinking of you Martha, it's really all about my stomach!! Regardless, I look forward to repairing my relationship with food soon.

Besides language, I'm working on two business training projects. The first is in a local school and with four other female trainees we'll chat with highschool girls about women's roles in the US. The second project is for more personally interesting. I'm creating a "top 20 birds of Ghana" identification sheet for my sibling trainees, plus giving a 15 minute presentation about avian culture here. The other trainees are generally interested in the birds and get this, they call me Miss Jane Hathaway--tee, hee, hee!!

Oh, I'm so excited about my site visit. I simply do not know what to expect and I'm trying to moderate any expectations. I'll be there Nov. 10-16, so look for an update after that, or perhaps during if I can get to Cape Coast computers.

There's all the news that I can remember. My eye is better and all else seems to be in good working order. I wish all a cheery week and as sincerely as possible, I wish you where here!!

Happy, happy birthday wishes to niece Ashley, Susan L. and Laura J-R.
Healing thoughts to Jen, Grandma and Lynsey....

xoxo...d

P.S. I love the comments, I'm eithere laughing or crying in the internet cafe, it keeps the weirdos from hitting on me!!