Challenges

I’m overwhelmed, working here. My second day, I cracked the entire length of the nail on my big toe, about ¾ the way down. I am terrified of it breaking off, and just the sight of it disgusts me. The top part is all purple and crushed, while the bottom is stained red with blood and chipped pieces of nail.

What has happened to my pretty, pink and white pedicured feet?

I was foolish enough to play football with the boys at the shelter, that’s what.

The children were exceedingly concerned when they saw me limping off the field. Once a single child caught glimpse of my toe, she began to scream at the sight and the others all came running. They were chanting “So sorry, auntie, sorry, oh noh sorry… Fohgeeve us, please! Auntie!”

They crowded around me, pounding their chests with their fists, begging forgiveness and threatening the boy who had kicked the offending ball- with death. Together they formed quite the violent little mob.

I think the children thought I was going to cane them all, in revenge for my pummeled nail. In fact, they were all so distraught that I knew I couldn’t openly cry with them watching, despite the pain I was feeling. I gritted my teeth into a stiff, manic grin and reassured them that I was okay, that no one was in trouble. “Accidents happen!” I sang out, carefree as I could muster.

Before I could escape the heap of alarmed, angry, and noisy children at my feet, Auntie Diana approached me, carrying Fiskars scissors. “OOH!” she exclaimed upon seeing the blood. “Bee steel, yo. I remove dah nail fore you, got dah cuttahs heah. ”

… No thank you, Auntie.

I excused myself and went into the girls’ washroom to clean up and (let’s be honest) have a good cry in privacy, away from the concerned crowd. With a sprained ankle on one foot and on the other, a newly missing toenail, I was hurting and very much freaked out.

Little did I know this incident was only the beginning of the challenges I would be facing here at the Shelter for Abused Children.

The washroom was appalling. I ended up crying there because of the condition of the room, not because of the pain in my toe. It felt as if everything, all at once- my pain, the abuse and neglect the children had been through, the adults' indifference to their suffering, and now this washroom- was leading up to this very moment in which I felt completely overcame by the weight of it all. The stall was covered in cobwebs and insects, and the sinks didn’t produce any water. The toilets didn't flush. Most disturbingly, there was no toilet paper or soap to be found.

This is especially problematic because many of the children seem to be quite sick, with body-wracking coughs and open sores on their arms and legs. Children often forget to be hygienic, even with the American availability of flushable wipes and automatic soap dispensers- how realistic was it to expect these kids to even think to ask for paper and soap every time they used the washroom? It seemed like an aggressive breeding ground for infection.

Upon asking the staff, I was informed that the children tend to steal and horde washroom supplies, and that is why they are all kept in the office. The children must ask for paper or soap if they want it, and then they are only given what they will use in the one visit. I question the rationale of that response to the theft- wouldn’t a smaller supply create a greater motivation for stealing and hording? Events transpired later which made me question the truthfulness of this already inadequate explanation altogether…but more on that soon.

Weak and pampered and American as I am, I maintain an expectation that my day-to-day life will not consist of- or even include- pain; so I sat out of the games for the rest of the day. I felt sorry for myself and exhausted while I halfheartedly watched the kids, nursing my toe and secretly wondering why no one had made a bigger fuss over my now non-existant nail.

But after I'd calmed down, I began to actually see what was right in front of me- and what I saw made me feel very ashamed of myself. Despite the bright sunshine, the kids didn't seem to take note of their own disabilities, their own brutal coughs, their open sores, their dark bruises, or even their angry scars.

In the end, my hurt foot could not compare to the injuries many of the children have sustained, some at the hands of their own guardians. No one ever told them that life would be painless, or fair, and they clearly don’t hold that expectation. Perhaps they gave each injury a moment of acknowledgment- "Oh, so sorry,"- and then shrugged and moved onto the next thing, because they had to, because that's all they are able to do. One injury blends in with the next, without any single incident standing out in their minds. In this world, pain has continuity. It is only the source of pain, or type of pain, that varies.

And so accordingly, one by one, the children lost interest in my bloody stump. They possess knowledge I could never have- of the ceaseless opportunities (and painful probabilities) for agony both physical and emotional, which life steadily dispenses. Nevertheless, they wandered back into the field- into the next moment, fearlessly fighting the good fight, to play again.

The Lawyer

The girls have begun to ask me to take them home with me. “I go with you,” one will yell. Another will push her away. “No, mee!” They crawl up my legs, pull at my arms, play with my hair, and plop in my lap. "You take mee, mee, dah plane. To Amareecah. I go with you."

I know a part of their desire to leave with me is that I am gentle with them. I hold their hands softly, reprimand quietly, kiss the tops of their heads when they are upset. I don’t think they’ve gotten much kindness during their difficult young lives. But I’m not so vain as to believe the children want to leave their country and everything they know, just because I’m so great. They are motivated by the vague idea of getting away from there, from their lives as they’ve turned out so far.

One little girl, we’ll call her Rebecca, is older and speaks pretty good English. Rebecca told me that she wants to become a lawyer. She says once she has gotten out of the shelter and back to her grandma's, and once she has sold enough peppers to buy her uniform and schoolbooks, and once she has worked her way through law school, and once she has obtained her degree, she will come find me in the U.S. to prove that she accomplished it- and wouldn’t I be proud of her?

I told her out loud I would be very proud of her when she came to find me in the US with her degree- yet in my mind, I was wondering how many hundreds of thousands of peppers it would take to pay for an entire education from the eighth grade through law school.

The obstacles these children face are overwhelming. It is against my nature to admit I'm feeling this way, but it seems like most of the children are damned no matter how much of an effort they will make to change their lives. The system is against them. It normally seems to favor the parent’s side of the story and has poorly enforced laws concerning the compulsory nature of education and the rights of a child. It’s normal to assume that if a child claims he or she has been “beaten”, that the beating was no more serious than the child’s offense and the child must’ve deserved whatever punishment was given. If a child has run away, it is because the child is “naughty”, or because of a bad spirit who has taken up residence in the child’s soul when the child wasn’t being vigilant against evil.

Adults seem to have too little concern for what type of situation would motivate a child to choose a street life over their home life.

The odds are stacked against these children. I find myself wondering for how many years Rebecca will be able to maintain her resolve to attend school, and how she will feel if and when she finally is forced to give up her dreams. She has no encouragement or support from a stable parent figure. She has been alone in this fight for an education her entire life. How long can a child be expected to keep fighting that losing battle alone?

Of course, that is not to say that I will not encourage her to follow her dreams. Indeed, some of the children are blessed in that they do find a supportive family member. Some, through their dogged determination, may even be able to find a financial sponsor to help them reach their goals. So I will encourage these children to chase their dreams for as long as they desire, for as long as they still can. I will do everything in my power to help them along their way, in the short time I am here.

But in order to understand these children’s reality, it is essential to consider the reason why everyone is so thrilled when a child earns a college degree here. It’s because an education is not a likely outcome, for any of them. When one child is able to change his or her life for the better, it is a success story, but it’s also a fluke, a rarity, a miracle… whatever term you prefer for an unlikely, one-in-a-million kind of happy ending.

If this trip has done anything, it has cemented my desire to adopt. These children are all so beautiful, but they are wasting away in this system. I know a lot of them have more problems then they wish to let on. But I believe if Zach and I have the opportunity to adopt a child or a baby, we could be such a happy family- and we would have contributed just a little bit more to the world than if we had only cared for our biological children. I'm so looking forward to my wedding and then starting a family- and I know more strongly than ever that adoption will be a key element to completing our family.

"YOU AH WEL-CAAAHM!" (Introduction to the Shelter for Abused Children)

After touring the two other agencies in the Industrial Home for Children complex last week, I formally began my practicum at my official site, the Shelter for Abused Children. The Shelter is the agency at which I will stay for the remainder of my time in Ghana. I have been there for a couple of weeks now, but because of the intensity of the work and the number of stories I’ve felt compelled to record, I fell into the bad habit of only writing notes at the end of each day- without taking the time to sort out the stories in a coherent and chronological way. I am now playing catching up!

We’ll start with my first day at the Shelter, which began with an introduction to the agency from the social worker, Bella. "You ah wel-caaahm!" she proclaimed, as did a swarm of children when we first entered the grounds.

Bella explained to us that the Shelter serves as a temporary residence for children in varied circumstances, including abused children who are awaiting court appointed placements, children who have been victims of trafficking, and children who have been victimized through child marriages. Missing children, many of who also fit into the previously mentioned categories, are also placed at the Shelter until their families are located. Ideally, no child is supposed to stay at the Shelter for more than three months. After that time, if a child’s case has not been resolved, the child is supposed to be moved to a residential home for children.

The children at the Shelter do not attend school. I was told, because of the temporary nature of the shelter, that the children aren’t missing much education and that additionally, it would be too arduous for the agency to find an appropriate school in which to enroll each child- most of the children are not on the grade level that corresponds to their age.

Instead of school, the children have two child-care providers (Aunty Diana and Aunty Coral) who hold an informal schoolhouse during the mornings. There doesn’t seem to be an official start and stop time to the lessons, which sometimes take place and sometimes do not. The unofficial lessons consist of ABCs, 123s, basic addition and subtraction, and memorizing and rehearsing worship songs about Jesus.

Faaahdah, leeed me

Dey by dey!

Ehhhhhva, een thine own sweet whey!

Teach me too

bee p-yowah and troo,

Shooooow me what

eye ought to dooo!

Many of the children, especially the ones who are totally illiterate, don’t participate in the academics. But singing and dancing proved to be the favored lesson on my first day for all the children, and every single day since. To put it simply, the kids come alive when they make music. Unlike children in the U.S., none of the kids were remotely embarrassed to sing and dance; in fact they do so constantly, energetically, and with complete abandon. They loved performing for us students, and they clearly love Auntie Diana, their caregiver, who is a veritable encyclopedia of children’s songs and games.

Auntie Diana is the type of childcare provider American mothers and fathers dream about for their kids. She is interactive with the kids, and literally seems to have eyes in the back of her head. She doesn’t “sit with no shit, no foh no chiljren and no foh no time”, she told me firmly. “Nuh-uh. Oooh! Dey ah naughty chiljren!”

But I can see, the kids know from her warmth and attention that she cares for them, and they love her. Aunty Diana is able to create different games for the children out of rocks, sticks, and the dirt in the courtyard (because, let's face it, they don’t have much else). Together with Auntie Diana, the children have drawing contests, throwing contests, running contests, acting contests. They sing, and sing, and sing.

And they pray.

The prayer here is also boisterous. The Christian children cover their eyes and flail their limbs, crying out to the Lord with fervency. The Muslim children drop to their knees multiple times throughout the day. They bow over and over the ground, speaking quickly, feverishly, continuously, under their breathes- their cheeks puffing quickly, to keep up with their soundless requests.

It was easy to momentarily forget why these children were here. Every opportunity to laugh was taken, joyously, by everyone. It was easy to get caught up in their wild frolicking, their silly dancing, and to catch yourself laughing along… and then, suddenly, to remember.

If they weren’t so thin, if they weren’t dressed in rags and covered in sores and scars, a stranger probably wouldn’t even begin to guess at how painful their short lives have been so far. The fact is that each one of them has very recently experienced extreme trauma or neglect at the hands of the people who were supposed to love and care for them. Each child has prayers that they need to be fulfilled. “Pleese Lord,” they pray, screaming to the sky, whispering to the earth. “Pleese.”

They are taught that if you pray hard enough, your prayers will be answered.

So when these children pray, they pray with everything they have- with energy. With love. With desperation. Yet somehow, still, with hope. With the perfect faith that, fittingly, only a child can possess.

Weekend at Cape Coast: The Slave Castle

Weekend at Cape Coast
Dr. Sossou arranged for us to take a weekend vacation on the beach, as this weekend is the national holiday of Ghanaian independence. Two major activities were planned for the weekend: touring the Slave Castle and hiking in the Cocum Rainforest. The rest of our time will be spent simply enjoying the beach resort and working very hard on our tans. : )

Yesterday, we toured the Slave Castle. The Slave Castle was originally built as a fort for the British, but it exchanged hands many times among quarreling Europeans. But for most of its existence, it was developed and utilized as a storing and shipping point for African slaves to be taken to Europe or the New World. It may seem difficult to imagine that such a beautiful building could’ve imprisoned, tortured, and doomed so many thousands of innocent lives. It is a massive white castle, towering up to the sky and facing the sea. But the scene seems ominous from the beginning, because the sea is violent here. The waves crash upon jagged black shore stone, relentless.

We viewed the museum, which gave a brief history of slavery in Ghana. The museum included artifacts from the beginning to the end of the slave trade here. They provided estimates of over 25 million enslaved Africans having been forced from their home and into foreign hells. A small diagram proved to be the most disturbing artifact in the museum to me. The diagram illustrated how traders maximized space on the ships in order to transport as many Africans as possible in one trip. The diagram showed figures of men with their arms pinned to their sides, their necks and backs and limbs bent at impossible angles, some upside down, some right side up- one atop another…

The transport time from Africa to the destinations could more than three months. Because of the manner of storing the Africans, there would have been no way to let anyone out to stretch or to relieve themselves. Therefore, many Africans died just on the journey. I can’t imagine the confused horror of such a voyage, after being torn away from your homeland. How many Africans suffered from posttraumatic stress disorder for the rest of their lives, just from the experience of the voyage alone?

We toured the castle after the museum. Normally I hate tours, and especially tour guides, because they manage to cheese up really significant experiences- but our tour guide was Oscar, and Oscar was different. Oscar had a wide knowledge base, and a gentle manner. He carried the weight of Slave Castle’s history in his eloquent, soft voice. He seemed to understand that the history he was telling was true, that it had all really happened.

Oscar led us through storage dungeons, where captured Africans were warehoused for about six weeks at a time before actually being shipped out. The storage dungeons were underground, damp, and frightening. In many of the dungeons, there was no light but a complete, consuming darkness that by itself could drive a person to insanity. We were shown areas on the walls were people had bitten into the concrete or scratched at the stone with their bare nails, driven mad by the despair of it all.


I’m not sure if I believe in ghosts, but I knew if there were any in existence, they would have to be there beside me, inside this castle on the coast. I felt they would have to be furious, a type of ghost born out of desperation and rage. And I felt haunted by it all, by us living men, our ability and desire to organize ourselves and our architecture together purely in order to commit momentous and historic evil.

I wanted to leave. It was a beautiful castle, but now I understood why the sea was so angry, why the coast was so broken and barren and sharp. Something dark had occurred here- and not once, but over and over and over, by many different countries, by thousands of different men, over hundreds of years. I couldn’t stand s being in the exact spot where women had had their babies ripped from their arms, where women had then been raped and forced to have more children, and that those were taken too. Like livestock animals. And I couldn’t shake the reality of the fact that men had died here, and by cruel, slow means. Even if they survived, their lives and perhaps their sanity were still stolen from them, all those possibilities, gone forever.

The Girls' Reform School

The Girls’ Reform School

I got the opportunity to view the Girls’ Reform School on the Industrial Children’s Home complex on Thursday, but there was little to report. Unlike the Boys’ Remand Home, the Girl’s Reform School is not a temporary confinement. The girls at the Reform School have already been sentenced and it is here that they serve their time, normally for a few years of rehabilitation and vocational training.

Because we were just orienting ourselves to the agency, we participated in the girls’ activities with them. I especially enjoyed learning how to make bread. It was so relaxing. The tasks of cooking always slow me down, causing me to be more present in the moment, to utilize all my senses. At first the girls snickered at my kneading, but I eventually got right. I felt a real sense of satisfaction, despite the simplicity of the task. For the rest of our day, we interacted with the girls as best we could (language barriers were a serious issue) through playing games with them.

They only had two games. One seemed to be an extra large checkerboard, and the other seemed to be mancala- but of course, it was not to be so straightforward. The checker board game was actually called “gum” and had many different rules, although the main aims were the same. The mancala-like game was not given a name and the rules were completely different. We had a good laugh over my attempts to learn the “new” rules.

We spent the last few hours of our day at the Girls' Reform School sitting in chairs and watching the girls practice manicures and pedicures, as a part of their vocational training. They also have vocational training in catering, dressmaking, and even plumbing! It is fantastic that the girls have the opportunity to learn a vocation while serving their time, since it seems to me that the majority of their crimes were motivated directly by poverty.

However, while watching the girls work, the nail technician who was teaching the girls had a four year old son who kept hitting everyone. I tried to entertain him so that he would stop, but he was very hyper and he seemed to know that his mother was preoccupied. By the time this small boy began to scratch me on purpose with his long nails, I was basically over the experience. The child was out of control (he told me he had “pleeenti brodas” with whom he practiced wrestling at home). But I get the impression that parents have a cultural expectation that others should discipline their children if they misbehave towards you. I am not comfortable with that- especially because the discipline here is normally physical.

All in all, I did not feel that I had contributed much as a social worker because of the language barrier and because of the vocational nature of the school. The girls are meant to be kept busy throughout the day with their vocational training, none of which I know anything about. Very little academic education occurs. And, based on the case files I read, the “counseling” sessions seem to consist of reminding the girls to behave upon their return home. Although I enjoyed my time at the Girls’ Reform School, I knew this was not meant to be my final placement.

Cultural Challenges

Cultural Challenges

I spent one day at my original placement agency, the Catholic Action for Streetchildren. It is a drop in center for children who live on the streets. Because the street children are unaccustomed to schedules and being told what to do, it is very unstructured. All activities are totally voluntary. Therefore, a large part of the work is simply hanging out with the children, talking to them, and establishing a relationship in the hopes that they will open up to you or reach out for more services. The drop in center provides a safe place for the children during the day, but it closes at four. Children must demonstrate they are serious about learning a trade before the enter will sponsor their housing and education.

Although the work at the Catholic Action for Streetchildren is very important, the agency was a three-hour bus ride from my hostel, through a lot of bumpy dirt roads. Because of the car accidents I have experienced, my back can be sensitive. By the time I returned, My back was in a lot of pain, and I spent most of that night crying in my cot. I didn’t know how I could manage that drive every day for six weeks.

However, Dr. Sossou (our professor) needed to move a few other students anyways, so she offered to move me to the same location the girls were now going to attend. The Industrial Home for Children is only one hour away, so the bus ride was much easier on my back and I did not experience any serious pain.

Luckily, it seems that I can gain more social work-specific skills at the Children’s Industrial Home than at the Catholic Action for Streetchildren. so I really appreciate Dr. Sossou’s willingness to be flexible. I could not have asked for a more attentive and caring professor.

My new placement at the Industrial Home for Children actually consists of three separate agencies within one small compound. The compound as a whole is referred to as The Industrial Home for Children, and within the compound there is the Remand Home for Boys, the Home for Abused Children, and the Reform School for Girls. We will the rest of this week orienting ourselves to each agency. For the rest of our time here, we will be on a rotation, with one student tackling each agency on her own for one week. Therefore, I will spend one week at the Remand Home for Boys, one week at the Home for Abused Children, and one week at he Reform School for Girls.

Yesterday was our first day, and we were oriented to the Remand Home for Boys. This agency is meant as a temporary residence for boys who have been arrested, are facing charges, and awaiting their court date or sentencing. As in the United States, juveniles are not put in jail with adults, so while this is not technically called a “jail”, it is a “secure location” (complete with locks and bars), meant to ensure the boys do remain in custody while they follow through their legal issues.

When we arrived, the boys were in a classroom that was basically a screened in porch with a tin roof. The boys sat at beat up desks and shared ancient textbooks. When we (three young women) entered the classroom, all the boys stood up and announced, “Good morning!” in unison. Then, each boy was instructed to stand up and greet us, telling us a little bit about themselves as individuals. It was funny to me that instead of citing their interests, the boys announced the lengths of their limbs, their facial features, and the color of their skin (either “fair”, “chocolate”, or “dark”, all to describe different shades of African complexions).

After introductions, the boys did English exercises, which they gave to us to correct and grade. One boy slipped me a note, announcing his name and requesting my cell phone number and Facebook information-“so we can be friends”, he’d written beside an erased “I can be your boyfrend…”

I kept the note because it made me laugh, and also because I did not want to get him into trouble with his regular teachers. But I did tell the boy that it was inappropriate to ask a teacher for such information. He turned pink in the cheeks but still grinned at me shyly.

Next the boys did a reading lesson from their shared textbooks on “Animals of Ghana”. I was impressed by the teaching skills of their instructor, a short, older man named Mr. Abugadou. He spoke in a loud, clear voice in perfect English but with the thick Ghanaian accent native to this country. He called on the boys constantly, thus forcing them to stay attentive and involved. If a boy laid his head down or began laughing, he would cuff them lightly on the head or shoulders to gain their attention, clearly with no intention of hurting or punishing them. It reminded me of the way a father would good-naturedly swat at his mischievous son. The boys responded to him with attentive attitudes, participation, and respect.

It seemed ironic to me that the boys at the Remand Home, all of whom were facing criminal charges, were significantly better behaved as a class than most American high-school classrooms.

After class, the boys went to have lunch and to take a nap in their dorm, which was a long bare room with a concrete floor and a bars. When we returned, we were assigned to take “interviews” with the boys, which would contain the basic information about the boys (name, age, etc.) and an account of what had caused them to be in their present situation.

This is where this blog (finally) gets interesting. I thought I had already experienced culture shock (from the poverty to the open sewage, many things had already been challenging on this trip), but I do not think I appreciated the meaning of that phrase until the interviews were being conducted.

I was SHOCKED by the things the boys had been charged with- not because their misdeeds were so deplorable, but because their misdeeds were so menial that in the United States I don’t think they would even warrant police intervention, much less arrest.

The boys’ offences included getting a girl pregnant. This was referred to as “defilement”, despite the fact that the girl admitted the sex was not forced but that the two had a relationship. Another boy was awaiting sentencing because he had stolen rice.

In the case of another, the boy was charged with threatening his father with a machete. That does sound bad, but the boy told us his father had beaten him so badly with the cane across his back that the cane broke. His father chose this punishment in response to the boy having a friend over to the house without permission. After the cane broke, the boy got a chance to run away and grabbed the machete in hopes of scaring his father so that he wouldn’t get another weapon and continue the beating.

Even more shocking than the boys’ menial offences were the attitudes of the instructors (the very same ones I had admired earlier in the morning). They called the boys liars directly to their faces, and berated the boy charged with defilement by asking him over and over again who he had fucked (direct quote). One of these instructors was the same elderly teacher who I had respected so much in the classroom for his firm but caring attitude towards the boys, his skilled teaching, and his energetic commitment to education.

Later that afternoon, this same instructor asked us (with some hesitation) if we spank our children in the U.S. We said yes, some people do. “But what do you do if the child calls the authorities?” he asked us.

I explained that CPS must be able to see a mark on a child or significant signs of neglect before the police would be involved.

“What if the marks are only on their palms?” he asked.

He explained that he had caned two boys on their open palm, and that somehow photographs of the marks got out. Many people were angry with him, and he didn’t understand why. Ghana is a very religious society, and he noted the quote from the Bible, “Spear the rod, spoil the child.” As much as I wanted to jump down this man’s throat for practicing violence against children, it seemed clear to me that this man truly believed he had been hitting the boys for their own good. He seemed confused and hurt by the reaction of the “mob” that had spoken out against him.

The last interview was with a boy who was charged with making marijuana cookies and getting kicked out of class by a teacher because he was visibly high. During the interview, the instructor told the boy that he had to quit using marijuana, because it would eventually cause him to go mad and want to kill his own loved ones. He told the boy he could end up living in a slum in Accra, reffered to as “Sodom and Gomorrah”, because “dat is weh all the homosexuals, crack smok-ahs, and usahs of marijuana belong”. I was horrified by the idea that these three types of people would be grouped together as untouchables and collectively kicked out of society. But in Ghana, it seems all three types of “offendahs” are considered to be of equally unforgivable depravity, and it is the cultural view that the "deviants" deserve to be isolated from the rest of society.

At the end of the day, I was left to reconcile my conflicting feelings about the Boys’ Remand Home and its staff. The attitudes of the staff did not seem indicative to me of hatefulness or violent tendencies. In fact, it seemed clear that the staff cared for the children very much and wanted the best for them. Their attitudes instead seemed to be a clear reflection of the cultural positions towards delinquent children, punishment, drug use, and homosexuality. There is desperate need for societal education on such topics. I spoke with my professor, and she reminded me that Ghana is still developing. Things are beginning to progress in some areas, but very slowly.

There are so many times I have been angry with how America addresses those same issues, but I can say this: Today has left me with a renewed sense of gratitude for all those Americans who came before me and worked so hard to overcome ingrained societal obstacles, all in order to move our country forward towards enduring humanitarian advancement.

View Outside My Hostel

Lazy Sunday

Tomorrow we begin our practicums with a tour of our agencies, but today we had no planned activities. I tried to sleep in as late as possible, but between the roosters, the Islamic call to prayer, and the early morning dance parties people seem to have in the dorms, it wasn’t really possible. I finally got up, and to my happy surprise Zach was on Skype. However, as soon as we began talking, my Internet card ran out and he abruptly disappeared from my screen. I cried from a sudden and overwhelming sense of homesickness.

After a few moments of hearing myself sob, I thought, “Get it together, Catron.” So I got washed, got dressed, and put on some music. I organized my room and felt proud of myself, because I only allowed myself be a total baby for a few minutes (today).

The other girls began to wake up. We were all in need of items and groceries for our rooms, so we shared a taxi to the Accra Mall. There is a grocery store called Shop-Rite, and a Wal-Mart like store called Games (don’t ask me why, I don’t get it either).

At Games, we were able to find egg crates for our terrible cots, and a replacement pillow for the flat excuse for a pillow that was on the terrible cot.

At Shop-Rite, I was amazed at how few brands were also in America. Some items are the same brand but have a different design. I never realized how much local market research must go on, even in a small country in Africa.

I triumphantly found cheap water, yogurt, fruit, Coke Light (the diet coke of Ghana), and even bug spray to combat the critters in our hostel. The ant situation is out of control. Most of the other girls laugh at my attempts to sanitize our floor. They have all travelled extensively, and seem to think that I am somehow lessening the experience of Ghana. But at the same time, they will all probably have more bugs in their room than is absolutely necessary. : )

Outside the mall, our taxi driver good-naturedly haggled us over the price of a ride, saying, “You Ah-mer-chans only shop. Too much! Too much shopping! Look at all your eye-tems, too many eye-tems! Hiyah prices foh you!”

We comprised on a price and got in. There was a Ghanaian flag and an American flag hanging on the dash, and a hand written message on the mirror, which read, “Witches and wizards, please leave the poor cursed driva alone!”

“Do you like Obama?” I asked the poor cursed driva.

“Oh yes! Oh yes! I loooove heem! Ohhhhhhh, BAHmah!” he replied, grinning broadly and laughing out loud. He suddenly became serious when he asked, “Do you like Oh-bahmah?

“Oh yes,” I assured him. “I voted for Obama.”

“Very good, very good! Ohhhhhhh, BAHmah!” Our conversation continued onto the subject of whether or not we were married, which comes up everywhere we go. It seems that Ghanaian men think all white women are very rich, and so they are eager to marry us. This seems crazy to me on account of the raw, stunning beauty of Ghanaian women, which makes me feel like a plain child in comparison.

We made it back to the Bani Hostel and unloaded our eyetems. Now I am cozy in my newly-comfortable cot, feeling very satisfied with my day. I will rest well tonight, and I hope to “keep it together”- at least until after our agency tour tomorrow.

Saturday Night at Rhapsody

Dr. Sussou’s niece, Edith, took us American girls out for a wild night in Ghana. I knew we were in trouble after the seven of us poured into the car (meant for four), and Edith (who was driving) asked us to find the bottle of wine in the back.

Edith had brought her friend Emma, and both women were incredibly beautiful. Ghanaian women have exquisite features and unbelievable figures. Their makeup was applied brightly, and their outfits were very sexy. I already felt like a total hillbilly, but it was confirmed after I got out of the car at the club parking lot.

Emma told me she hoped I was not wearing “those shoes” (Nike flip-flops) into the club. Now, in my defense, I do have a twisted ankle so I really needed to be as comfortable as possible. Plus, I was not planning on dancing or picking up a date. I had no other shoes, so Emma just sighed and lead us to the door of the club, where the bouncer confirmed my hillbilly status again. “You ah not ALLOWED to weh such shoes een the club,” he informed me, in a slightly disgusted tone.

Edith ran out to her car, where she had a pair of beautiful white gladiator sandals with gold detail. I quickly switched shoes, and we got in. The club was very modern, but very strange to me because of the large tvs which screened images of white women in lingerie all night long. Emma and Edith were amazing dancers and insisted that we join them on a mostly empty dance floor. I drank one delicious daiquiri, and took lots of photos of the girls dancing.

Around one, my ankle was really hurting and I was very tired. A few other women from my hostel were also ready to go home, but Edith insisted that we go on to another club. “You will thank mee, you do not know Ghanaian fuhn!”

I tried to explain that we really appreciated her hospitality, but that we were still jet lagged and needed sleep. “You are making mee very sad,” she pouted. “Why do you want to make mee sad? I thought, you are making my ankle very sad.

Although I kept insisting that some of us really wanted to go home, Emma simply refused to take us home or even to let us out of the car so we could get our own taxi. I was feeling beyond frustrated when we were pulled over- by the Accra Police. (Sidenote: everyone I’d spoken to advised me to avoid the police at all costs, because they are very corrupted.) Emma had had too much to drink, we had too many people in the car, and if that wasn’t enough… her tags were expired.

“This is very serious,” said the officers.

I couldn’t stop looking at the sticks on their backs. These men could keep us here for hours, or days. We might be arrested. This could be the end of my trip, I thought angrily.

“We ah begging you, deeah offisas. I will goh Mohnday, yes massa, and renew de tag. Please meesta offisas, we ah begging you,” sang out Emma and Edith. They were very flirtatious with the police, laughing up into their stern faces. I thought their behavior was a result of their drinking, and I was afraid they were angering the officers further.

After about ten minutes of back forth between them, Emma reached out and grabbed the hands of one cop. She looked up into his eyes, giggled coquettishly, and batted her eyelashes. She’d slipped him five cedi (about three American dollars), and he examined it.

“Now you can goh. Goh, goh. Get out of hea, bad gahls. Good bye, ladieees!”

***

We drove on to Osu, the wealthier and trendier part of Accra. My relief over not being arrested did not last long. The streets around the second club were jammed with hundreds of cars and pedestrians. I saw many small, unkempt children wandering in crowds, begging for money. One little boy reminded me of my brother at a younger age, with his small, thin fame, caramel skin, and dark features. He was about eight and dressed in rags, opening car doors for the glamorous men and women entering the club in hopes of a tip. His right eye bore a large purple bruise.

I was advised not to give to begging children, by a professor at UK who had lived in Ghana for many years. She told me that most street children run in groups organized by older teens or adults, who take the alms from the children, barely feed them, and often beat them.

It felt impossible for me to stay there any longer, let alone to enter the club where we had just arrived. My dear roommate sensed my exhaustion and pulled Edith aside, trying to explain that we really needed to go now. Edith was angry with us and would not hug us goodbye, but we left anyways. Our taxi was stuck in the street for about ten minutes because of a fistfight up the road. When we finally drove, I tried to turn back, but I couldn't find the little boy in the swarming chaos.

Although we got back to the dorm around two, and although I was completely emotionally and physically exhausted, I could not sleep until after four. The image of the thin, beaten boy in rags kept popping up every time I shut my eyes, and I couldn’t sleep for wondering where, or if, he might get find some rest.

6/18

6/17

All I can say about the plane ride was that it was very difficult. Crying babies, cramped spaces, twisted ankle… and eleven hours. By the time we exited the plane, my ankle was so swollen and stiff that I was offered a wheelchair by the airport staff. It looks pretty ugly, but the more I walked the less pain I was in. Michelle, as usual, was a great friend who waited on me and even carried my bags (in addition to her own!).

The airport was very different than ours. Bare bones, I would say. It was clean but quite small and there was no extraneous furniture or places for people to sit. However, it was staffed very well and once we got our bags from the baggage terminal, staff helped us get it to the bus.

Dr. Sossou, who is leading this trip, met us and allowed us to use her phone to contact family and let them know we had arrived safely. I called Zach, but couldn’t stay on too long because the other women also needed the phone.

I spent the rest of the day trying to find a way to communicate, with little luck. I have very limited internet access because I have to pay for it, and because the service is spotty. My cell is not working at all, although I hope this will be corrected in the next few days, as we paid for some service.

We unpacked. Our room is really large, with big closets for us both. We have a small balconey, and are very close to our communal bathroom at the end of the hall. I will say that the rooms could be cleaner, but they are not disgusting either. The bathroom situation is what I think will bother me the most about Ghana, because the toilets don’t like to flush and the water is not heated., plus our bathroom is crawling with ants… This is as close to camping as I ever intend to get. : )

We met Francis, a gentleman who works at the hostel, who was willing to show all of us American students around all day. He was nothing but respectful, helpful, and kind. He gave us a tour of the mall and outdoor market, asking us continuously, “Does this make you happy? Are you bored? Are you sad? Be happy, you are in Ghana! I want for you to be happy...” in the most genuine tone, repeatedly throughout out trips.

Francis took us to an outdoor bar in the heart of the market. The outdoor market was very different, consisting of hundreds of small shacks all running together in a large circle churning with traffic. It was hot and dark, and there were little kittens running around the dirt floor of the bar. (I have yet to see a pet, but there are a lot of strays here in Accra). Francis seemed to find it curious that I kept cooing at the kittens, but he did not say anything or make fun of me. Instead, he told us about how he was working at the Bani Hostel in order to save enough money to continue his university studies in political science. He explained that it was very difficult to collect the funds, but he still wanted to pursue his education.

When we sat down at the table, large plastic bowls of water were set down for us to wash our hands in. We ordered our meal, without actually knowing what it would be since the names for food are different. Our plate turned out to be fried dough and spicy tilapia. Francis assured me that it was proper to eat with your hands, so I dug in. ‘WAIT!” he said. “Your hands, your hands…”

“I washed!” I insisted. After a few moments we figured out my faux pas, using my left hand to eat with, which is considered impolite. Once I explained to Francis that we did not have this rule in the U.S., he only laughed and said not to worry, not to worry.

Michele and I received a large plate directly in front of us. We did not understand that the plate we were served was met for our entire table, which included Francis. After eating our fill of the delicate but spicy hot fish and dough, we looked up at Frances, who was sitting across from us looking amused. We asked him where his food was. He shyly gestured toward the ravaged plate.

We apologized profusely, but he did not care. He attitude of giving did not seem like a strict cultural adherence, but rather a genuine lack of concern for his appetite over ours. “I am happy that you like it so!” he announced, before plunging his hands into the remains of the fish.

Trying to Get to Ghana

6/16/2011

I’m working on this entry at the Atlanta airport, between my flight from Lexington and my flight to Accra. I cannot believe I am already gone from Kentucky! So far there are three young women travelling with me from UK to Accra, and they are all lovely. I am especially grateful for my friend Michelle, who is also my classmate and will be my roommate. She has a very calm, kind, and organized way about her, and that puts my mind at ease.

In classic Chris Catron style, I fell down the steps of my apartment trying to carry too much to the car at once. Nothing was broken, but the pain of a twisted ankle has distracted me from the pure panic I had been feeling over missing my family and friends. In truth, it was actually a lucky fall, because I could have really been hurt and unable to travel as a result of it but instead I just have a little swollenness. I’m hoping to see a doctor on Saturday, if possible.

***

The flight is very long. I feel like it will never end. When I look outside my window, I see the same view of the moon, hour after hour without change, in the same position in the sky. The pain medication I had taken after my fall this afternoon has worn off, and I miss Zach very much. Hopefully I will catch some sleep soon.

Getting Ready for Ghana

Welcome to my blog!

I have never kept a real blog before, but this summer I am going on my first international adventure to Accra, Ghana, with the University of Kentucky School of Social Work. I wanted to write each day in order to remember everything, and blogging seemed like a great way to share it with all the people in my life who are interested.

Right now, my apartment looks like a bomb exploded. My fiance, Zach, is going crazy trying to remember every little thing I might need. We are also trying to wrap up our wedding planning, but it's difficult with the busy semester we've had in addition to planning the Ghana trip. My fiance, friends, and family are all going to sort out the last details of our wedding while I am away. I cannot wait to come back and get married... But first, I have work to do.