I'm home now, but it would feel quite incomplete not to reflect on the last days of Guatemala (this year).

Arriving in an American airport after being abroad is always an experience. I don't know that I'd call it culture shock per say, but just the recognition of a number of things that you lived with out, without realizing. Things like Homeland Security. Football games and college sweatshirts. The mid-western accent. PDA. Then there's the language adjustment. This is the first travel I've done where I actually spoke the host language, so at first I walked around sort of assuming that the people walking past didn't speak English. I bought TCBY from an Asian woman in Salt Lake City and for a split second didn't know how to ask for what I wanted, trying to find the words in Spanish, and then realized that she didn't look like someone with a reason to know it. The Chocolate or Vanilla question brought me to my senses.

It was not as depressing as I feared it would be to leave Guatemala, I was ready to be home. Ready, but still shocked to find out my brain was deceiving me to believe that my flight home was a whole day later than it actually was. With the sudden realization that I had less that 24 hours left, I began counting my blessings that I left San Pedro the week before. The last 2 days there of wrapping up my lessons and saying goodbye to my teachers and host family left me with the feelings of mi corazón en el estómago. I have learned incredible amounts about the Mayan culture, about San Pedro, and about these peoples’ lives. In some ways I feel guilty that I can just go somewhere and start a life and just leave, but for me that’s the most important part of travel, is to dig in deep enough to see the humanity in other people. As different as Tacoma is to a pueblo in the highlands, I believe we are all the same with consequences that inform how I live my life in the States. I truly have a family in San Pedro and need to return, and knowing that a year from now it’s possible satiates me for now.

When I left San P I headed straight for Santa Cruz del Quiche to meet my friend Melissa from Spanish School. Sorry to anyone who’s been and enjoyed it, but Quiche isn’t worth mentioning in a travel blog. We went together to Chichicastenango on market day. The guidebook makes the market out to be an absolute must do for tourists, and underemphasizes the spiritual significance of the city. Go if you like to shop, the market is very cool, but the town itself is the charm. The former monastery of ChiChi is where the Popul Vuh was discovered, a written version of the QuicheMaya cosmology that survived the Spanish conquest and most if not all other renditions of the tradition. All throughout the highlands people embody a mix of traditional spiritual practice and Catholicism, but in ChiChi the mix is more obvious, with Mayan rituals occurring inside the Catholic temple. I wish I could have been there on a non-market day as well, just to get a less polluted feel for the place, but not this trip. This trip I shopped.

From Chichicastenango I left my friend and went up into the Cuchumatanes Mountains for 3 days, staying in the pueblo of Nebaj. Of course I would arrive at night in the rain, totally turned around, and of course the only other gringo on the bus was a Peace Corps guy from Kansas. Trust the world, people. The hostel I stayed at and the company I hiked with were both projects started by the Peace Corps to provide job opportunities for young adults in Nebaj. If you ever go, look up El Descanso, because they got it going on.

I primarily went to Nebaj for the hiking, which was excellent, but the most interesting aspect of the Ixel region is its recent history. The “Ixel Triangle” refers to the three major villages (and some 180 other small villages, most without road access) associated with one of the smaller Maya ethnic groups which were nearly obliterated during the Guatemalan civil war (henceforth, La Violencia). According to Nicolas, my 60+ year old hiking guide, during La Violencia the population of Nebaj swelled as people fled more remote mountain communities. The Guerrilla forces (ultimately seeking land redistribution and civil care for the Mayan peoples of Guatemala) were very strong in this neglected, isolated region, and the army response was correspondingly deadly. The army razed some 20 villages to the ground in attempt to route out support for the Guerrillas, going to the lengths of arming locals and forcing them to participate in “civil patrols” to kill Guerrillas and local sympathizers. I asked how many people of Nebaj died in the conflict, and received only the answer “bastante” (enough). Nebaj was removed from maps of Guatemala until after the war. Ironically, the post-war reconstruction effort has dramatically improved life in Nebaj, according to my guide. Pre-war there was no paved road out of town, but now the government has paved in between the three principle villages of the region, and connected then to the main highway, dramatically increasing job prospects and educational opportunities. The UN came in and built tons of “model villages” in the mountains to resettle the highlanders. I hiked to one, Acul. There really isn’t anything “model” about it- there is zero infrastructure. Sort of like developing a suburb on a Sim game and letting it get populated. I don’t think the people living there now are necessarily who lived on that land before. Sadly, many people who fled on to Nebaj, but into the mountains as single people and families have never returned to their communities. For me, it’s fascinating how strong Nebaj seems 14 years later. Next to San Antontio, it was the most traditional (larger) village I visited, and the community there felt very strong. I really enjoyed exploring down random paths past houses and through corn fields (because “private road” just isn’t a concept in a village).

I forwent traveling to Coban in favor of an extra day in Antigua with Melissa (turned out to be a good choice, I was ready to relax by then, and otherwise it would have been much harder to make that flight I nearly missed by 24 hours). Antigua is very pleasant, and very clean. I heard someone describe it as “middle class” for Guatemalans, but I don’t really know if that’s correct or not. Let’s just say that I didn’t see much traditional anything, but that the people didn’t seem “Guatemala City” either. The town has an eerie feeling of fakeness- it’s like Levenworth, WA, where no business signs can protrude from the edifice and Burger King and Pollo Compero (Guatemalan KFC) have nice carved wooden signs without neon. That said, it’s a very pretty place in the valley next to a volcano (photos forthcoming). I think a lot of people come to “Guatemala,” but really just come to Antigua and arrange 1 or 2 day trips. More expensive, but more comfortable for sure. As the former Spanish capital of Central America, the place is full of intact and ruined churches to explore, fantastic food, and museums. A description would not be complete without mentioning the central park fountain, modeled after an Italian one. I’ll let it speak for itself:

I had a fantastic time in Guatemala, and literally can’t find anything to complain about. I know that a return trip is in my future, but for further Spanish study, and to explore the many other parts of the country that I did not see on this trip, which was high on culture and happiness, and low on sightseeing. A perfect 6 weeks.

Well friends, its been awhile. For quite sime time i didnt really feel like i had much to say, but this past weekend i finially left san pedro for a bit to see other parts of the lake. I started out by taking a lancha to Panajachel, the city i came through to get here in the first place. I was there about 10 minutes before I decided to leave. Its a long established spot for tourists, so it was crawling with gringos, and overall felt dirty and uninviting. I knew there was a nature preserve nearby so I walked about 1km out of town and down a very plesent road lined with extremely nice hotels. I had planned to go for a hike in the reserve, but instead I hiked and went ziplining in a canyon. By far the most expensive thing Ive done in Guatemala for a measly 23 bucks. It was very cool to be above the trees and look down through them. There were also monkeys, but god knows ive seen enough of those to really care. The reserve also had a butterfly sanctuary, which im pretty sure contained 2 mariposas. The flowers were much for interesting. From Pana I rode in the back of a pick up, under a tarp, in the rain to another village called San Antonio Popolo. Its more or less the opposite side of the lake from San P, and is pretty much the definition of tranquil. I was only there for about an hour, but it was well worth the trip to see the differently patterened and colored traje tipica in a community with different Maya heritage, and a different language than San P.
The next morning I set out to climb La Nariz, a peak more or less behind the pueblo of San Juan that I visited in the last blog (and again 2 weekends ago when the lovely Katie Bray came to visit from her orphanage in Parramos. I finially broke down and bought something touristy, a woven make up bag of sorts, made from natural dyes.). It took two hours to walk from San P to the top of the peak, which was intermnitanly shroweded in fluffy white clouds, but otherwise provided a stunning vista of the lake. I could bore you with yet more pictures of the lake, but to you it would only be scenery, same ol, same ol. Because it rained while I was above the clouds the decent also took 2 hours, and thus I was a useless human being for the rest of the weekend, emerging only to feed my soul by making spagetti. FRESH VEGABLES. A miracle really.
I will now interupt this post to reflect on the oddity that is my diet here. Yes Ive mentioned it before. Im taking my carbohydrate consumption to new hights now. Yesterday Id had pancakes, a tamale (corn), rice, and freshly fried jojos by lunch time. Today breakfast was a piece of white cake offered to me with a tup of chocolate frosting, if id like, to go with my half a deep friend plantain. The school always offers us a snack, and today if planned to pass, but it was just so bizarre I couldnt help myself- more or less a hamburger bun topped with an egg, guacamole, purred black beans, cooked carrots, and CHOW MEIN. wtf? Jose joked that it was a sandwitch multicultural. (say it with an accent, the words are the same). And ya know what? It was damn good. However, by far my favorite thing my host mom makes is rediculously simple. Its pretty much instant chicked broth with tomatos, onions, noodles, and mint. Normally I hate mint in food, but this soup is sooo good.
Speaking of my host family. Im extremely greatful for the expreience of living with them. Really, this whole trip, but especially the homestay part has been exactly what I wanted to experience. It is a truly unique window into the life of my mother, a traditional mayan woman who may or may not have finished high school, and devotes her entire existence to the life of her family. I see the clash of modernity between my sister, a hannah montana and basketball loving girls and her father, a fairly strict traditional man (especially in the gender role sense, at times I find myself rolling my eyes uncontroably for his expectations of his wife). I find myself wondering if she has any chance to become the teacher she deams of becoming.
All in all, their home has been a wonder experience, but Im beginning to withdraw and seek more time to myself. Im sad to be leaving San Pedro for good this trip, but I need a break from my family, and especially from studying. Im thrilled with all ive learned, but its becoming more and more frustrating that my speaking skills dont progress as quickly. Yes, I could try harder, but Im just kind of tired. Im realizing now that ive pretty much done a j-term language class, something I always thought sounded like a dumb idea. I wish I could take 2 weeks off and come back to it, and I plan to locate another calss as soon as I get home.
Instead of coming back Ill be moving on for a week before I fly home. I have a rough idea of where- first to Santa Cruz del Quiche to meet a friend with whom Ill go to the massive market Chichicastenango and visit the some Mayan ruins. From there Im going alone north to Nebaj, in the Ixil Triangle, the three principle village of a small Ixil speaking people from some highland hiking. From there Ill try to get north of Coban, to get in some caving at Candelaria before I go back south to meet my friend again in the former spanish capital of Antigua.
From there its time to go home! I think Ill be ready after this last week of exploring. Right now Im just trying to soak up a few more spanish concepts and enjoy the company of my teachers, but I cant help but look forward to being home just a little bit. What can I say, I love to travel, but Im a homebody at heart, and while Ive loved building a home hear (I certianly plan to return) I have lots of goodness waiting for me in Tacoma.
Checkfacebook soon for more photos, and take care!

When it rains, it pours

Only a few outstanding events this week. Both of my amigas aqui have left for other ciudades , so theres been a lot of me time.

This afternoon I went with my teachers to express condoences for a woman whose mother died last week. Back up- one of the women who boards students for la esquela, it fue her madre who passed. It was a rather traumatic experiance for mi amiga, who experienced perhaps the most distressing of communication barriers with her family over the issue. In this cuture it was more appropriate for her to stay living with the family for the last 4 days rather than move. Death in the mayan culture is also like most other non-western places- people actually express their grief. They wail for days on end, no attempting to -hold it together- as we do. Here, people bring uncooked food- eggs and beans, primarily, so that the greater extended familia tiene enough food to feed an endless stream of visitors. Mi amiga dijo que the family and many, many visitors played music and wailed all night long for two days, and then the funeral happened. I didn´t go, but she described a really beautiful processional where as the casket was carried from the iglesia to the cemetary draped in lace, everyone in the street stopped what they were doing, removed their ubiquitus backwards baseball caps and either bowed their heads or joined the processional.

As it were, I did visit the cemetery this week with mi maestro. We walked around for casi un hora as he pointed out prominant community members tombs. Yes, tombs. Of course people used to bury their dead in the ground, but as modernity progresses, people want to do right by their loved ones, so now their are large multi person tombs with very fancy headstones. First it was bible quotes, then pictures of the Virgin or the Son, then dipictions of the persons work, and finially actual photos of the deceased behind glass. Recently, some tombs include metal bars in front of the headstones, kind of like security bars for windows. We visited his father, and the parents and grandparents of my host father. Muy intresante.

Anyway, today went to this woman´s house to represent the condolences of the school. The family brought us coffee and bread and we just sat with her . We brought money and eggs, and sat in a circle around the crying woman. My teachers took turns expressing their condolences in an interesting mix of Espanol and Tuztuil that I only understood as -i am sorry, and its very important for us to express condolences, and we´re certan she is in a better place ahora. It is extremely difficult to sit in a room with a crying woman and not cry yourself, even when youve never met them before. I cant imagine what it would have been like to stay in that house for 4 days like that, wishing you wernt being cooked for and not knowing what to say.

In other news, I walked to the next town over, San Juan with a teacher yesterday. We watched women weave scarves, explored the small library , and watched a girls championship basketball game. Normal life in a small pueblo. With the excessive rain the lake is swallowing up fields and docks more and more by the day.

My spanish is of course progressing, and I find myself shocked and sad that I have only 2.5 weeks left here to study and enjoy my new family at the school. It is going to be extremely frustrating to make progress and then go back home to Tacoma.

Well, thats about it. Off to salsa.

Photo

aqui is the link to my photos on fb.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2066510&id=44901945&l=84cee46fc0

Yo necesito comprar JaBON, no jaPON.

Allow me to explain the title. The other day I attempted to explain to Lola, my host mother, that I needed to buy soap to hand wash my clothes. Before expressing her surprise that I wanted to wash my own clothes rather than pay for a service, she began laughing hysertically at me. JaPon is an isla country of shortish Asian peoples, JaBon is soap. This sort of confusion is kind of a regular occurance for me. The other day in class I mixed up the words miente- meaning he, she, or it lies, with mierde- shit.

I had hoped to post pictures today, but the computer im working on cant deal with my camera. You will have to wait for the only 2 pictures I have of myself here thus far- one from a hike in los montanas con un maestro y los otras estudentes, and one of myself last weekend, on the worlds most sketch ferris wheel. Thats right, I rode a ferris wheel in a town square, high above the yearly mayan festival of Santiago. Santiago is the next town over on the lake, and the principle town of the Tzutujil Maya people. For the record, my family and our teachers speak Tzutujil when they want to make fun of us. The festival was neat- tons of shopping set up for tourists near the lake, and up the hill, traditional dancers and processionals out of the Catholic church in the town square. The church contained an interesting monument to Father Stanley Rother. Rother was a priest in the 70s in Santiago who fell in love with the Maya people. So much so, that during the guerria, o la violencia, the long and bloody civil war, Rother stood up for his people and was consequently black listed by the government. He returned to his native Oklahoma, but decided to go back to Santiago where he was murdered by the policia. His beloved people cut out his corazon and burried it in the church. Interesting, no?

In other news, my lessons continue to go well. I feel like im learning a ton, even if my speaking skills are catching up much more slowly. I continue to be amazed at the conplexity of conversations I end up having (or more accurately, stories that my mom and teacher tell that I contribute a little to). This morning Demis and I dicsussed the evils of prostitution and evangelism, at home yesterday it was c-sections and industrialized chicken, and a few days ago it was cocaine use and gangs. My words arent exact, but its kind of fun to try and describe what I mean, and to teach new english words and slang to my teacher. Its been confirmed for me that I absolutely love studying Spanish. Even if it can be very frustrating, the alegria of understanding my friends and having my day operate in a different language is great.

Im also meeting some really interesting expats. You may know that its kind of my dream to keep traveling when I have my PHd and to study expat identity and nationalism. There are some WEIRD people living here, and some good people too. Turns out its still easy for non-nationals to work in Guatemala because the country still has few rules in that repects. Anyway, in traditional areas like ours whatever rules the government makes are sort of ignored. Forexample, there are no fumar, no smoking signs everywhere, but no one really gives a shit if ou smoke inside. Anyway, the other day I met a woman who literally left the states 10 days after the initial bombing of Iraq. She owns several properties here, and is working on opening a guesthouse targeted at women who might be too nervous to travel here and experience the culture on their own. I also met a man who graduated from Foss HS in Tacoma- random!

Other quick thoughts (Im off to visit a coffee and craft co op)- I live with the cutest 9 year old in the world, and next door to the cutest baby- micxel. (I think thats how you spell it, but its like Mikchell). Lolita loves to tease and laugh at me. Micxel is literally runs in fear terrified every time I appear.

Im sick of corn now. Eating this much corn is like eating kenkey for every meal, if you comprehend Ghanaian cusine. Consequently, Im rarely hungry for my meals, but the food my host mom makes is really tastely. Last night she made coco from scratch (again, it contains a kind of corn meal, like everything else). Now shes beginning to remake things I like the most- I complimented the soup, and now I get tons of soup. Somehow I never seem to get sick from the food, while all of my companions are sick at least twice a week. Im sure its because they are scaring themselves into being sick with their fear of the water the food is cooked in :) Jk.

Thats all I got for now- Ill find a better computer for photos eventually...

Day 2 in San Pedro

SOmuch to say, and so little desire to be on the internet. Here are some pictures stolen off the net to help you visualize. The church is around the corner from my house.

After 3 busses, a boat, and a lot of rain I made it to San Pedro. It is a very beautiful place, and I have to say the weather almost makes it more appealing to me- it is about 72 degrees and either raining, or not raining. Its been raining extremely hard at night, and yesterday it was a total douwnpour when I walked to class (as in Skylar conpletely soaked, and feels stupid for only brining 2 pairs of socks and one pair of pants. Whatever...). Basically, its Tacoma in the spring plus 10 degrees, with thunder and lightning. Anyway, I was imediately dropped off at my school, La Flor del Maiz, where I very nice teacher named Jose told me hed take me to my family after the evenings activity, a lecture on la cosmovision maya (mayan worldview). What a way to start out! I understood about 70%, the same as the other students, so I was feeling pretty good until I did meet my family and participated in an extremely awkward dinner in which the father (Javier, also the owner of my school) asked only 2 or 3 questions and I pooly attemped to provide answers. I did understand that he thought I was coming in the morning and had been waiting for me all day (oops!)

Yesterday in the morning I had breakfast with Javiers wife, Lola. She is very sweet and much easier to talk to. She taught me how to make tortillas, which I suck at, no matter how many times she told me my 2 that didnt fall apart in my hands were muy bien. Lola does not work outside their home, except to weave skirts and belts, really typical for a Mayan woman. She mostly cleans and takes care of their daughter Lolita, age 9. Lolita is very cute, and seems quite micheveous. We sit at the breakfast table and she giggles endlessly at me. After that we cleaned, and I attempted to take a walk around San Pedro, but it was raining too much (This will be a common theme, I meant to do X, but it was raining...) My first class was in the afternoon with my teacher Demis. The other students (Currently 3 brits and a woman from Seattle-Denver) say hes the best, though based on their assesments of the other teachers, hes the most patient and thus the best. He is extremely patient. We laugh alot constructing simple sentenses like- I dont like rats, people who eat them are strange.- Apparently someone tricked him into eating one once... My classes are 4 hours long, but they hardly seem like it. We spent the entire time reviewing basic concepts, which was really helpful. Its apparently really common for people to come with lots of working knowledge of the language, but no understanding of grammar, like myself. Two of the brits left this morning so last night we went to a gringo bar for desert and drinks Apparently, I like cubo libres. It was very relaxing to talk in English for 2 hours, lemme tell ya. We covered normal travel topics, for example- what do people really think of Obama, and what happens if a homeless person with no insurance needs to see a doctor. I had forgot about the inevetable part of traveling that is being a US ambasador. I also forgot how much more people from Europe travel. Another question -why dont many americans have passports- is also very common. The two students who left this morning are on a 18 month adventure up and down s. and c. america, through india and through new zealand! It was refreshing to be around poeple who also feel that most extra funds should go towards travel.

Today I switched to morning classes and had more review time with Demis. We take breaks after about 2.5 hours and then the tables are turned- we students tease our teachers about their usage of English, and talk about slang expressions. Today I learned several ways to say womanizer and slut. Ah, life education. This afternoon our extra activity will be a Salsa lesson, yay!

What else is important¿ Food. So far Ive had mostly steak, black beans, and tortillas. So. many. corn. tortillas. And coffee, even Lolita drinks coffee! This morning Lola surprised me with a huge breakfast of chocolate pancakes, watermellon, and pineapple with yogurt and syrup! Breakfast here is a normal size, lunch is supposed to be a big meal, and dinner is very small. As my fellow student Jono put it, dinner is f-ing paltry! Lunch is a mormal sized meal in the US, and dinner is very, very small. But its enough, and only slightly akward that Lola and Javier give themselves portions half as large as mine...

This weekend is a popular one for fiestas in mayan towns, so I think I will go to the next village over, Santiago, for their festival. I would also like to climb one of the two volcanoes on either side of San Pedro- its astonishing how deep the lake is and how imediately close the mountians are. However, that would necessitate 5 dry hours, which might just be a miracle.

Thats all I can think of for now. Hasta luego!

And now it's a Guatemala blog...

Buenos Dias!

I woke up before breakfast is availible so I guess I'll put up my thoughts on Guatemela City before I move on.

My guide book is pretty frank in noting that Guatemala City (or just Guatemala, or Guate, for short) is unattractive, very dangeous, not charming, and aside from a few museums, devoid of things to see. Well, perhaps I'm just not you typical "rough guide" traveler. I certainly didn't see everything yesteday. I didn't even make it up to the "old city" where the older government buildings and chuches are. I stuck to zones 9 and 10, which are supposed to be fairly safe (I didn't have even bus fare to venture out, and didn't want to pay for a cab). Zone 10, where my hostel is (Xamanex, www.mayaworld.net) is called the Zona Viva, and is full of all the night clubs, shopping malls, and nice food places that I didn't bother with. Zone 9 is just a little seedyer, and more had the feeling of business people just going about their business. While I wondered around for several hours yesterday and didn't see much in the way of "sighseeing" things, I think I got a feel for the place, which was more impotant to me. It's gritty, but not dity, if that makes sense. It's actually the cleanest city trash wise I've been outside of Europe and USA/ Canada, although I ended the day with some dirt in my eyes and exaust in all of my pores. So much car exhaust! Certainly more advanced than Belize, and years ahead of Accra (I could have had a Frosty, Big Mac, Whopper, Subway, or Quiznoes if I'd' wanted, if you call that more advanced...). I totally get why most people skip it. In a stunningly beautiful country, this would be the bottom of most lists. However, I like cities, and I like places that are rougher around the edges. My favoite parts of yesterday were mundane seeming things- I bought some sort of street food for dinner, walked up and down ave. la Refoma and looked at decaying concrete monuments to independence, costa rica (why?), the first CA nobel in literature (one of my favorites) and an interesting speach by Simon Bolivar (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sim%C3%B3n_Bol%C3%ADvar) that no one payed attention to after their unveiling. Finially, I sat underneath the Torre de Reformador duing the evening rush hour (see photo). All in all, I think I like the place, and would like to spend one more day here to see the rest of the things I would enjoy, but I'm off to San Pedro today. Maybe I'll be back, but probnably not, since there are so many more peaceful, beautiful places to see.

My hostel is great- super friendly women greeted me, and we had most of a conversation in Spanish (as with the tourist office woman, and the taxi driver, and the cell phone vender, and the dinner guy- I'd say most conversations have been 60/40 Spanish/English) I'd read it was maybe a crazy party spot, but thankfully it was pretty chill on a Monday (we watched HBO in Spanish with subtitles and read our books or tooled around on netbooks, which it seems every taveler but myself brought).

Ok, time to get off the computer. Later!

Post Ghana, Pre Acceptance.

I have no idea if anyone will ever read this. I don't care.

I am home, and have been for a long time. I've settled in to my apartment at school, returned to work, and even written a paper (who knew, Ghana didn't totally strip me of the capacity to think and produce work).

Am I supposed to feel good about being here?

I got a call from Ghana today, from John, my crazy Jesus freak teacher friend who says "praise Jesus" after almost every sentence, who has no attention span (or doesn't understand what I"m saying) and changed the subject every time I say something. It was wonderful- I didn't realized I missed him and his fiance Sara, or visiting his small two room, electric blue flat to listening to the latest cuts from his ever in progress album. They haven't married yet, and they still plan to come to the states as soon as the album is finished, so he may preach at the church that has invited him. This isn't relevant information to anyone but me, but to detail everything we talked about only underscores how much I've realized lately that I desperately miss Ghana. It have drove me crazy then, that I could never predict when I would be harassed for being a white woman, that I never knew if I had evening plans, or if I'd just go to bed at 9, I never knew what the hell I was doing in the next hour, unless I was really stuck in traffic. I miss public transportation, I miss extremely questionable food, filthy yet deserted beaches, naked children, anti-intellectual classes- I say everything in the negative because I didn't appreciate it when I had it. Now I live an extremely predictable, stable life. I'm happy, I have purpose, but only because I am completely redefined in my goals and ambitions and spirit because of Ghana. I miss the orphanage with everything thing I have. I want to be there again, to hold the babies, and feel like my live really has meaning, beyond all of my goals and the places where I think I want to go in life. I want to sit all morning in MaxMart, drinking coffee straight from heaven, ammusing the waiter, eating kippe, and watching the always pissy looking Lebonese woman look over her shop.

I want to be there all over again but I'm too afriad to go alone. Will I ever actually put myself there? I have so many other countries I want to go, my goal in life for the next few years is to get out and explore as many new places as I have time to delve into. Not fast ditch, Euro trip backpacking style. I want to really go and live in these places for several months at a time. I feel really strongly about where I'm going- I'm applying to go to graduate school in Toronto and do research in an Immigration and Settlement Studies program (no, it doesn't exist elsewhere). Maybe that will lead me to more grad school in sociology- but I hope more that it will keep taking me abroad, that I can work for international organizations helping immigrants settle in and explore their new territory- kind of like Kwese and Abena and Janet did for all of us. Regardless, someday I will have to commit the money to return to Ghana. Part of my heart is there right now in those childeren, at Natdat Memorial School, strapped into a trotro, eating a pineapple, drinking boxed Sangria from a convience store with my friends, hiking through the jungle, soaked in a canoe, crying in the slave castles, and in a chain smoking cheif who wants to save the world while listening to the futbol match.

I want to build homes like Ghana for myself allover the world, to find new peices of myself in each place, to be a better person for it, a more caring woman, and to find the best place for me. I love PLU, it has been my home. But I am ready to go again.

When you ask me, “How was Africa!!!?”

Well y’all, it’s been a while. Laziness? No, not really. I just can’t say I’ve felt like spending long hours in an internet café tirelessly recounting all of my journeys. I wrote them down (well, all but one, which I guess is the real reason for this post) but my last few weekends have amounted to a few experiences that are probably worth mentioning.

They have been low key trips- I won’t begin to pretend that I have equal energy and patience for particular cultural tics of Ghana as I did during some of my earlier, more ambitious travels. I’ve spent a lot of time at the beach lately.

I spent one weekend in Ada Foah, outside of the tiny town where the Volta River meets the Atlantic. Really neat beach resort started by a nice Rasta man who has also started a school for the peninsula village (it’s too far to walk to town every day.) I took lots of pictures here, because it was pretty much paradise. We met cool Aussies and Canadians and ate banana pancakes! Really, I didn’t have a useful or intelligent thought all weekend…

The next weekend I started a week long trip out the west coast of Ghana with my trusty friend Lindsay. We started out in Cape Coast, a charmingly dilapidated town associated with the slave trade. I roamed around alone, sans hassle, and toured the Cape Coast Castle. This was a wholly different experience than touring the castle at Elmina with CIEE. For one, this time I was the only white person in a group of Catholic school children and their teachers, not one of 35 white college students. Observing their reactions to the gruesome tour, and experiencing their reactions to my being there, and to my emotions was extremely interesting. At one point, when the kids were laughing at something that really wasn’t funny, and staring at me as they muttered in Twi, of course figured it had something to do with me. When I asked what was so funny (only to elicit more giggles) their teacher told me “it is too sad, so they must laugh- but not at you.” Ah, understanding. Later, as I asked one of the teachers a question when I hadn’t properly heard the guide, she explained “Your people did this. Your people shoved them down this hole to the ground.” When I explained in a reactionary defense, “Oh no, I’m not British” she laughed, “Yes, still your people, white people.” Ah, association. The practices at this particular castle seemed to be much worse than at Elmina, but I’ll spare you the details…

We moved on to Domamma, (yes, it rhymes with “yo Mama”) to hike to a massive rock shrine and float down the Pra River in a canoe. The 5 hour hike though small settlements and cocoa plantations was delightful, but not nearly as cool as sitting with the chief for three hours discussing all the world problems. After that it was on to Prince’s Town, a small town on the beach that is extremely secluded. Here we hiked to Cape Three Points, the southern most tip of Ghana, and stayed in Fort Gross Fried-something, the only German trade/slave fort in Ghana. Very cool experience- it involved a brawl and machete throwing! Ask me about that one sometime… Then on to the fabled Green Turtle Lodge, an eco tourism beach resort where we stayed in this great little bungalow with self composting toilets, shower water the feeds the plants, and got served our cocktails by the local employees. Needless to say, I wish we’d had another day there, but my friend and I were seriously out of money…

This past weekend I had the privilege of going to a Ghanaian wedding! Well, technically it was two weddings- both the traditional wedding, now called the “engagement,” and the Christian church wedding that pretty much all Ghanaians do these days. Mind you, I had never met the bride or the groom before I got there- friends of a friend, but in Ghana that is quite beside the point. I was a friend of a friend, and sure! I could take tons of pictures of their wedding and watch everyone get ready the day before. The bride’s family was wonderful. The women talked and teased with me as I watched them prepare traditional kenkey for the reception (it’s boiled corn dough wrapped in corn leaves, eaten uncooked with pepper sauce with fried fish- way up there on my list of Ghana foods.) The morning of the wedding/engagement everyone bustled about putting last touches on the front yard canopy in their full traditional dresses and toga-like dresses (the men). At 7am all the family and close friends gathered to watch the negotiation of the bride price, as MC’d by the bride’s quite loud mouthed sister (not much of a singer either, ouch!) This is a matrilineal part of Ghana, so when the groom's family pays for the bride, she really is considered a part of her husband’s family and not her own. The marriage is a union of two families, not two people, so every in-law of the huge combined family must get along… Anyway, the bride price in this particular arrangement involved several cases of Coca Cola products (I assume for the reception, I hope she wasn’t really paid for with soda…), a suitcase of God knows what, bottles of champagne, and some amount of money. After all this was passed over the MC/sister passed a tray around for the groom’s family calling “20 cidi!” I think to try and collect a nominal amount of cash to be publicly handed over, because the real amount of money should’ve been much larger. The bride's and groom's families then proceeded bargain over this amount! It really was very amusing. Mind you, the bride and groom were not present throughout this whole ordeal. The groom finally made an appearance, danced into the area by all the women in his family, looking throughly embarrassed. A similar song and dance ushered in the bride, who sat quite far away from the groom, and they didn't look at each other once. At this point, the brides family had to "approve" of her wedding ring. Apparently they did (I forgot to mention this entire ceremony was taking place in Ewe, a language I clearly do not speak) and the groom was allowed to put the ring on her finger before they shared the most awkwardly public hug I've ever seen. Much cheering ensued, and the bride and groom finally got to sit next to each other (no touching, no kiss.) The brides family proceeded to pass out white bread and hot chocolate for all. It was only 8am, but the coco struck me as funny- especially since all the brides attendants were wearing matching t-shirts of the coco brand. They looked like people working for a racecar driver, not for a bride. The wedding gifts were a plastic cup and a sweat rag- quite typical, I'm told...

Then it was on to the church wedding. Well, it was really a church service, where people happened to get married partway through, it seemed. The dancing though the church after the couple exchanged their vows was so fun to watch (I got up and shook round a little.) Everyone was so happy. The youth choir of the church sang in their matching t-shirts. The friend who took me to the wedding also sang- he happens to be a really popular gospel artist in this area. However, I cringed through msot of the ceremony. Let me share a few particularly memorable quotes:
"You must always think your husband is the best person in the whole world, and tell others as such. Even when he beats you in the home, tell people he's the best."
"It is your duty to provide the food he likes. If you are out with your friends, and it is 6 o'clock, you must rush home to feed him." (In Ghana, it's ok to beat your wife if she doesn't do this. But don't worry, her husband is the best!)
"Always attend to his physical desires, it is also your duty, even when you don't want to."
Mind you, to each of these statements, the gathered party laughed and cheered their assent.
And, of course, Ephesians 5:22. "Wives, submit to your husbands..."
Good grief.

Changing subjects. It’s been quite interesting to be in Africa as Barak Obama claims the nomination. Lot’s of talk about how his being half Kenyan, and an “African American” will affect his policy towards Africa. Will he fix the United States? Will he be more likely to assist with Africa’s myriad of problems- South African xenophobia, Zimbabwe’s crap elections, Sudan (genocide), Sudan (their other political crisis), and the sudden rise in starving people in Ethiopia, cocaine (lots of places), and especially, Nigeria’s problems with their oil industry, and Ghana’s recent oil discovery. On some people’s part, their seems to be an expectation that he will “help” Africa because of his heritage. Other’s say that he would be the American president, not Africa’s (I listen to radio talk shows a lot.) The majority of people I’ve met here love Obama (I think you only need one guess to know why) though their were also a lot of Hillary supporters (so people really think they should be on the same ticket.) There is this hysterical song on the radio that is the “Barak Obama Song” by an artist called Black Rasta. It’s a rallying point for Obama’s support, and I really hope I can find it on line when I get home.

I leave in 4 days. It’s weird. Time is surging by. My countdown of days is going down so quickly. I have such mixed feelings. I’ve come to enjoy my life in Ghana, really I do. If you talked me any time in the first two months I was here, I was kind of a miserable human being. It took two months to get over being homesick (more or less over it anyway), and almost 3 months to really feel a sense of stability. Even now, I don’t love it. I’ve never been in love with Ghana, despite many moments of feeling so in love with what I was doing- I have loved teaching and being in the orphanage, I am so deeply thankful for those experiences, I’ve really enjoyed learning about Ghanaian and African development, and taking Sociology and Religion class in a new environment. I’ve made some great friends, from all over the country and out into the UK and Australia. I’ve experienced some really fascinating traditions (see above), discussed the world’s problems with chiefs, made Ghanaian crafts, followed the slave trade route, on and on I could go- but Ghana is not a picnic (as much as my latest pictures depict tropical paradise, complete with a man climbing a coconut tree to get me a snack.) I’ve had it beyond “up to hear” with various parts of the culture- I bitched out one of the recent people to tell me I would be marrying them and take them to the US, who insisted that I must have something against black men because I don’t want to get married RIGHT NOW while I’m in Ghana. I slapped a man who reached out to feel my white skin yesterday. Earlier as I walked down a busy street and the umpteenth person hassled me to buy something, and I ignored them as usual, they called me a “slave driver.” I’m sick of it being OK for men to openly stare at me as I walk by, and of not being able to speak my mind not only because I am female, but because we really do not speak the same language. It’s very difficult to explain oneself here, because the English words we use for things do not carry the same meaning, and some concepts appear not to cross cultures. When you ask me “How was Africa!?”…

But I digress- really, I did not mean for the negative list to outweigh the positive one- just to try and explain that the “little things” that I used to have more of a sense of humor about feel less little and more obnoxious now. It’s time to go home. Is it really? I have a wonderful vacation, summer, and senior year (already!?) ahead of me, but it’s quite hard to imagine them from here. I’m saddened to have so many lasts occurring right now- last meals of my favorite Ghanaian dishes, last cuddles with the orphans, last bus ride through the stunning countryside, last cold shower etc. My best friends have gone home. My whole “study abroad” thing, what ever that was supposed to be, is coming to a close. I’m at peace with the fact that I didn’t love Ghana. When I look back at the reasons I chose to come here, I realize all of them had the fine print of being uncomfortable. I wanted to go somewhere I wouldn’t vacation, I wanted to be confronted with a very different way of life, I wanted to learn how to on my own for once- I wasn’t hear to make friends really (though I managed a fewJ, or to party, sightsee, or feel particularly cosmopolitan (though I do). I think I remember actually saying “I want to be forced to be uncomfortable.” Goal met! And from this side of it, I’m SO happy about that. I really have gotten exactly what I said I wanted out of Ghana, even if the image I had had of my time didn’t match what it actually was. I feel so good about myself and where I’m headed, even if I don’t know where that is, other than home.

One thing I have gotten is a fire under my ass to go abroad again. I’ve suddenly remembered all these goals I used to have, like having a job where I physically had to get up and do something to help someone and learning Spanish that seemed to become lost in 7 changes of college major. Those goals have been meshed with others that have cropped up since I’ve been here to produce a very conflicted individual who doesn’t see when there will ever be time to settle down in life, but really thinks it would be a hell of a lot more fun to do all of that while abroad. I’m excited and pleased to come of age when Americans really have no choice but to acknowledge that the rest of the world exists. There are opportunities galore for making myself a far more interesting, self-content, and meaningful person if I continue to put myself in Ghana-like situations, rather than just going on to grad school, though one day I still really do want my PhD…

Life for the last month.

So long time no blog. I’ve been increasingly busy lately… Funny how that happens when you neglect to study all semester long and suddenly have to face the stress of exams. I probably should be studying right now instead of typing, but I want to get these things out so that I don’t forget to do it- remember this record is as much for me as it is anyone else…

Water continues to be an issue in my building. It's gotten to the point that you can never assume the water will be working- especially when taking a shower- it stopped while I was washing my hair the other day. Funny that the water stops as is starts to rain. The storms here are so intense- I've never been scared by thunder until now, because my whole room shakes. You could tell me I was in a war zone and I'd believe you.

I’ve done minor trips the past two weekends. Two weeks ago was our last CIEE adventure, a day trip to Bojo Beach. It was a beach on a sandbar that I think is owned by the resort that sits on the mainland. Not much to say about it, really, but I had a wonderful time, playing in the ocean like I haven’t since I was a kid visiting California.

This past weekend I traveled to Ada Foah with 2 friends. There really is nothing there other than beach hotels- literally one gas station and a couple of rice stands. But it is a beautiful place- where the massive Volta River meets the Atlantic Ocean. I had really wanted to see more of the river before I leave Ghana, it’s such a big deal for the country’s water and power supplies, but so far I’d only seen it from the CIEE bus. The trip had many comical moments. We arrived at dusk into the tiny town, and not knowing if our beach encampment had any food, we stopped to eat really spicy rice before calling the hotel to have someone come pick us up. So there we stood, at the gas station, in the dark waiting for this guy to show up. Some creeper kept edging closer to us, taxi and tro drivers kept harassing us asking where we were going… The guy finally drives up in a truck, and we expected to get in, but the truck drove away… he introduced himself and said to follow him. Of course, he leads us down a dark alley… I trusted him, but my friends were freaking out. I said “Ok, where are you taking us?” and he responded, “Oh, are you scared? We are taking a short cut to the boat!” This was our first indication that we would be getting there via boat. I thought “great! I really wanted to take a boat out on the river.” My friends said “hell no!” We didn’t really have a choice. There we were, motoring out on the river under a blanket of more stars than I have seen in a very long time, when the boat dies. It took a good 20 minutes to get it started, during which I tried to make tension diffusing jokes while the women in the front of the boat kept turning around to laugh at the plight of the poor men trying to start the engine again. At least the stars we beautiful...

The beach camp was amazing! Seriously, I have all these really stereotypical tropical paradise postcard-looking pictures of sand, grass huts, and palm trees. Ada Foah is touted as the "Hamptons of Accra." It really was- all weekend long we watched sailboats, wake boarders, and jet skis owned by ex patriots zip up and down the river. One thing that was wonderful- despite all the wealth there on the beach, there were still villages standing between out camp and the town. People living entirely undisturbed by the tourism- that's Ghana for you. The camp owner, a very nice rosta, recently started a school for the kids in the village.

The camp was positioned on the thin peninsula between the river and the ocean, so we got the best of both experiences. There was absolutely nothing to do there but boat, sit next to the ocean, and sit next to the river. So I swam a lot, because I can't stand to sit around all day, even in paradise. The "hotel" was a series of palm huts on the center of the sand bar, each with a wooden door painted with the flag of a different country (I stayed in Italy.) When we first arrived, the manager sat us down and tried to feed us. Although we had already eaten (he was shocked to find we could ever assume his place wouldn't have food) he did allude to making banana pancakes at breakfast time. PANCAKES! The one food I have really, really missed. I actually dreamed about them before I got to devour them (sans syrup, but whatever, can't be picky) with fresh squeezed orange juice. The next morning I got up super early to watch the sunrise and attempt to walk alone to the end of the peninsula (didn't make it... too far.)

I really enjoyed this trip for the opportunity to reflect about how I will structure and spend the last of my time in Ghana. I'm down to exactly a month today (God, where is May going???) I find myself spending more and more time alone, and hardly ever doing things with the people in my program. And I'm happy with that. Odd, normally I hate to be alone for too long, but I'm finding more and more contentment is ensuring that my day and my experiences are more structured around what I want to accomplish. This will probably lead to future anxiety about being a loner, but I hope I am finally learning to make decisions on my own initiative, and to trust that I can more or less take care of myself.

Most of spending time off doing my own thing can be attributed to my newest venture- volunteering at the Osu Children's Home. This is the state orphanage of Accra, so it's all the kids deemed to be in "physical or moral harm" at home. There are also a fair amount of kids who were just pulled off the streets. The most heartbreaking scenarios are those who have been abandoned in hospitals when they were born. Ghana's health care system is so that unless you enroll in the national health insurance scheme (it only takes 10 bucks a year) you must pay up front for medical care. For women who have babies at the hospital but can't pay, the hospital keeps the kid until you return with the money, and as I'm sure you can guess, many parents use the hospital as a way to get rid of an unwanted or unaffordable child. These are the kids I see most, as they have me working in the nursery. It hits me so hard that most will never be reunited with their families, or don't have them at all. The orphanage actively fosters and adopt kids out, but it wont happen for everyone. There is such an absence of attention for them. They will never have a mom write them letters if they go abroad, no one to honor in old age, no one to give them the attention and openly expressed love they deserve.

There are over 20 babies there, with any number of maladies and sad stories. There's Ado, who's 5 but partially disabled, he cant swallow anything, but he has a great smile and never cries... There's other Ado, who's entire family was killed in a tro crash. Abena and her younger brother are here because there mom in a mental hospital. I could go on... some have HIV. My favorite is Deborah. Deborah is one of 4 kids who are completely disabled- they can maybe wave their bended arms, but that's it, no development of motor skills whatsoever. She is 7 years old, but you would never know it. I love her because every time you just say her name she hyperventilates with excitement and puts on the sweetest smile. I also adore the women who work for the orphanage- they clearly love the children deeply, but they just can't give them enough attention because there are too many of them. The infants sit in their cribs all day with zero stimulation. For some reason they prefer that the volunteers play with the toddlers rather than hold the babies. Perhaps it's because they demand less attention- they have sadly learned to sit in a crib and be ignored all day.

There are rats running around the kitchen, and the nursery has very little ventilation, but all in all, the facilities are better than I was expecting. We have a strict routine- breakfast, letting the kids sit on chamber pots before they take a bath, then dressing, and later taking them out to play. The process repeats itself for lunch and dinner. There are lots of volunteers, mostly European girls on their gap years between high school and college. My favorite is Susan, a 50 something British woman who was a financial adviser, but decided it wasn't what she wanted from life any more, and is using her time in Ghana to decide if she wanted to be a teacher or social worker... Yesterday I was only there for about 30 minutes before I was asked to help accompany Auntie Mercy to the hospital with two infants. We spent the whole morning with them there, trying to get them to eat, and soothing their tears when they both needed injections. It's a big energy drain being there, but the time passes so quickly I hardly noticed. Honestly, if I weren't going on vacation i might almost be persuaded to stay in Ghana a while longer, to keep going to the orphanage. Alas, I will try to soak up all the time I can.

Sorry, that was heavy. But I'm so glad for the opportunity to be there. I will take a few days off here and there for a trip to Togo, but for the next month, besides exams, the orphanage will be my life. It will pass so quickly, but I can't think of a better way to spend my time with Ghanaians until I leave. That said, there may not be another post until it is time for me to leave. I don't have many more new things to say, but if I do find something, it wont be episodic, it will be my reflections on my time here, which frankly, I'd like to post but don't want to waste my time here doing. So take care, and enjoy your month!

I'm too lazy to proofread this....

Greetings again!

The power continues to go on and off here. It was off overnight the other day, starting at about 7pm. My class had to end early because of it, so I walked across campus to my dark room with the help of a nifty keychain flashlight (thanks, Mom) to eat dinner in the dark.

In other news, there was a strike going on at the University last week. All of the junior faculty members will not be receiving their full salaries this semester. Instead, the government will be paying them in installments- guess they don’t have the money upfront. In addition, all of the maintenance and auxiliary staff people are “renegotiating” their contracts (on strike also, one of them just told me it was “renegotiation.” Several classes were canceled, and none of the classes I’ve been to this week have had a PA system, because there is no one around to run them. Doors to classrooms being locked because janitors took off with the keys was a major source of class cancellations. The drummers for my dance class were among the strikers, so no dance Of course, this is Ghana, so when I walked past the protest at the University gates, there was dancing and music blaring from giant speakers, in addition to the picketing signs. The first protest I’ve ever been to actually…

This past weekend my program took everyone on a two night trip to Kumasi, in central Ghana. Kumasi is considered the cultural heart of Ghana, as the 2nd largest city, and the one that has continued to maintain its historical displays of “African-ness.” Kumasi is home to the Asanti (or Ashanti), whose empire was at one time much larger than present day Ghana. The city surrounds the Asantehene’s palace- the dwelling and political center for the most important Chief and Queen Mother in Ghana. Today they have no official political power, but the president and parliament are constantly consulting them- it would be extremely foolish to piss off the largest and most influential ethnic group in Ghana. Some people here, like my friend’s roommate, actually deny their real ethnic heritage and instead claim that they are Asante, because they are still revered for their former glory. Of course, they attained their major economic success and clout by systematically destroying smaller empires for the slave trade, but, you know, details… The Asanti are more known among modern Ghanaians for putting up a very strong fight against the British prior to colonization. They were almost impossible to defeat, as they were exceptional warriors who were powered by the guns the British sold to them in exchange for slaves, but finally fell in the early 1900’s. When we toured the former Asantehene’s palace (right next door to the new one) we examined a display case full of the guns the Asantehene would hold and wave in the air as his attendants carried him throughout town. Each night the guns are removed from the museum and are used to protect the Chief as he sleeps, and they are still used in major festivals. Absent from the museum was the real symbol of the Asante’s power- the golden stool. Stools are very important in Ghana. I have never been to a Ghanaian home that didn’t rush to find a small stool for me to sit in (unless I’m in Accra, where they rush to find a plastic chair…) and most are adorned with religious or Adinkra symbols (more on that later). The Asantehene traditionally sits on a stool of pure gold- but the stool was strategically hidden before the Asanti fell to the British, and remains hidden to this day, for fear of it being stolen and used to commit political ransom. Our tour guide claimed to be one of the few who knows where the stool is hidden. I wouldn’t buy it…

Our actual first stop on the trip was to the Kumasi Central Market. This was a good experience, for sure. Our director kept warning us that it would be a very overwhelming experience, cautioning that most of us would probably hop off the bus, take a look, and want to run back on the bus. Overwhelming is not a word I would have used, and I found myself wanting more than the sparse 30 minutes allotted to explore. Kumasi Market is characteristically different than the markets in Accra- for one, it is 95% controlled by women, few male sellers, zero male shoppers. This reduced the typical market hassle significantly- market women are less aggressive than men, so no one was grabbing me and harassing me to come into their stall. The women are more inclined to call out “white woman!!!” with a huge smile on their face- and I can’t say no to a conversation with a big, friendly smile. Most women completely ignore you as they go about their shopping, as if to say “I see you Oburoni, and I could care less that you are here, in fact, stop staring and get out of my way!” I appreciate this- a slight slice of autonomy in a country of sticking out like a sore thumb. The market is intense, however, and I can see why some people wouldn’t like it. You have to fight your way through a literal sea of people, and hold your bag very close to your side. Kumasi isn’t devised like other markets that more or less have a vegetable section, a fabric section, a house hold section, and so forth. Here there was a fabric lady sitting next to a tray of onions, and I had to duck to the side to avoid being hit by a man carrying a plate of raw goat meat, while I tripped over a woman sitting with peppers- all on my way to look at a bar of soap… Not really a hassle free environment, but I thought it was fun, anyway…

After the market, I roamed away from our hotel to take a solitary walk and was quite rewarded by the neighborhood people. Children playing games using their shoes as cars while sitting on the side of the road… men answering the call to prayer from the local mosque, some leaving what appeared to be a Muslim wedding or birthday gathering, full of beautifully dressed (and covered) women and children… men and women tending to their shops for the final hour… women cooking dinner for their families and waving up at me… children roaming home from school… exactly what I would want my life to look like if I could live in a small community where everyone lived, worked, and schooled within one city block. It was interesting to reflect upon how different their lives look for the simple fact that the never need to commute anywhere for routine daily activities like we do. A very pleasant slice of daily life and Ghanaian culture that I miss out on as I live on campus.

The next day we traveled to two villages known for their contributions to traditional Ghanaian crafts. Bonwire is the home of Kente cloth. Think real hard and imagine “African print.” You are probably thinking of the bold colors and patterns of Kente. Many countries and clans claim that they started Kente, China has even found a way of manufacturing it by machine, but no self respecting Ghanaian would accept Kent from anywhere else. Kente is woven on a loom into one of several patterns that have special meanings like “family unity” and “strength.” A cloth woven to show the golden stool of the Asanti is also a very popular design. I of course bought cloth with all three designs But small pieces- a piece of Kente cloth can easily cost over $100- and I don’t like it that much. I did get to try the actual weaving though- it’s difficult! You sit on a very small stool in a very cramped loom, thread strung between your toes… I’ll get the video of my weaving up on Picasa. The Kente village itself was unpleasant. It’s a popular tourist destination, and as soon as the local children see you driving up in a bus- they attack. Really, it feels like being attacked. They don’t really have a concept of a “personal bubble” here. One steps off the bus and literally can’t take a step further because there is a child to both sides and in the front of you, either trying to sell you something, or trying to ask your for food, money, or ballpoint pens (seriously.) As we listened to our bubbly guide Williams explain the different Kente symbols, the Children hovered in a circle around us, slowly closing in until our guide would stop his talk to snap at them in Twi. While it is obnoxious that they make it hard to walk, the Children don’t really bother me. Perhaps I am too hardened, I made it a general rule long ago that I wouldn’t give to any person that begged of me here- it just isn’t realistic- and you can’t ever tell how legitimate their need is. (At the next village we stopped at, a child asked “please, some food for me” of one of my friends- while holding food in their hand.) They are pretty much trained from birth to accept the idea that they should always try to ask us, because eventually they will get lucky. I don’t have a hard time saying no, I just smile and shake my head, but for some of the people with me, the experience ruined their whole day.

Apparently the children were more intense at the village of Ntonso (I didn’t notice, I was having too much fun learning about the crafts) home of Adinkra. Adinkra is a set of symbols and a technique of stamping them on to cloth. There are over 150 symbols, though only 60 are used regularly. Each symbol represents an African parable. They only do the stamping with a dye made of a particular tree from the Northern Region. They soak the bark, pound it like they pound fufu, and then boil it in big caldrons (I laughed in spite of myself that they looked like witch’s caldrons), Our guide happily explained that before the bark has become dye it can also be drank to fight diarrhea and PMS… For a small fee we could get a cloth and stamp a few symbols for ourselves. I made two, of course. We all contributed to stamping a long cloth that is now displayed in our program office.

The next day we concluded our trip be traveling to Lake Bosomtwe. A beautiful sight, though I can’t say my breath was exactly taken away- I’ve been spoiled by Oregon’s Crater Lake. Bosomtwe was created many years ago by a meteorite, and is 10x12miles wide, surrounded by beautiful, tropical hills. While scientists debunked the mystery and removed the meteor, the lake is still held as sacred to the Asante. Some say it is the home of the god Twi, others maintain that the spirits of the dead stop there before continuing on to the afterlife. Traditionally, fishermen of the lake were not allowed to use paddles or boats, lest they disturb the spirits. Today that rule does not hold firm (we traveled around in a motor boat) but we did see men floating around on special logs, using their hands to paddle and check their fishing nets. Fun fact: the lake grows every year with the rainy seasons. While it is disease free (meaning we got to swim!) it’s not for drinking, so the water level doesn’t ever diminish. Since its creation the lake has swallowed at least 4 villages, and the ones that ring the surface are probably going to be gone within a few years (including the resort we ate lunch at.)
Ok, that was my trip. This feels like an inadequate entry, but not a whole lot else is happening right now. I only have 45 days left in Ghana, and I’m actually getting to the point where I will be sad to leave. Ready to leave, but saddened. I start my second internship on Monday- doing God knows what in an orphanage, but I’m really excited to have more to do again. Classes effectively end after next week, so I’ll need to start studying, since I’ve decided to take off for the week before my first exam to travel, but life definitely has a feeling of slowing down- if that’s even possible. This has been the most relaxed semester of my life (I’m on fun book number 6!!!) I’m also finally starting to connect with people on my program. I’ve had friends, but am only just now considering them close enough to miss as I will miss Ghana. It’s fun to think they open new possibilities for visiting other parts of the States, since they are from all over the place.

Take Care!

PICTURES!

Hello again, friends.

I have finally gotten my pictures up online! Unfortunately, they are not in specific, narrated albums like I would like them to be, and won't be able to accomplish until I get home. But for now, if you really want to see em, you can use the following link. They are at least in order, and I'm pretty sure this blog has listed everything I have pictures of.

http://picasaweb.google.com/SkylarSCole

Take Care, loved ones!

After a Brief Absence...

Hey Folks,

It’s been a while. Well, it hasn’t felt that way for me really, time is flying by here. I feel like I haven’t had anything of significance to say. I can tell you about the past two trips, but I feel died up in witty banter or interesting reflections of my experiences. I’m not ready to share personal revelations, so I don’t know what else to do but tell you about trips.

In slightly eyebrow raising news, there has been an anthrax outbreak in the northern region, where I visited two weekends ago. How the heck anthrax got to very rural Ghana is beyond me…

So about the Northern Region… I only made a small dent in it, but that’s an accomplishment. Most Ghanaians, if they aren’t from there have never been. There are several reasons for that. It takes quite a long time to get there (in a straight shot on the way back I was on a bus for 12+ hours). There isn’t much of a reason to, unless you are doing tourist activities- ancient mosques, elephants in the national parks, fetish priests and crocodile ponds, etc. There is also, as preciously mentioned, a strong social divide between the less developed north and the still largely poor, but striving to be western south. I personally loved seeing the stark differences- in scenery, in food, in housing (what you might typically think of when you think Africa- round, made of mud, straw roof), even the people were a bit different. If anything, they don’t speak Twi, so I was relieved of the pressure to practice.

We left on a Thursday and spent the night in Kumasi. We found the bus station when we got there, bribed the driver to sell us bus tickets early. The bus left at 6:15am, and to have gotten a ticket that morning we would have needed to get there at 4 or 4:30. The station was madhouse- men and women with suitcases, all scrambling to get on the bus because they knew there weren’t enough seats. This was one of those moments where I struggled to sit back and watch everything happen around me while I still had to participate. Sometimes I wish I could just watch and not actually be in some of the situations I get in here. Despite the chaos we made it on to the bus and drove to Bole, 5 hours away. The drive was beautiful, but it was also like watching my development studies class in action. There were vast road stand markets- where there is no competition because all the women sold the same things. There were children collecting buckets of water from roadside pumps that undoubtedly were not clean, houses that are falling apart, schools that consisted of a tree with a shady spot, and so on. All the problems of rural development that some how the urban people politicians and planners fail to address…

Bole is the regional capital for a once very great tribe known as the Gonja. My friend I traveled with happened to be from there, and was clearly very proud of his people, as was everyone there. One of the first things I did in town was to meet a chief. Not as ceremonious as you might think! There he was, underneath a tree, sitting on his motor bike in his traditional dress. As the district capital Bole also holds the “palace” (long concrete building, green shutters, not attractive at all) of the “paramount chief.” Paramount chiefs lord over all of the chiefs in a given area. My friend being who he is (the son of a former chief) we waltzed right up to go meet him. Unfortunately (well, fortunately for nerve racked Skylar) he was in Accra at the time, so we met another normal chief. The palace is essentially an empty room, whitewashed, with one corner dedicated to a raised platform where the PC sits. There was a lot of animal pelts, bows and arrows, instruments, and sacks of I’m guessing food on the altar. On the wall above was a symbol also painted on the outside of the building- A spear in a crescent moon.
I later read in my book that the Gonja were a great and powerful people for one reason- there was a lot of them, and they decided to get a leg up on the slave trade by raiding other tribes and selling them at the Salaga slave market (also in the Northern Region.) That’s why their symbol is a spear- they attacked and scared people into submission. I’m kinda glad I didn’t learn this until after that weekend. Interestingly, of the several people who reminded me the Gonja were a great people, no one ever told me why…

Moving on, we went to visit the town’s ancient mosque. I was super excited, one of the main attractions for me in Ghana, especially as I take a class on Islam. Turns out my friend’s mother’s side of the family are the official caretakers, or it is their “gate” in the clan to watch over the mosque- so I got to go inside. It’s not in use now, but there are still mats and brooms and a few items around the Imam’s alcove seating area. There was a narrow hall for men and one in the back for women. Crawling through a narrow staircase and up onto the roof you could see over the whole area. I especially enjoyed that you had a clear view to the modern mosque from the ancient one. Very odd architecture- a natural cement with pointed walls and wooden support beams sticking out in a pattern meant to stabilize the walls. No one could tell me why it was built in this shape, and it was hard to fathom that the building was over 500 years old and hadn’t decayed significantly. My Ghanaian friend seemed to be convinced that my only reason for visiting was to “snap” the mosque and move on. He took my camera from me and took way too many pictures of me standing in front of the mosque, and he even made me pose for one standing on the side of the building… felt a bit like a sacrilege to me… As we walked back to Bole proper (one intersection, one gas station, one restraint, and a bank) we passed the mosque in use, and the people praying inside looked at me curiously as I passed. I wasn’t trying to peak inside, I was just marveling at their collection of shoes lying outside the building. One of my favorite parts of the whole weekend was always hearing the call to prayer blasted out speakers on the tops of the mosques.

Before heading to Mole National Park we stopped in my friend’s mother’s village. Put my “rural” Easter trip to shame. The people liven in a bizarre network of mud walls that make up a maze of families living together. I was marched around town, meeting various village elders of ascending rank so that I could see the cemetery of the PC, located at the back of the village. Normally outsiders can’t even glance inside, it is that sacred. With every person I met we bowed and got to our knees on the ground. For some reason they all laughed when I copied my Ghanaian counterparts and told me to get up. The head elder (or the medicine man, I’m not sure) allowed me to look inside the cemetery, but not enter, because we didn’t have time for a complex purification ritual… Afterwards the head elder presented my with a large yam as a gift, and asked to be my Ghanaian husband! And ya know what, I accepted. Partly so that I can now tell all the random men on the street who propose that I already have a husband in Ghana… Good thing they only allow polygamy and not polyandry.

Ok I realize this is getting long, and I’m only part way through trip one. The next day we got up early, missed one bus and took the next to Mole National Park, the place reputed for seeing elephants roam about in their natural habitat. I did in fact see many elephants roaming around, and swimming in a watering hole the park created to lure the elephants closer to the motel for tourist viewing (at least they weren’t behind bars, right?) We took two safaris, one with a private guide (who we were able to bribe to take us because he was from the same village as my friend) and one with a family of delightful Canadians in the afternoon. On the second walk (behind out rifle laden guide- God I hate guns…) we were almost to the end and hadn’t seen an elephant yet. Suddenly we all looked up from out feet to find that a very old female was standing directly in front of us, maybe 100feet away. The guide freaked out and made us back up. She was majestic, and stood there looking at us, before revolving in a circle as if to say “go ahead, take your pictures” before sauntering off. A very cool experience indeed. The park also held warthogs (hakunnah matata, anyone?), antelope, monkeys, crocodiles, and many butterfly species. That night I opted to sleep on the roof of our guest house so I could see the stars outside of the city. Wonderful, despite the fact I was wearing earplugs to block out the wannabe discoteca taking place in town. Probably the only moment of peaceful alone time I had on the whole trip.

The town the park is accessed though is Larabanga- and it ad even less in it than Bole. They did have another ancient mosque and something called the “sacred stone.” The village legend goes that the man who built the mosque came into the area, stood next to the stone, and threw his spear, believing that the place it landed was where Allah divined the mosque to be built. Some time later, when a road was needed to access the mosque and growing village, men moved the stone for the road. The next morning the stone had mysteriously moved its self back to its original spot. This happened 3 subsequent times, so the men took it as a sign from God that the stone was special and not to be moved. So the road now curves up the hill, around the stone. People go there to lay their hands on and pray. I tried to pray, or something like that, but I was too distracted. Our tour guide from the mosque was being extremely insistent telling me about the village’s aspirations to expand their 2 room school and build a health clinic (which is currently a small pile of cement blocks on the ground, all they’ve been about to purchase.) Normally, I’m a willing giver of my money for things like that, but somehow having this man stand thisclose to me and hound me about donating was a big turn off. He even followed me to the roadside stand where I made change from a 10 to be able to give him a few cidis. The whole thing was very uncomfortable. Later I realized I should have just given him the 10- a lot by Ghanaian standards, but water under the bridge for me. I’m still not sure how I feel about this experience.

Ok, trip one down. I promise, you don’t need much stamina for the next one. This past weekend we visited the Volta Region (Eastern Ghana) with CIEE. This was an extremely relaxing trip. We bussed for 4 hours to the Wli Falls, the highest waterfall in W. Africa. After a brief hike in we were able to swim in and under the falls, which was really fun. I love these trips because they provide so much downtime to just hang out with other people in my program I don’t normally see. We spent a good 45 minutes jumping off rocks and taking silly pictures. After a great meal we drove to the Tafi Atome Monkey Sanctuary. I expected some fenced in area, but Tafi Atome is actually a village with an adjoining forest. The monkeys are supposed to be sacred to the village, so the tourist board set up shop and turned the whole village into a sanctuary. I say “supposed” because I don’t really think that hold anymore- as our guide told us about the forest gods and the monkeys he was very clear to say that “before Christianity, the village worshiped smaller gods…” Anyway, we marched through the forest for a solid hour and did not see one monkey. But right as we were about to leave another guide ran up and told us she had found them, so we dragged our tired selves back into the forest. It was well worth it- those monkeys were damn cute! Little, maybe the size of my very large house cat, and very fast moving. They are pretty comfortable around people, so they came right down the branches to the bananas we held out to them. The guide told us to hold tight to the bananas, otherwise they would just steal and run away. So I held tight, and the monkey that came to me, when he realized he couldn’t get it out of my grip, actually pealed the banana right there in my hand super fast, took the banana in to the tree, and left me holding a peel. It was really fun to watch them run climb around- they moved so fast!

As with all CIEE trips, we stayed in a really nice hotel. Pool, good food, air conditioning. But there was an added plus to this experience- the first of 3 hotel TVs I’ve tried that actually worked. I saw some British and American television (Jay Leno) for the first time since I’ve been here. Then, ready yourselves for this one- I took the first hot shower that has been available to me since the 9th of February, the day I left home. Glorious. Albeit there was no water pressure and the shower head broke off immediately when I turned on the water (this is Ghana, after all…) but I did NOT was to get out…

Ok, that’s about all I have for now. No trip this weekend. I’m looking forward to my first down weekend in Accra after a month of solid traveling. I wish I had more to say that wasn’t regurgitating my travel journal. I’m happy here, and amazed to suddenly find myself with less that 2 months left before flying away from this place to Germany. I’m enjoying my time, and will be sad to see this dedicated “Me time” come to an end, but I will be very ready to go. I had a conversation with friends yesterday, about just how hard it is to convey to our friends and families back home how being here is a daily struggle with yourself to be happy. At first I thought I was the only one who struggled, but turns out, as usual, most feel the way I do- that my mood is extremely up and down, the littlest things can trigger elation or profound sadness and the urge to quit and go home. Somehow we get through it, and I think after this is all done I’ll be satisfied with an increased ability to be stable by myself at home and at PLU. That maybe didn’t make any sense, sorry.

But for now, things are good here.
Take Care.

Yet another weekend trip to note…

A three hour bus ride down, and we arrived an Assin Manso, otherwise known as the “slave river.” (Oh, background, Ghana was a major exporter in the trans-Atlantic slave trade. People were “collected” from the countries surrounding modern day Ghana and funneled though markets here to be shipped to the newly discovered Americas to harvest cotton, sugar cane, etc…) The river was known as the “last stop” for slaves, where they would be bathed before being marched all the way to the ocean, many miles away. Sounds like a quick enough process, but no. Slaves would be stuck sitting, in chains, next to the river for up to 6 months as they waited for space to be cleared in the dungeons of the coastal castles. Mind you, they would only be bathed once during this whole process, so I’m not really sure what purpose the river bath actually served. The only ones who were bathed twice were the few women who were set aside as somehow special- those girls were to be the wives of the castle men (the Dutch.) They took African wives because European women died too readily from African diseases (as would 70% of the slaves sent to America, from European diseases.) As the ruling African tribes who rounded up slaves for the Europeans (who in turn supported them in inter-tribal wars and introduced guns into their society) they looked for children as young as 6 or 8, boys and girls. If they rounded up a pregnant woman, and she gave birth on the way to, or at the river, they killed her child- infants were another mouth to be sparingly fed. I personally am in awe of any woman who managed not to miscarry throughout this process.

Today the river is the site of a rather nice (by Ghanaian tourist center standards) interpretive center with a few interesting points of note:

-There is a part of the land the center has not developed, because the ground is the site of the mass graves of people who died while waiting to march to the coast… I don’t know why this part hit me particularly hard, but it did.

-The gate people walked through to go down to the river though is now painted with images of men whose chains have been cut apart. What was once called the “Door of No Return” has been designated (by whom, I’m not sure- tourist board? Politicians? Academics?) as the “Door of Return.” The site is a major point of visit for African Americans, and other Africans in the Diaspora (which I’ve learned only recently just means any person of African decent living outside of Africa. Apparently you can get a whole degree in its study…) The final arch one passed through has the words "last bath" painted on it, though I'm not sure that was there in the 1700s.

-For those who want to reclaim a part of their history, a Diaspora resident can now come to Ghana and participate in the "Joseph Project." They can come, look though the sparse archives, and attempt to find out what country their ancestors came from. if they manage that (in theory, when the red tape gets worked out) they can apply for dual citizenship, and actually be able to vote in matters in the country that, had slavery not happened, they would probably live. I find it an interesting concept, though I wonder about the political and social ramifications for the African country, to have American’s, etc. voting in elections across an ocean, for a social context they can’t possibly understand. I bet there are a few Africans who wouldn’t be to happy to think of an American voting for their president, when they can’t possibly understand Ghana’s developmental issues, unless of course, they are a development scholar. I’ve been reading an interesting memoir lately, from a scholar who came to Ghana to learn about the slave trade’s lasting impact on Ghanaians. She found that a) most Ghanaians don’t know a thing about it, other than it happened, though some don't even know that... and b) no matter who you are, if you weren’t born here, you will always be a foreigner in the mind of Ghanaians, not the “brother” or “sister” that some Diaspora Africans seeking their “home” expect to be viewed as. Anyway, I digress…

-The Joseph project also has a less controversial aspect. In 1998, the bones of one former slave, and one slave descendent were sent to Ghana to be buried on the shores of the river. For those who cannot afford to ship their relatives "home," or don’t have their bones, they can come to Ghana (or call), pay 100 cidis ($105) and have their name inscribed on a long wooden wall. The project is in its infancy, so there are only about 30 names currently, but I think it will be an amazing and striking when more people know about it and have names inscribed, a very African version of the Vietnam War memorial.

-The river itself was an interesting experience. As I will note with the salve castle, it is painfully ironic to think about such a terrible thing happening in a place so beautiful. And it really was- a very peaceful, shady place. Today, life goes on as usual. As it always strikes me at non-American tourist sites, other countries do not keep natives out of tourist areas for the benefit of tourists (I experienced this in Italy and Ireland). Children bathed and did their wash in the murky (no doubt totally infested water), begged us for money, and delighted at the site of our cameras. Thinking about people bathing in chains I felt compelled to mouth “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” over and over again. I felt far more connection and sorrow in this place than later at the castle, and I think it may have something to so with the natural setting, a place where I have always felt more connection to God, and usually feel a strong spiritual connection to the rest of the world. Yet the childeren played on...

On that note, the tour of the castle was boring in comparison. It has two gift shops, and has been whitewashed several times in its 526 year existence. Cool to note- it is the largest and oldest European edifice outside of Europe. Again, another strangely beautiful place for something so awful. Here, the beach is absolutely pristine (give it 30 years, rich people will make it into a resort…) and deserted. Palm trees in a natrually perfect line on the shore, and fishing villages on either side. The only part of the tour that affected me was the women’s main dungeon. I absolutely wanted to throw up when our guide (as frankly as I have described events in this post) told us 150 women slept in the small, moldy room where we stood. They urinated, defecated, and menstruated right onto the floor on which they slept. They were hardly fed, but many refused their meals as an act of defiance. Every once in a while, one would be plucked out and attached to a large ball and chain in the courtyard to wait until they would be marched up a tall wooden ladder to the Governor’s bedroom. Others were simply raped by castle workers less distinguished, and without the fanfare.

So you can understand my hesitation to say I enjoyed my day. But I did. Any trip with 30 friends where they feed and house you in a nice beach hotel for no up front cost is bound to be enjoyable. When our program director led us in a “reflection session” most commented on the disgust they felt with themselves as human, because clearly a lot of people were involved in making this happen, so we can’t possibly all be immune from all of their mentalities. Greed was mentioned many times. I personally wonder if the men actually thought about the money they were making for their country as they stared the women in the face, preparing to rape or march them somewhere. Really, they must have had something mighty distracting to be thinking about, otherwise, I simply don’t understand how one could do that to another living, breathing, probably crying or dying person.

The rest of the weekend carried an entirely different tone. We went to Kakum National Park to participate in the canopy walk, the only one of its kind in Africa. If you didn’t know, the canopy is the upper layer of a rain forest, sitting right below the treetops. This is where most of the animals and insects live, though they are nocturnal so I saw only butterflies. We walked from tree to tree on rickety, creaky rope and wood bridges about 10 inches wide at the base. So cool though. My occasional fear of heights was nowhere to be found, so I danced through the tree tops:) A friend and I let everyone pass us so we could take our time admiring the beautiful scenery (the guide eventually yelled at us to hurry up). I thought it was SO cool to be staring right into the tops of trees; I just didn’t want to leave. Can you blame me? When else will I be in a tropical rain forest in my life?

Ok, much more than I intended to say, and not on what I intended to say it on, per say. Sorry for the very frank descriptions. Until next week!