I have uploaded all the photos of my trip. My first thought had been to do it in pieces like Ghana I, Ghana II and up to whatever, but I decided just to add to the first batch and keep going. It took a good part of the day! Enjoy!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/misskath/sets/72157627565605469/
My Dear Hedley, Watch out!
Today is cloudy and damp. Rain is predicted for later and also for tomorrow. Tonight and the next few nights will be in the 40’s. This morning it was 5:30 when I woke, and the day was not quite light. I went for the newspaper and stood in the quiet for a while. Gracie’s backyard light had come on so I knew she was out, but I couldn’t even hear her. It was as if I were the only one.
It is the rainy season in Ghana. I always thought of it as Ghana’s winter as the days are cooler than any other time of year, but the humidity means constant sweating and constant replenishing with water. Ghana now has bottled water, compliments of Coca-Cola. I used to buy water in beer bottles and pick the bottle with the least number of floaties, our pet name for whatever we could see floating in the water. We didn’t care. It was the water we wanted. Now, they also sell plastic water pouches usually carried on trays on the heads of small girls who stand near traffic lights hoping for business. It’s water on the go. I bought one, and the water had a strange taste. I’m not sure it was the pouch or the water. I didn’t do well with that pouch. You have to chew a corner and drink from there or, in my case, drink and dribble. I drank coke with ice. You never could get ice in my day and only two places used to sell cold coke.
It rained while I was in Accra. The rain was almost a gentle mist, and I just kept walking as I always did. Your hair and clothes get a bit damp but not so you mind at all. The rain is a minor inconvenience in Accra and never leaves an impression.
One afternoon in Bolga I was taking a nap when I was awakened by what sounded like a barroom brawl with chairs and tables being thrown about. I ran outside, and the wind was blowing everything. I knew the rain was coming.
I love the rainy season in Bolga. The rain comes with a fierceness, never a gentleness. That afternoon, I stood outside my room waiting for the rain as I knew it was close. It finally came down in sheets with thunder and lightning to add to the dramatic effect. My tin roof made the wonderful sound I remembered from each rain storm. I could never teach during the rain. It was always too loud on the roof. That rain blew sideways, but I was protected and didn’t want to miss any of it. The ground flooded, and the rain made rivulets in the dirt which resembled small, flooded rivers overflowing their banks. I was mesmerized and stood a long while. The rain finally stopped, and I decided to go to the market.
The walk from my hotel became a long one: across the street through the new market, through the new lorry park then through the old market, my market, to the main street. During my walk the rain started again, not as fierce but still with no gentleness. I started to get soaked and asked at a market stall if I could sit under an overhang. The woman said no. She insisted I must come inside out of the rain and she made room for me on her bench. We smiled a bit and I thanked her in Hausa. She smiled again and nodded. A few customers came inside and were taken aback by the wet white woman on the bench, but they waved and smiled and went about their business. When the rain stopped, I thanked the woman again and made my way to the main street. I came out of the market by my old Bolga. I stopped in one of the stores, had a coke and watched Ghana score against Swaziland. Radios used to be the only way to get news, sports and entertainment. Now, televisions bring programs from all over, including the US. My favorite of all the programs was a Nigerian soap opera. I think I watched it at least five or six times, so much I was starting to understand the story line. The Ghanaians love it.
It rained once more when I was in Bolga, on my last night there. It started with the wind then the thunder and lightning and finally the rain. I was having dinner with my students and we moved out of the wind and rain. Later, I thought of the storm as a good-bye gift from Bolga.
It rained most of last night, but the morning broke sunny and warm. I dried off the table, had coffee and read my papers on the deck. Both papers were filled with stories about Hurricane Irene: the predicted path, people getting ready and the hurricane’s intensity. One article listed the flights already canceled out of Logan, but all of them were flights headed into the storm, most headed toward North Carolina or south to the islands. Saturday is supposed to be rain and only rain. The wind won’t begin until Sunday when, I hope, I’m already through Frankfurt on my way to Accra. This is one of your shake your head in wonder sort of things. I booked my flight in April and would never have expected that the first hurricane in twenty years would surface just before my flight. I’m wondering about karma, but I really do expect to get out of Boston. I am heading away from the hurricane and it will only be raining. I am so glad I didn’t book the direct flight from New York.
One day, I can’t believe it is one day until I leave. My to do list has most stuff crossed off. Today I have to water the plants and fill the bird feeders. Tomorrow is change the litter, go to the dump and pack day. My bedroom has stacks of clothes ready for the suitcase, and the chair is filled with stuff for my carry-on, most of it electronic. I can barely sit still for the excitement.
Engagements are already scheduled: the party on the 29th at Ryan’s pub, the swearing-in ceremony on the 30th and a party that night to honor and celebrate the newest volunteers.
I figure to leave for Bolga on the 1st, but I still haven’t quite figured out how to get there. The bus ride is 16 hours so if I go that route, I’ll leave on the night of the 31st so I can arrive in Bolga in the morning. The buses are air-conditioned and the seats go down so I’ll be fairly comfortable. It would be like backpack travel days during my 20’s when we always traveled by night to save the cost of a hotel room. If I fly, it will be to Tamale then 4 hours by bus to Bolga. I wish I were Samantha, and I would just wiggle my nose.
My mind is filled with forty year old images and sounds and smells all waiting to be updated.
Lazy day is my mantra.
It was a restless night so I made up for it by missing a good portion of the morning. I slept in until 10 o’clock. About seven I let Gracie out, and she came back in at some point and joined me. She always has a morning nap. It’s already hotter than they predicted for today, but there is a nice breeze on the deck where I’ll go when I finish here. I have a new book to read called Children of the Street. Kwei Quartey, the author, is a Ghanaian and the mystery takes place in Accra. I read his first book, Wife of the Gods. It was okay, but I wished there was more Ghanaian English as it has wonderful peculiarities, but the books are fun to read as they mention familiar places. This one has some Hausa, the language the Peace Corps taught me.
Anther summer month has come and gone. If I were a kid, I’d be appalled at the back to school commercials on TV. We never went back until after Labor Day, and that’s still over a month away. No reminders were necessary.
Another mouse yesterday, but this one was still kicking. Gracie was making a ruckus in the dining room so I went to check and found the mouse. When I went to pick it up to get rid of it, the mouse’s legs moved. I should have known it was still alive as Gracie has no interest in one already gone to its heavenly reward. I was grossed out. I don’t mind dead mice, but I do mind half-dead mice. I called my mouser, my friend Tony, who came up and took the mouse outside. Tony was gentle and said he was sorry to the wee mousie. I don’t think it will survive, but at least it was outside and away from Gracie.
All my neighbors must be at the beach as the street is really quiet. I grew up in a neighborhood which was only quiet late at night. All day long kids played on the street or in the backyards. Mothers yelled out back doors for their kids to come in for lunch or dinner, and every kid who jumped through a cold sprinkler squealed. At night, you could hear the TV’s from the different houses and even see the wavering black and white screens through the windows. I remember the sound of snow on empty stations. I know now it was static, white noise, but back then it was a little mesmerizing with its sound and flickering dots. I figured it looked like a giant snow storm which is why it got its name.
I’m ready for lunch. Today is hummus.
The day is warm and sunny. Even this early Gracie is out lying on the deck, and Fern has staked her claim to the mat by the front door where the morning sun streams into the house. She is stretched out so all of her can feel the warmth. I must have instinctively known there was sun as I was up early, have read the papers, put on a wash and cleaned the table and chairs on the deck in anticipation of my company sitting outside to enjoy the day. My guess is they should arrive around noon.
We are most assuredly spoiled. When I was in Ghana, I made do with very little. Even though it was often over 100°, I didn’t even own a fan. I just sweated a lot. Going to bed still wet from my nightly shower was as close to air conditioning as I got. Coke was a treat as was a bar of Cadbury chocolate. Traveling even a few miles took forever in over-crowded mammy lorries or buses. I prayed for a window seat. The buses often smelled of goats or chickens, both of which were sometimes under the seats. Goats, however, were usually tied to the top with the luggage. It took close to four hours to go a hundred miles. From Accra, on the coast, to Bolga took 16 hours. It still does. Irons used charcoal for heat and bucket baths were common. I became an expert at bucket baths. I could wash my hair and all the rest of me then use the left over water to flush the toilet. I also became an expert at using public toilets with holes in the floor, and that dubious talent came into use more recently when I went to Morocco. When I was in college, we had pit stops, but they were more the result of a night of revelry than usual practice.
Ghanaians wasted nothing, and that was one of the most important lessons I learned. Bottles and cans were reused over and over. Sandals had retread tires for soles. Food from the market was wrapped in newspapers. My rice always came in a newspaper cone.
When I left Ghana, I vowed to remember I didn’t need much. A hand can opener works just as well and a broom can sweep a room clean. It has been forty years since that vow, and I have accumulated much, and those Ghanaian lessons have faded over the years. Now, though, for some odd reason, I find myself doing chores far more simply. I sweep the kitchen clean most mornings. My electric can opener died so I use the hand opener on those few cans which still require one. I use few dishes so I hand wash them every night. It gives me a small sense of satisfaction.
My life is getting simpler. I think it has to do with getting older. I need much less than I used to, but, no matter what, I can’t give up the air conditioner.
When the sun is bright, I am easily duped into thinking the day is warm. It isn’t, but I’ll accept being easily duped. Looks like the birds need their feeders filled. I’ll bundle up a bit later and go out on the deck with my bag of sunflower seeds.
Tonight is chili night while we watch The Amazing Race from last Sunday when we watched the Oscars instead. The chili is cooking and will cook all day long. I’ve some corn bread and toppings to serve with it. I haven’t made my guacamole yet and won’t until just before my friends come. The only thing left is the dessert, and I have no idea what we’ll be having yet.
Italian and Chinese were the most exotic foods my mother served us. That was a good thing as we probably would have turned our noses up at most other foods. She started us out with American chop suey, not at all related to its Chinese cousin, but it was her way of sneaking bean sprouts into our diet. Later we’d order out at the China Moon. It was until my two years in Africa that I was introduced to all sorts of exotic, strange foods.
I ate Indian food at the Maharajah. It was near High Street and was on the top floor of a retail building. The walls went only halfway up so we could hear the hustle and bustle from the street below us. We sat on cushions, and I thought the restaurant was the most one exotic one I’d ever seen. There were lots of red cushions and curtains and tassels. I don’t even remember what I ate, but I must have enjoyed it as I still like Indian food. Hummus, tabbouleh and falafel were next, and it was a good thing I didn’t know anything about them because the mere mention of chickpeas would have put me off. I still like my hummus the way it was served at Tahal’s in Accra: a ring of hummus on a flat plate with sesame oil in the middle and red pepper in a ring around the outside of the hummus.
I ate food from the street vendors. Lots of times I didn’t know what I was eating, and I knew not to ask. I decided if it tasted good, that was enough. I have made Ghanaian food here for my friends to taste, but that was a long time ago. I am hankering for some kelewele and jollof rice. Maybe that will be my next offering. Luckily my friends are adventurous and will try most anything. They too have learned not to ask what is in any dish I serve.
The cold is back. The days are autumn cool, but the nights are downright chilly, blanket on the bed chilly. Yesterday was so windy yellow oak leaves now dot the deck and the lawn is hidden under pine needles. Some trees along the roads are down to bare branches. They look desolate. They look like winter.
Once in a while a memory from Ghana pops into my head. Today I remembered the Chinese restaurant, the only one in the city back then. It was a long way from the center of town. Taxi rides used to cost only 20 pesewas no matter where in the city of Accra you wanted to go, but the Chinese restaurant was a cedi away, a whole 100 pesewas. It doesn’t sound like much money but for us it was.
The restaurant seating was mostly outside. The tables had real tablecloths, and the Ghanaian waiters wore short black jackets over white shirts which made the restaurant seem fancier than it was. The Chinese food was different but it was delicious. For some reason I remember a lot of peas and fried rice.
We never celebrated Halloween in Ghana. The volunteers in my region were spread thinly, and we didn’t get together much as the travel time was too long, and we were teaching. My only acknowledgments of the holiday were some Halloween cards my mother had sent. They were on display on my bookcase. My students, who would often visit in the evening, checked them out and wanted to know what Halloween was. I tried to describe it. They were most impressed with the trick or treat and candy part.
On Halloween there was a knock at my door. Three of my students were there and they yelled, “Trick or treat,” when I opened the door. Luckily I had peppermint candies which I offered. Each of my students took one, said, “Thank you, madam,” then left. Halloween was over.
This blog is strictly non-profit, and intended for artistic and educational purposes only. Videos have replaced the MP3' and serve the purpose of letting y’all having a taste of what I think is great music. To quote the mighty Captain Beefheart: if you got ears, you gotta listen.
If you’re an artist or label with any objection to your work being featured here, please drop me a line for direct removal.
keepthecoffeecoming.blog 