Posted tagged ‘Bolgatanga’

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”Ah! Christmas, old friend!”

December 9, 2025

We’re still in the cold belt. Today the high will be 29°. I wish there was another way to say that. High seems sort of silly when it is 29°. Even the dogs are not enjoying the cold. Nala sleeps under my covers and huddles beside me. She keeps me warm, almost like a hot water bottle.

I know I have written before about my first Christmas in Ghana, but I figure it is worth the retelling.

I wasn’t looking forward to Christmas, my first ever away from home. December is harmattan weather in Northern Ghana. The winds blow sand in from the Sahara. The days are hazy. They are also dry and hot, extremely dry and extremely hot, in the low 100’s many days. The dryness chapped my lips and the heels of my feet cracked. I walked on tip toes. The furniture in my house was dusty. Cleaning it didn’t matter. The dust always came back. The insects, even the mosquitos, disappeared. I stopped taking my anti-malarial pills, just for the season. I remember I’d sit on a chair in my living room, a chair with a couple of thin cushions, and when I got up, the outline of my body was left, an outline in sweat. The relief came at night. It got cold, down as low as 70°. That may not sound cold but sometimes it was a drop of 30°. I snuggled under a wool blanket, the same one which is on the back of a chair in my living room.

I got a package before Christmas from my mother. It had been air-mailed at the cost of a fortune. The note inside said she, my mother, and my aunt had split the cost, and my mother hoped this would bring Christmas. Inside the package were cookie cutters and different colored sprinkles for decorations, Christmas ornaments which had been hung on our tree, small stockings, brick looking paper so I could make a fireplace, Christmas candy, hard-candy, which stuck together but survived the heat, and some wall decorations. I was thrilled and amazed and teary. Immediately, I decorated the house. I hung the stockings on the mock fireplace I had made on the wall. I even think I hummed Christmas carols.

My town was a jumping off point to go north, to Upper Volta, now Burkina Faso, Niger and the Sahara. Volunteers on Christmas holiday were in town. Patrick, another volunteer and I, decided to have a party. I made cookies, took a round trip of 200 miles, to get gas for the stove. They were my first cookies. They were perfect. We haggled at the bar in the Hotel d’Bull in town to get beer. They were worried as often Ghana ran out of beer only because they had run out of beer bottles. We promised our first born children if didn’t bring them all back. Every volunteer who came brought food. That was the Peace Corps way. You always brought something.

That was the best party. We sang Christmas carols, though someone said not I’ll be home for Christmas. We laughed. We sat outside behind my house. The stars filled the sky. You could see the Milky Way. It was spectacular. Someone mentioned that probably this was the same weather and sky on the first Christmas.

One night I was lying in bed under my blanket loving the feeling of being cold when I heard the voice of a young boy singing. He sang We Three Kings, every verse. The sound echoed across the still, cold night. That sound was the greatest of Christmas gifts.

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“Then came July like three o’clock in the afternoon, hot and listless and miserable.”

July 29, 2025

It is summer hibernation time. The air conditioner is blasting to keep the torrid heat at bay. Right now it is 87°. Every report gives 90°as the high. I am no longer singing Oh what a Beautiful Morning. I am now singing a bit of an off key rendition of the Heat Is On.

When I was young, the heat never really bothered me. I was out every day sometimes to the playground where I played softball and did crafts while other times I was on my bike. We didn’t even have a fan, but that didn’t matter. After a full day, I fell sleep. The treat of the day was a popsicle bought from Johnny the ice cream man. My favorite was root beer followed by wild cherry.

Our living room was always dark. My mother pulled all the shades down to keep the sun at bay. The kitchen was hot, no shades and an open back door. Suppers were quick meals. The oven was seldom turned on as it heated up the small kitchen. If we opened the fridge to check around, we’d hear my father, “Close the fridge. You’re letting all the cold air out.” I remember the freezer had layers of ice. Our cold drink was Zarex, mostly orange Zarex. My father called it bug juice. I remember it was always in a blue aluminum pitcher which had a set of aluminum glasses (an oxymoron) in different colors. The glass always felt cold in my hand, and it was wet from condensation. After the sun went down, it was a bit cooler, and we stayed outside until my mother called. We had no set bedtime in the summer.

I didn’t know what hot was until the dry season in Bolgatanga. A cool day was in the low 90’s. The only saving grace was the heat was dry. I remember I’d be sitting in a chair in my living room, and when I got up, a sweat outline of my body was on the cushion. I had only a cold shower, but it was a delight in the dry season. I always took my shower just before bed. I’d not dry off, throw on a robe, hurry inside, take off my robe and go to bed. I fell asleep being air dried and feeling cool.

Now I hurry from air conditioner to air conditioner. I gasp when I get into my car, but luckily, it only takes a few minutes to get cold. I let the dogs out, but Henry often turns around and comes back inside. Nala stays out longer, and I keep watch. I don’t want her out long. They sleep deeply in the cool house.

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“When Peace Corps was first proposed, some in Congress assumed that only men would be volunteers.”

June 24, 2023

We had a bit of rain last night and this morning. It left the air a bit humid. It is also quite warm, 70°. I have no plans to leave the house. I have a to do list, but the paper has yellowed.

I took off Nala’s cone. She was just so sad. I could see it in her eyes. Her head hung down, and she had trouble getting comfortable. Around the stitches looks great. She doesn’t bother them. She slept right beside me last night. All is well in Nala’s world.

My muse seems to be on vacation, perhaps beaten by the rain. I guess this will have to be a Ghana day, my favorite fallback.

My Peace Corps training was completely in Ghana. We started at a town called Winneba. I remember the first morning waking up and remembering I was in Africa. My dorm room was on the second floor. Outside my door I could see the tops of compounds and palm trees, my very first palm trees ever. Breakfast was coffee and rolls, a familiar breakfast. Lunch and dinner were Ghanaian foods, and I wasn’t a fan. Those first three weeks we had hours of language every day. Mine was Hausa. We got shots. We had a medical briefing. We greeted the chief as is the custom. Back then, Ashanti chiefs never spoke directly to people but spoke through linguists who carried staffs, indicators of their positions. The beginnings of my own adventures were when I went to town by myself a few times.

The next three weeks we lived with Ghanaian families who spoke the same languages we were learning. I lived in Bawku. I taught middle school for a week and still had language lessons but only after lunch which we ate together. My favorite time in Bawku was when I visited the compounds where the wives and small children lived. My father had four wives. I walked behind compounds on dirt pathways where I’d pass an outside class of boys sitting on the ground and learning the Koran. Their voices intoned. In the compound I sat and sometimes held babies. The toddlers were afraid of me. I remember a vulture walking around the main part of the compound. The wives made my meals there and sent them to the house. One vivid memory of Bawku is of us sitting around the radio listening to Voice of American and the moon landing.

For the next week we each went to our schools. I met the principal, set up a checking account, sort of moved into my house and roamed the market. I made note of what I needed in my house. I also left luggage and some clothes there so I’d have less to carry.

I’m going to stop there in Bolga to keep you on the edges of your seats. That leaves me with some weeks of training to write about when my muse takes another hike.

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“Never forsake your motherland.”

May 8, 2023

Today is lovely, bright and warm. The sky is so blue it almost defies description. It is 65° and will get warmer as the day gets older. My windows are open. It is time to blow away the winter and fill the house with the sweet smells of spring. I am glad for today as tomorrow will be cooler.

When I lived in Ghana, my home, Bolgatanga, was almost as far away from the capital as you could get. I knew before I left staging in Philadelphia where I would be posted because the remote postings were the first filled. If you stayed in Accra for a while and then you were taken to Bolga, you’d think you were in a different country. The lush green of southern Ghana had disappeared and been replaced by the open savannah grasslands of the north. Bolga had one rainy season, a magical time when the brown fields came alive with green shoots and grasses, when the dusty roads were hardened by the rain. During the dry season, my lips chapped and my heels split from the dryness. The water was rationed, often turned off for a day or two so I took bucket baths. My students cleaned the school compound every morning regardless of the season then spent the day in classes. At night, they often visited me.

I was closest to my FraFra students. I sometimes think it was because they were from Bolga and were as resilient as the fields. The dry season for them was just another part of life to be endured while the rainy season was to be celebrated. The FraFra dances were exuberant, energetic, with quick movements filled with joy. Women traditionally danced the pogne with moving arms and stepping legs. Often the dancers were accompanied by clapping and singing. I tried a few times and almost fell over each time.

I knew, on my first trip back to Bolga in 40 years, I’d find my FraFra students, and I did on my first night back to Bolga. The word was spread that I had returned and students came to my hotel. I recognized them all. The only two missing were Franciska Issaka who was living here and Grace Awae who was in Accra. I was so sorry to miss both of them. When I got home, Grace called me, and we reconnected. It was the same with Franciska, and she came to visit. It was amazing to me that one of my students was in my house.

On the next visit, a year later, Grace met me at the airport, and we spent every day together. It was the same on the third visit, the one with Bill and Peg. Grace and Bea Issaka sat with us every night at our hotel. It all seemed so natural sitting at a table in Bolga chatting with friends.

I felt at home in Bolga each time I returned. My feelings, my love for Bolga and for my students, had never left me. They flooded my heart. I always think I got the best posting in the country among the most amazing people.

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“Our major obligation is not to mistake slogans for solutions.”

April 22, 2023

The day is ugly. It is cold and cloudy. The temperature will stay in the high 40s and low 50’s. My heat is cranking. Only Nala stays outside.

My morning started as each morning does. The dogs were excited I had lived through the night. Both of them jumped on me and the bed. I patted them at the same time, one hand for each, but they didn’t think it was enough. They got pushy. That was my sign to get up and face the morning. It was a mistake.

Henry gets excited and does circles. He taps the floor sort of rhythmically with his front paws. He stands on his back feet and jumps into the air while he waits for the door to be opened or his food to be served. This morning he jumped into the filled water bowl and upset it. All the water spilled on the rug by the door and across the kitchen floor. All of this was before my coffee.

I finished Fairy Tale, the Stephen King book, last night. I had tried to take my time toward the end, but I couldn’t wait.

When I was in Ghana, the world moved on without me, and I didn’t really notice. All of my energies went into training and learning to live in a very different country. The moon landing was when I was in Bawku for my live-in, when I was living with a Ghanaian family. I heard it on the radio. I had to imagine it. Woodstock was also during the summer of training. I was in Koforidua learning more language and student teaching. The first Earth Day came and went. I was living in Bolga and teaching my T 2’s, my second year students. I didn’t know about the Kent State shootings until much later. I was gifted with the Sunday Times, but it came late, months late, and in piles of three or four. I was overwhelmed. I skimmed at best.

Now I read two papers each morning. I watch the news, local and national. I watch MSNBC and CNN. I am too connected. I don’t want to know what I know if that makes sense. I need to lose myself into a book. I need to watch black and white science fiction movies with hideous monsters like the Claw, The Creeping Hand and From Hell it Came, that one was about the murdered man who turned into a tree, the Tabonga, to avenge his death. You can see the man’s feet at the bottom of the tree trunk. I need to find that one, but until I do, I’ll just be content watching Monster from Green Hell.

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“The rain begins with a single drop.”

April 2, 2023

If I just stayed in the house, I’d think today was a perfect day filled with sun and a cloudless blue sky, but I’d be wrong. It is a cold day with a chilly wind. I ought to wear a parka for my dump trip because the dump is our version of the Russian tundra. This time of year it is always wintry cold especially when there is a wind.

In Ghana, the harmattan winds blow dust from the desert during our winter months. The sun is blocked behind the dust. There is no rain. The air is dry. My lips and the heels of my feet cracked in the dryness. I walked on tiptoes until my heels hardened. The harmattan nights are cold. I slept under a wool blanket. I loved the chilly early mornings. I’d drink my coffee while sitting on my front steps. My students dressed in layers. I relished the chill.

The days were often three digit hot, but it was the driest heat. I remember I really didn’t mind. I walked across the compound to class. The classroom doors were always opened. The windows had no glass. The wind blew through bringing the dust.

Around March, the harmattan begins to lose its hold. The days get humid. The nights get hot. I’d sleep outside in my backyard. Each morning, I’d scour the sky hoping to see clouds, hoping for the first rains.

I remember my first year in Bolga when the sky darkened and the first rains fell. Those first storms are mighty. The raindrops are huge and heavy and make rivulets in the sand too dry to absorb the water. I remember the lightning bolts. I had never before seen lightning so up close. It was tremendous.

Each time I returned to Ghana it was during the rainy season. I loved the rain. It brought sensory memories, throwback memories. I could smell the wet ground. I could hear the heavy drops plunking on the tin roofs. I got wet when I shopped in the market. I was back to that first year and the terrific rains, to the sweetest of memories.

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“To beautify the Earth is the supreme Art.”

March 18, 2023

The morning is damp from last night’s rain. It is already 46°. The sky is light grey cloudy and is supposed to stay cloudy all day. I have an empty dance card.

Today’s chores are the same as yesterday’s chores because I was a sloth the whole day.

I am watching a science fiction film from 1958, It, the Terror from Outer Space. If tradition had served me, I’d be sitting on the floor in my pajamas eating my cereal and watching the movie. I wouldn’t notice the cheesy painted backgrounds of Mars and of star-studded space or that the rocket ship is as big as a house with huge rooms and several floors. The movie takes place in 1973. The two women crew members are serving coffee and sandwiches to the male crew sitting at the table eating lunch and smoking cigarettes. This is a rescue mission. Only one of the first Mars’ space landing crew has been rescued. He is accused of killing his shipmates. That’s the plot so far.

When I lived in Ghana, in Bolgatanga, the only seasons were the dry and the rainy. When the rains started, green shoots began to pop out of the once dusty ground. They reminded me of spring but a dramatic spring. Behind my house, in the field beyond the fence, the tiny, green shoots of millet appeared. Everything came alive, fed by the rains. The growing season was in full array. Millet covered the whole field, and when it grew tall, the compound at the far end of the field would disappear behind the stalks.

The first crocus gives me the same elation I felt when I saw the tiny millet plants. Back then I was saying good-bye to the dry season while here it is a less than fond farewell to winter. The first crocus this year was yellow followed by purple. Each new flower is a renewal, a hopeful sign.

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“Every Christmas, all around Ghana, there are tons of these parties and they are full of everything that exists in human life in Ghana and worldwide.”

December 16, 2022

Today is warm but ugly, rainy and now windy. The dogs are sleeping on the couch, one on each side of me. I have to go out this afternoon as I have PT. Tomorrow I have an appointment with the surgeon at 8 o’clock. I hate it, too many finger events.

The first year I was in Ghana and Christmas was approaching I was a bit sad. It was my first Christmas away from home. The decorations from my mother helped, but I still missed being there until one night still bright in my memory drawer. I was lying in bed under my scratchy blanket. It was cold, harmattan cold. The night air was clear. The stars were so many everything seemed to shine. All of sudden I heard a boy singing We Three Kings. I didn’t know where he was. I figured he was in one of the compounds close to my school, and the night air was carrying his voice to me. He sang every stanza. He brought Christmas to me.

I remember the impromptu Christmas party that year. Some Peace Corps volunteers were in town waiting to travel north so I invited them to my house, to my house in Bolga. Patrick, another volunteer in my town, and I went to the bar at the Hotel d’Bull. We begged for beer, for Star Beer. We had to promise to bring back every bottle. Bottles were precious. I made sugar cookies for the first time. My mother had sent a few cookie cutters. The cookies actually tasted good. I was a bit surprised. As per Peace Corps custom, the volunteers brought food or gave money as you never showed up empty handed to another volunteer’s house. They also contributed to the beer fund. We sang Christmas carols. I remember someone saying just don’t sing “I’ll be home for Christmas.”

Later in the evening, we went outside behind the wall of my house and sat and talked. Stars filled the sky. A couple of falling stars made the evening almost magical.

The next morning I found a 20 pesewa coin in the tiny stocking my mother had sent which I had hung on the wall. Back then 20 pesewas, about 20 cents, could buy bananas and oranges and even a taxi ride around Accra. It was a wonderful surprise present.

.

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“What do we call this moment? A serendipity mixed into a nostalgia mixed into a deja vu mixed into an epiphany!”

September 18, 2021

The day is already 71˚, today’s high. The weather report says partly cloudy. That’s pretty accurate as the sun is in and out of the clouds, and I can see the blue sky here and there between the branches of the backyard trees.

When I put the coffee in each of the dog’s dishes, Henry went for his and Nala went out the back door. That is her MO when she steals so Henry and I went on the deck to check for the felon and her spoils. I was glad to be outside. The late morning was pleasant and warmer than I expected. Nala, always true to form, was in the yard carrying an empty cookie bag in her mouth. She dropped it, and I asked to bring it to me for a treat. She totally ignored me and started to tear apart the package and the empty papers inside. I just stood and watched and listened. I could hear the crackle of the paper. Nala totally destroyed the bag by chewing it apart into small pieces. I’ll do a clean-up later. My sister is right. I do need one of those sticks with the nail at the end you see orange jumpered prisoners using when they clear the litter on the sides of the highway. I’d like the half bag too. I just won’t wear orange.

When I was a kid, I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I got asked that by relatives I didn’t see often. I guess they thought it was a conversation ice breaker. They were wrong. I had no answer because I had no idea what I wanted to be. Little kids live day by day, and I was a little kid. Big plans were made for Saturdays, the break-out days, and as far in the future as I ever looked, because the rest of the week was already taken: weekdays were school and Sunday was church and dinner. I could do whatever I wanted on a Saturday. I could go wherever I wanted. Sometimes I made plans, a couple of days before were long range plans. I’d pick a movie in winter, but on warm days I’d pick my bike or my feet and go exploring. The one sure thing on a Saturday was our supper, always hot dogs, baked beans and brown bread from the can.

Even in Ghana, my Saturdays were mostly unplanned, open days, but if I was home in Bolga and it was a market day, I’d go shopping. I remember amazing weekends in Accra, the capital. I always stopped there on my way to and back from somewhere else during my vacations. It was too far for just a weekend. I stayed at the Peace Corps Hostel, cheap with breakfast. I ate in a variety of restaurants. I remember one restaurant with red booths, dimmed lighting and real napkins. It was an anywhere restaurant, but one, which happened to be, within walking distance of the hostel. I always thought it was a treat to eat there with its real napkins and leather booths. Sometimes I went to a Saturday night movie. In Accra I had choices. The best part of Saturdays in Accra was walking around the city, aimlessly. I’d stop at stalls and small markets and buy food and fresh fruit from the aunties along the sides of the road. I’d revel in the beauty of Accra and especially in being fortunate enough to live in Ghana.

Today I have no plans. Let serendipity reign!

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“The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common.”

March 18, 2019

The sun and the blue sky are still hanging around as is the chill. Every day this week is predicted to be in the 40’s, spring on Cape Cod.

St. Patrick’s day was wonderful. Dinner was superb though I’m not sure superb is the right adjective to describe corn beef and cabbage, a hearty meal. Everything cooked perfectly. The Irish soda bread and the Kerry butter completed the meal. Dessert was scrumptious. I didn’t eat it last night, but I had a piece for breakfast. I wonder if it is still called dessert if you eat it in the morning.

I found more shoots popping their heads above the ground. I count them as wonders. I watch their progress every morning. I saw a bit of yellow yesterday. I’m thinking a daffodil.

I am always thankful to Peace Corps for having assigned me to Bolgatanga. Every day was amazement filled with sounds, sights and feelings that I ever knew existed before living in Ghana. It was all a wonder of unexpected beauty.

I loved sleeping outside in the back of my house. My mattress, dragged from my bedroom, was a necessity as the backyard was concrete with a few big rocks which weren’t removed when the house was built and the concrete laid. I slept outside mostly during the dry season. I’d lie on my back and look at the sky. It was always spectacular with so many stars the nights were never dark. They were filled with shadows. Not a night went by without a falling star streaking across the sky. I oohed and ahed every one of them. They were never commonplace.

I have the same sense of wonder when there are meteor showers here. I take out a chair, something to drink, usually coffee, and I watch the sky. I still ooh and ah.

I can’t imagine a life without a sense of wonder, without seeing the joy of every day.

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