Posted tagged ‘Ghana’

« home page
« Older Entries
Newer Entries »

”January brings the snow, Makes our feet and fingers glow…”

January 2, 2025

The morning sun is deceptive. When I opened the door for Henry, I was surprised by the wind and the chill it brought. Branches and dead leaves are swaying. I just didn’t notice.

The only event left on my dance card for the week is a dentist appointment today. It is just for a cleaning, but I still am a bit reluctant. I think it is the sound of the drill coupled with childhood memories which bring the reluctance, maybe even fear.

When I was a kid, the new year never really meant much. Nothing changed except the date. I still walked to school, spent my days there, walked home, played, did homework, watched TV, ate dinner, watched more TV then went to bed. The strange thing about this daily routine was I actually never noticed it was a routine, and I was never bored. That boredom didn’t arrive until I was a bit older, a teenager with expectations. That was when I’d whine about having nothing to do. I’d wander the house and throw myself on the couch with such huge sighs you could almost see them in the air. Once I drove my mother crazy because I wanted to go horseback riding for the second time in my life. I didn’t go, a money issue, my mother’s money issue.

I remember one New Year’s Day in Ghana. I visited my Ghanaian family in Bawku. My sister took me to church with her. It was the most glorious, joyful service with singing and dancing. Drums played. The women wore their best three piece dresses made with colorful Ghanaian cloth. The men wore fugus, smocks, dansikas in FraFra, traditional men’s attire only in the north back then. I wore my Ghanaian cloth dress. I danced, probably badly, and clapped during the music. I loved that service, the most wonderful and amazing welcome for any new year.

This morning I took down the old year’s calendar and put up the new year’s, a sloth calendar, a present from Bill and Peg. I threw away the old one day at a time calendar, always a Christmas present from my sister, and opened the new one. I already had appointments to add to it. This is the earliest I’ve caught up with the new year. I hope it bodes well.

Categories: Musings
Tags: , , , ,

Comments: Comments Off on ”January brings the snow, Makes our feet and fingers glow…”

“Don’t Tell Lies.”

July 7, 2024

It’s a late start to my morning. I was awake until 5. I heard the birds and saw the stirrings of the day before I fell asleep. After I woke up, I made my usual call to my sister in Colorado, brewed my coffee, toasted some bread and got comfy. That’s where I am now.

It rained a bit yesterday. The clouds stayed around a while but many are now gone. The sun is out in spots. It is ugly humid. It is hot, 83°. I have no ambition. Even a sloth would envy me. Logy describes me best.

On Sundays in Ghana, the school had a service in the dining hall. The tables were removed and the chairs put into rows. Clerics from town took turns to give the sermon. Sometimes I went. One week my principal asked me to give the sermon. I said yes because she really never asked much from me. I had to think my approach. Hellfire and brimstones weren’t for me. The Jonathan Edwards’ sermon Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God wasn’t either. I was a bit flummoxed. Finally I decided on one of Aesop’s fables. I went with The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I dramatically told the story and feigned horror at the fate of his sheep. My audience stayed attentive the whole time even when I got into the moral of the fable. It was an unusual sermon. I never found out what my principal thought, but she never asked again so I sort of knew.

On the main road at night between Bolga and Tamale, all the goats lie down in middle of the road with traffic on both sides. They never move. They don’t seem to get hit either. I was always amazed.

Goats and sheep and chickens are free range. On the hottest days, the goats would often lie under big lorries, trucks, in the shade. Chickens are everywhere. After a while, I didn’t notice. They were just part of the landscape.

This week four days have uke events. Besides my practice and lesson, we have two concerts. We’re playing The Beatles tomorrow and love songs of the 60’s on Friday. It will be a fun week.

Categories: Musings
Tags: , , , ,

Comments: 4 Comments

“Into each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary.”

March 23, 2024

Today will be the warmest day in a while, in the 50’s, but it will also be a windy rainy day. The rain will start this afternoon. We already have the wind. I’m thinking I’ll stay close to hearth and home today.

When I was a kid, a rainy Saturday was the worst. I was stuck in the house on my favorite day of the week. My trusty bike stayed in the cellar. Mostly I’d read in my bedroom or watch TV in the living room and look out the windows hoping to see no rain. Staying inside stretched the day to last forever.

Ghana has a dry season and a rainy season. I lived in the driest, hottest part of the country. When the rains came, the early storms were terrific as if Mother Nature was making up for the all those dry days. I had to walk in the rain to the classroom block to teach. I didn’t have a rain coat. I don’t think I saw one my entire time there. I got wet. The rain happens. Live with it.

One of my favorite rain stories happened on market day. I rode my moto to town and parked it near one of the market gates. I locked it. While I was shopping, the rain started. I didn’t care. I kept shopping. When I was done, I headed out. I got to the gate. My moto was gone, but then I heard, “Madam, madam,” from across the street. The policemen guarding the outside of the bank were under an awning. They had my moto. They had carried the bike across the street to put it under the awning so it would stay dry. They were thoughtful and kind. Ghanaians are like that.

I love the sound of rain. I had a metal roof on my house and classrooms in Ghana, and when it rained, I was surrounded by the sound of it. It was so loud I couldn’t teach. I’d use the blackboard for instruction. Often I’d fall asleep to the sound of rain. Sometimes it was a soothing sound, a gentle sound, while other times it was fierce, loud and pounding. It didn’t matter. I still fell asleep and slept soundly.

Categories: Musings
Tags: , , , ,

Comments: 4 Comments

“Morning is wonderful. Its only drawback is that it comes at such an inconvenient time of day.” 

March 7, 2024

Today is an ugly day. It rained heavily all night, and the rain, now only a drizzle, continues on and off. The wind is strong and cold. I was out earlier but am now home wearing my cozies and drinking coffee. I am staying put for the rest of the day.

When I lived in Ghana, mornings started in different ways. I never had an alarm clock. I always woke up early enough. During my live-in, I could hear the muezzin call for morning prayers from the small mosque on the side street my bedroom faced. I didn’t know the words, but the call became familiar. I’d sort of drowsily wake, listen, then fall back to sleep. When I was at my own house, the rooster was the most intrusive. I tried keeping him in the dark shower room so he wouldn’t wake me up with his crowing, but it didn’t work. I didn’t really care all that much. I usually fell back to sleep anyway. My students had morning chores. One of the chores was sweeping the compound. That included the dirt in front of my house. I’d wake to the sound of the straw hand broom being swished against the dirt. I could hear my students talking. It was always early, far too early. I had them stop cleaning in front of my house.

When I went back to Ghana, I visited my live-in family. The house where I stayed was still there but empty. I went up to my room and onto the porch outside my room. The small mosque was there on the side street, but speakers had been added on each side of the roof. I wished it was time for the call to prayer. Outside my hotel bathroom in Bolga, a rooster greeted the morning. I loved it. All of a sudden I was in my small house on the school compound listening to my intrusive rooster.

I had a clock radio for years. It was the iconic brown radio with sliding buttons on the top for the alarm and the radio tuning. It had an actual clock on the front. It was set for 5:15 every work day. It was turned off for weekends. When it was years old, the buttons broke. I had to use a small screw driver to move the metal slide. When I retired, I kept the radio so I could see the time, but I never used the alarm. A few years back the radio finally gave up the ghost. It was unceremoniously tossed away.

Alexa is my clock now. The first thing I do when I wake up every morning is ask her the time. She is set with only one alarm, for Wednesday mornings when I have my uke lesson. Alexa is sometimes annoying.

Categories: Musings
Tags: , , , , , ,

Comments: 2 Comments

“Celebrate endings—for they precede new beginnings.”

December 29, 2023

The rain is still here, but it is a warm day, a day without any wind. I was in the backyard earlier picking up trash and hoping Nala would drop my sandal, one of a pair I bought in 2011 when I went back to Ghana for the first time. I thought it was well hidden. Wrong! She dropped it at the word treat, and the pair has been reunited and hidden in a new spot.

New Year’s Eve never meant much to me when I was a kid. I was usually in bed early. When I woke up the next morning, it was to a new year, but nothing had really changed, just the date on my school papers. As I got older, I really wanted to stay up to midnight. It seemed like the magic hour. When I finally did, it was a bit of a disappointment, blow a few horns, yell Happy New Year and end with a kiss. That was it, a noisy celebration.

When I was a kid, the week after Christmas was quiet. All the anticipation was gone. I mostly either read my new book, I always got new books, or played a new game, we always got a new game or watched TV. The year of my bike I was out the whole week riding. We had no snow that year. I rode all over town proud of my new bike. I went to the movie matinee. I went to Woolworth’s. The week passed slowly.

The first new year I was in Ghana, I visited my Ghanaian family in Bawku. My sister took me to church on New Year’s Eve. It was an amazing service with drums and dancing and singing. The women were all dressed in their finest, their three piece formal dresses made with Ghanaian cloth. The men wore fugus, smocks, the traditional men’s garb in the Upper Region back then. I wore a dress of bright, colorful Ghanaian cloth. That church service was a celebration filled with riots of color and sound. I danced in the aisle. I wished everyone a Happy New Year. We all hugged. That still is the most memorable New Year’s Eve of my life.

Categories: Musings
Tags: , , , ,

Comments: 2 Comments

“Even in winter an isolated patch of snow has a special quality.”

December 14, 2023

Winter is upon us, in full force. It is 33°. The cloudless sky is a classic Crayola blue. The sun is bright. The air is mostly still though every now and then a small branch moves, slightly. The dogs ran out and quickly ran back inside. It is, of course, their nap time.

My dance card is full for the rest of the week. I have a uke concert today and one each the next two days. I missed a concert yesterday as I was nursing the end of a cold. The cold surprised me. It has been years since my last one. This cold had it all: cough, raspy voice and sniffling nose.

When I was a kid, I always hoped for snow at Christmas, but we seldom got any. The streets and lawns were clear and looked like any other time of year. I wanted Christmas to be special. I wanted Santa to have a snowy runway.

On Christmas Eve, we never had a big dinner. We wouldn’t have eaten it anyway. We were too excited though we did manage to eat a few Christmas cookies, as many as my mother would allow. We watched TV. Santa from New Hampshire was packing up the sleigh and saying goodbye. We wanted to go to bed early. We’re talking six or seven. We wanted to sleep the night away. We wanted Christmas morning. My mother said no.

My first Christmas away from home was way away. I was in Ghana. Christmas in West Africa is during the harmattan when a dry, dusty wind blows in from the Sahara. The air is hazy, hot, desert like. The sun is shrouded by sand. My lips chapped from the dryness. My heels cracked. Every surface in my house was covered with a layer of dust. Cleaning was futile. I just had to learn to live with the dust, no rain and all that sand, but there were saving graces. The mosquitos disappeared. Laundry dried in an instant. My cold shower was refreshing, cooling, but the most welcomed parts of the harmattan were the nights and early mornings. They were cold, down as much as thirty and forty degrees from the daytime. My students layered. I nestled under a wool blanket. I loved feeling cold. It was unexpected, an anomaly.

Categories: Musings
Tags: , , , , ,

Comments: 4 Comments

“There’s so much love sent through the mail.” 

September 21, 2023

The weather is still perfect. The days are wonderfully warm and the nights cool for sleeping. The air is mostly still though every now and then a bit of a breeze moves the leaves up and down on the low branches of the pine trees. The blue sky has only a few puffy clouds. It is a day to be out and about. I do need groceries and I might as well go to the dump.

When I was in Ghana, my mother sent the best packages. I’d get the notice of her package from the post office then go on the school bus to pick it up. Sometimes the boxes were a bit crushed and torn, but the insides were generally intact. The boxes were always heavy. My mother send packages of food like Mac and cheese and pizza in a box and snacks like beef jerky and hard candy. She also sent games and origami, coloring books and crayons. There were holiday decorations. I used to go through the packages with a great deal of delight. I wanted all the goodies to last as long a possible. I reserved only Sunday for package food day.

I attempted to cook when I was in Ghana. I hadn’t cooked when I was home so it was a new venture. My friends and I tried to make bagels. That was a colossal failure, but I was great in making the boxed food from home, and on my first Christmas my sugar cookies were perfect. They were in Christmas shapes, frosted and sprinkled, all from my mother. Sunday was my special food from home day.

The packages took months to arrive. They came by ship except for one my mother paid an enormous amount of money to send airmail. It was my package of all things Christmas: a small tree, decorations, those cookie cutters and sprinkles, fireplace crepe paper, ornaments from our own tree and cardboard decorations. I loved that package.

I sent a couple of packages home. The first had Christmas presents. I sent the package from Accra, the main post office, hoping it would travel fast. It had carvings, leather bags and some traditional clothing. It arrived long after Christmas.

Every package brought a piece of home. My mother had an uncanny sense to send exactly what I needed, what I’d love.

Categories: Musings
Tags: , , ,

Comments: 2 Comments

“The sound of the rain needs no translation.”

September 18, 2023

Today is an ugly day, the mirror opposite of yesterday. The morning air is damp-chilly after last night’s rain. The day is dark. On and off rain is predicted. I have no plans, nothing on my dance card, for today, but I’ll give a nod to personal hygiene and take my shower. I may even change my sheets.

The dogs are curled asleep beside each other on the couch. They both love cozy and neither one is fond of the rain. That makes them sensible.

I don’t remember when I started to love the rain. The summer rains were my favorites. I could stay outside and get wet, unless it was a thunder and lightning storm. Winter rains were never gentle, even the slightest rain made me feel cold from my head to my feet when I’d home from school, but I loved finally getting home. I’d put on my flannel pajamas, get comfy in bed and read. I always felt protected by my house. I could hear the rain on the roof and windows, but I was cozy and warm.

When I lived in Ghana, I loved the rainy season. It rained just about very day. The early rains turned the brown trees and grasses to green. The dusty roads disappeared, hardened by the rain. My house and classrooms had tin roofs so the heavy rains muted any sounds. My students read or wrote. At my house, I’d sometimes sit outside protected by the tin awning over my steps and I’d watch the rain. It was mesmerizing. I remember one market day riding my moto to town to shop. I left it, my moto, by one of the market gates. It started to rain but a softer rain so I just kept shopping. When I was finished, I went out the gate and found my moto gone. I heard calling and turned to see the bank guards gesturing to me. They had carried my locked biked across the street to a protected area to keep it dry. Such are Ghanaians.

Categories: Musings
Tags: , , , , ,

Comments: 2 Comments

“You are the sum total of everything you’ve ever seen, heard, eaten, smelled, been told, forgot – it’s all there. Everything influences each of us, and because of that I try to make sure that my experiences are positive.”

August 29, 2023

The morning is wet with spitting rain. I can feel the dampness, the thick humidity, in the air and in the house. Showers are predicted. It is in the low 70’s and will stay there all day. I have errands, four of them.

I was going to skip today’s Coffee as I have a lot to do; instead, you’re getting a mishmash.

Sometimes I write a thought or an experience I delete mainly because it doesn’t fit, doesn’t take me anywhere. Some of those I save. Today I am going to post them. They have no connection to one another other than I chose to save them. They are in no specific order. Here they are.

By the time I left Ghana, I had replaced my entire wardrobe. I’d buy cloth in the market and have my seamstress make a dress. I especially loved tie-dye cloth. Some dresses had embroidery on the front. They were my favorites. The only thing I still wore from home were my sandals. They had tire soles put on in the market so they’d last forever.

I have the most annoying neighbor in the house behind me. He plays his music so loud I can’t sit on the deck. Worst of all, it is country music of which I am not a fan. I do like rockabilly and way back classic country music like Hank Williams, Patsy Cline and The Stanley Brothers, but I don’t like contemporary country. When I used to call for Gracie, he would yell and tell me to quiet down. He is the one who thought Gracie was a wolf when she climbed the six foot fence into his yard. That should tell you all you need to know about him.

I have told this story before, but it is one of my favorites if not the favorite story of my day to day life as a Peace Corps volunteer in Ghana. I had taken the magic pills and traveled to Old Tafo to visit my friends Bill and Peg. They lived on the second floor in a house with no plumbing. Bill hauled water in buckets for the house. Down the stairs were the necessities, a row of single seat outhouses. No longer taking the magic pills meant running down the stairs and staying awhile in one of the outhouses, my own single seater. Now that you have the background, here is my story. I was sitting there in my little house biding my time when I heard a sound behind and underneath me. I stood up and a head appeared below the hole. It was the night soil man whose job it was to empty the buckets. He saw me, gave a little wave and said, “Hello, madam,” as he emptied the bucket. When he was finished, I sat down again.

This one I posted, but it is also one of my favorites. I thought I’d end with it:

It didn’t take long after training to realize the best part of Peace Corps isn’t Peace Corps. It is just living every day because that’s what Peace Corps comes down to, just living your best life in a place you couldn’t imagine. It is living on your own in a village or at a school. It is teaching every day. It is shopping in the market every three days. It is taking joy in speaking the language you learned in training. It is wearing Ghanaian cloth dresses and relegating the clothes you brought with you to the moldy suitcases. It is loving people and a country with all of your heart from breakfast to bed and forever after. Peace Corps doesn’t tell you that part, the loving part, but I expect they know it will be there.

Categories: Musings
Tags: , ,

Comments: 2 Comments

“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.

Categories: Musings
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Comments: 2 Comments

« Older Entries
Newer Entries »