Today I deviate from my usual weekend posting. I have started uploading my photos to Flickr and have the first set ready. If you click on many of the thumbnails, there are descriptions. The obvious in a row shots don’t have descriptions. Imagine they say ditto! I will try and do more later today!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/misskath/sets/72157627565605469/
This morning is close the windows, put on warm slippers and a sweatshirt cold. The house was 69° when I came downstairs. As if it were winter, I clutched that warm coffee cup between my hands hoping to stave off the cold. I woke up at 7:30 today so it seems my body is finally recognizing it’s home.
Today is Paga day. Paga is the last town in Ghana before Burkina Faso. In my day it was the last town before crossing into Upper Volta. Paga is famous for its sacred crocodile ponds. I visited there forty-two years ago, and it hasn’t changed a bit except for the price. It was 3 cedis for Ghanaians and 6 for non-Ghanaians. I protested that it was wrong to charge white people more, but the man claimed he also charged Africans not from Ghana the same 6 cedis. I asked him how he could tell Ghanaians from non-Ghanaians and he just shrugged. The biggest pond, the Chief Crocodile Pond, is supposed to have around thirty of these sacred crocodiles. No one is allowed to eat the meat or harm the crocs in any way. The pond is lovely with lilies all around the edges and in the middle. A donkey was to one side munching grass. It looked almost idyllic. I tried to see any crocodiles lurking on the surface the way they do in movies but saw none. These beasts are lured from the water by a whistle and the promise of a live chicken which we had to buy. Thomas and I went as close to the edge as we dared, and the man whistled. Out of the pond came one of the biggest crocodiles I’ve ever seen. He ran out of the water on all four legs, and we stepped back, a bit nervous I’ll admit. The croc stopped close to the chicken man and just stayed there immobile for a while. He didn’t look real. The man threw the chicken and the croc grabbed it and ate it in about a minute. A second croc, far smaller than the first, came out of the water to the right of us and started making his way toward us. A small boy scared it away with a branch but it stayed by the edge of the pond and I could see its head above the water. The chicken man then went and held the croc’s tail and asked if anyone else wanted to do the same. When no one was the first to brave the tail, I said yes and up I went and grabbed the end of the tail. After that the men did the same. Thomas wanted his picture taken for posterity. I’ll send it by e-mail to him when I upload my pictures out of the camera. As we were getting into the car, an old man approached us and showed us pictures of the museum like collection of huts and artifacts across the street from the pond. When I asked how much, he said whatever you want so Thomas and I drove across the street.
It was wonderful. The old man was our guide from hut to hut. We were followed by two of his grandchildren. The huts were old and many of their walls had large painted figures. The biggest hut had clay figures that had been dug from the area and were dated to be at least 1000 years old. The old man showed us how the young boys hid on the roof from slavers, other African tribal men who sold their captives to the whites. In the birthing hut the man played a gourd and the music which announced the birth of a son or daughter. He said the hut was still used by some of the local villagers. He had a few local goods for sale, and I bought a beautiful hand-woven cloth and a large calabash which had figures etched on it. The man and I bargained a bit, and I think I got a good price for both. When we were leaving, I left 5 cedis in thanks.
Paga has a slave camp, but I noticed the cost and decided that this non-Ghanaian wasn’t going to pay again. Thomas and I headed back to Bolga.
The road between Paga and Bolga was one of my favorite rides. Lines of large trees periodically appeared on each side of the road and shadowed the road as if you were on a small country by-way. I remember riding to Navrongo, the town between Paga and Bolga, on my motorcycle. I remember the shadows falling across the road from the tree branches covered in leaves. That road has not changed and the ride back to Bolga was a joy.
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.
I know it is Wednesday, my day off from Coffee, but I thought I’d post a short entry today to keep up the suspense for tomorrow’s episode of Kat’s Travels to Africa.
This morning I woke up at six so my body is beginning to adjust to US time. I went outside on the deck as I usually do just to get the feel of the morning. It seemed chilly to me, damp from the morning dew. It was and is still quiet with only the birds greeting the day. I saw a grey squirrel at one of the feeders, but I haven’t been home long enough to wish for a weapon.
Let me tell you about mornings in Ghana, especially in Bolga where I spent five days. The air is cool, and this time of year, the rainy season, there is a small breeze. I was awake by 6 and usually went outside to see the beginning of the day. Smoke rose from fires, and I could smell the wood charcoal. I watched carts being pulled and pushed by small boys on their way to market. Women carried market goods on their heads as they walked along the sides of the streets. I could hear a mix of voices, conversations in FraFra, horns blowing as cars, mostly taxis, made their way up the street. The horn is an official symbol of Ghana or at least it seemed that way to me. Not moving for a nanosecond on a green light meant horns up and down the row were going to be beeped in impatience. I heard a few of those. I could see women sitting in front of the fires stirring huge pots with metal spoons. They were making soup for their morning T-Zed, tuo zaafi, a thick porridge made from millet flour which is eaten by tearing off a chunk, always with your right hand, and dipping it into a soup. In restaurants they bring a bowl of water and some soap so you can wash your hand before and after. I had some for dinner one night with a light soup and some chicken. It was in Ghana I learned to like okra, even with all that slime, but I never did become a morning T-Zed eater. I always had eggs, toast and instant coffee with evaporated milk. While I was in Bolga, I bought fruit so I could have a bowl of cut fruit instead of the eggs. I tried the eggs fried, scrambled and in an omelet, but the eggs tasted exactly the same no matter how they were cooked. The fruits were sweet and delicious.
I was usually dressed and finished with my breakfast by 8. I’d figure out my day and call Thomas, my driver, to come so we could begin our day’s adventure.
Yesterday I touched down at Dulles, flew to Boston, took a bus to the Cape and was in my house by 5. By 8 I was asleep-on Ghana time that was late for me, midnight. This morning I was up at 4:30 and went out to the deck. The morning had a chill and a dampness. It was quiet. The whole street was still asleep. I decided to do a bit of laundry, out of necessity, brew real honest to goodness coffee and read the paper, my usual morning.
In Ghana the mornings are busy and loud. Roosters crow and women, bent over, clean the ground using brooms which are merely pieces of straw held together by a string, and you can hear the scrapes as they sweep. My students used to sweep the dirt in front of my house around 6 until I told time that messy dirt was fine with me. In Bolga, the m0rnings are cool this time of year, the only cool part of the day. I could hear women talking as they walked to market and lorries on the road moving with unhealthy sounding engines. In the air is the smell of charcoal fires and smoke rises to the sky. I was in bed early and up early every morning.
Today I ‘d like to tell you a bit about my trip to Bolga. I’ll save the rest for tomorrow.
We arrived in Bolga from Tamale, a trip I made often. I found my hotel, dropped off my bags and the driver and I went wandering. I had decided to hire a car and driver for an enormous amount, but the choices were limited: a 16 hour bus ride was the best of the other options but then I would have no way to get from place to place. Remembering how I was told by so many that this was the trip of a life time, I went with the car and driver. Thomas was my driver. Right away I had him drive around Bolga. It is enormous and I did not recognize the streets we drove through until we rode down the main street. There was the Hotel d’ Bull now called The Black Star. My post office looks the same and from there to the end of the street was my Bolga, looking old and in need of paint, but I knew every building. The Super Service Inn was still there but the roof was hanging on one side. The entry to the market now led only to the old market, my market; a new one was on the other side of the lorry park. We drove up the hill I walked so many times to Girls’ Secondary School which is where my school once was. The school compound was filled with many buildings, but I directed Thomas exactly to my house. Behind it are now many staff houses, but I knew my house right away. I knew the road by heart. We also found the classroom block where I taught and the dormitory of which I was house mistress.
That first night, I ate at the hotel. Jollop rice and Guinea fowl were dinner, two favorites of mine. As I walked to the outside dining area, I passed a table with four people, two men and two women. I said good evening in Hausa as I do not know FraFra, the local tribe’s language. I sat down and started reading. I heard fragments of English in their conversation, and they mentioned teaching. I leaned over, excused my interruption and asked if they were teachers. Yes. I asked the younger of the two women if she knew of any students from Women’s Training College. She pointed to the other woman. I asked her what year. She said she finished in 1971. I told her I taught there from 1969-1971. She leaned closer, looked at me and yelled, “Miss Ryan?” I said yes and she rushed over and gave me a giant hug. I had found the first of my students.
The day is overcast and humid. I figure it’s setting the stage for Irene’s visit tomorrow. 80% of the Sunday flights out of Logan have already been canceled. I checked the status of mine just a while ago, and it is still scheduled. Tonight when I leave at 10:15 it may be rainy but that’s all. This morning I emptied the kitty litter and Gracie and I went to the dump then I dropped my car off at the car repair place to have some scratches and a small hole repaired. My house/pet sitter is moving in at five after she finishes work. All is ready!
I am beyond myself and wonder how I’ll get through the day. I feel like a little kid on Christmas Eve who knows it will be years until bedtime. Going back to Ghana is even exciting to say. I talked to my friend Ralph the other night and last night I spoke to another friend, Michelle, both of whom were with me in Ghana. They were so very excited for me, and I promised a million pictures.
The first time I went to Ghana I had no expectations. Africa to me was a total mystery. Tarzan movies were about as close as I had even gotten. I read a few books before I left, including one on the politics of Ghana which Peace Corps had recommended. It was dry and boring, and none of the books on the list had pictures. My first impression of Ghana was it was a riot of colors and patterns in the clothes the Ghanaians wore. The women carrying huge boxes on their heads were a marvel. The markets were filled with the unusual: vegetables I’d never seen before, odd colored nuts and live animals. I was overwhelmed by the sights and sounds and smells I had never before encountered.
Ghana became home. Shopping for a live chicken became commonplace. Rambling through the market on market day was one of my favorite things. It always seemed a bit like a carnival to me. In town at night lanterns flickered beside stands along the roadside where women cooked and sold hand food. Plantain chips and kabobs were my favorites. Watching an auntie (an older woman) wield a single edge razor blade to peel around the top of an orange before she lopped it off never failed to amaze me. The orange, green in Ghana, was always sweet.
All of those are old images, old memories, cherished and saved in my memory drawers. Starting tomorrow I get to make new ones. Despite all my hoping, I never imagined I’d return to Ghana.
What kind of luck do I have? Irene is heading this way though it would seem Sunday and Monday are the possible landfall days. Saturday is predicted as rainy, and I’m hoping rain will not prevent my flight from leaving. The Sox are planning a double header for either Friday or Saturday so they won’t have a game on Sunday. I’ve already brought in some of the glass hurricane lamp chimneys from the deck, kind of ironic. I have more stuff to bring inside, but I’m leaving a few bird feeders and will have my house sitter bring them inside if necessary. I’m filling my dining room with all the candles, lambs and tables.
Yesterday was gorgeous with a cool breeze. Today is a bit more humid which makes the air feel much hotter. Maybe it’s air-conditioner weather.
My before I leave list is getting smaller and smaller and today is get money and bus ticket day. I got an invitation to a party in Accra on Monday being thrown for us returned volunteers by Peace Corps and the current volunteers. It will be at Ryan’s pub! I figure that means I’m destined to be there! I’m sorry no one from my time will be in Accra. It will be great meeting new people but reconnecting with long ago friends would have been an added wonder.
Here I am sitting in my den, my usual spot for writing Coffee each morning. Out the window I can see some of the bird feeders, the candles in the trees and a bit of the deck furniture. The leaves in the big old oak tree are swaying a bit and their shadows on the deck move with the breeze. The sounds I hear are lawn mowers and clippers. In three days I will land in Accra, into a whole different world. It will be filled with the sounds of cars and people. I will stand out in any crowd and hear obruni again for the first time in forty years. I will smell car exhaust, food cooking and the trash which seems to pile up everywhere. I’ll hear conversations in Twi. I will listen intently to Ghanaian English until my ears again become accustomed to the accent. It won’t take long. When I called to make my reservation, I understood just about every word. Ghanaians laugh a lot. I’m looking forward to that.
Today is lovely and without that stifling humidity of yesterday. I stood on the deck a while earlier taking in the morning. It was quiet then, but the day has gotten louder. I can hear a couple of lawnmowers and some machinery sound I don’t recognize. Earlier this morning I had to go to Dunkin Donuts to buy coffee as I had forgotten to buy cream. The route took me over the highway, and I caught a glimpse of the stream of cars leaving the cape. I guess everyone had the same idea: lets leave early. The cars going down cape were far fewer. Maybe this will be a quiet week.
I have a list of stuff to do this week and the countdown has begun. One week from today I leave for Ghana, and I can hardly believe it. After forty years my wish will finally come true. I’m flying on Lufthansa from Boston to Frankfurt, have a 3 hour lay-over then land on Sunday at 6:50 pm, Ghanaian time. My body will go through 3 time zones, and I can’t imagine the effect as I have enough trouble with this one. Ghana is only 4 hours ahead of us, and I love landing in the early evening so I can have some supper, maybe my favorites, kelewele and jollof rice, then get to bed close to a normal bedtime. That will help me adjust, I hope.
It’s like the first time I went. I don’t know a single person who’s going though this time a few of us have commented back and forth on Facebook. Three people whom I’ve sort of met are all arriving a few days ahead of me and two of them are staying at the same guest lodge as I am (http://www.hotels.com.gh/triplecrown/index.html). I planned my trip with more time after the festivities so I can get up north. None of the others were stationed as far up country as I had been. I’m hoping a current volunteer from my area might be at the ceremony and will be interested in having fine company on the way home.
I have bought a few things I wished existed in my day. I used to travel with a roll of toilet paper, most of us did, but now I have travel toilet paper in packages small enough to fit into my carry around with me bag. I have soap sheets, small pieces of paper needing only water so I can wash my hands. Sanitary hand wash in what looks like a pen is also on the packing list. I have enough electronics for a small store: my iPod and iPad with their foreign travel converter and recharger, my small camera for discreet pictures and its battery recharger and my big camera also with its recharger. They are dual voltage so I can plug them right into the wall. I’ll bring my extra international plug. When I first went to Ghana, I had an Instamatic camera and a cassette player, and I was perfectly content. Forty years is a long time.
The rain is steady but gentle so I can still hear the single drops as they fall on the leaves by the deck. Every now and then a bird calls. The house is dark, the sort of dark which feels safe and lends itself to contemplation. I have no plans for the day except maybe doing a wash. The laundry bag of clothes has been sitting and waiting for two days by the cellar door.
Gracie sits by the back door and watches the rain. Soon enough it will be her morning nap time. What a lovely way to fall asleep: gently lulled by the drops of rain. She’ll sleep in her crate. She loves it on days like today.
I am in a reading mood today. I see myself lying on the couch, quite comfy and cozy. I don’t have a book to read, but I figure I can download something. When I was young, I used to lie in bed with the headboard light on and read all afternoon when it rained. Even then I’d leave the windows opened so I could hear the rain fall. In a house filled with people, I always felt as if I were alone, as if I were the only person in the house. It was always the most peaceful time I can remember.
I loved riding my bike through puddles. I think it was a bit like Moses parting the Red Sea. On each side of me a giant wave was whooshed into the air by my tires as I rode through. My sneakers and the bottoms of my jeans always got soaked, but I never cared. Puddles were far too much fun for such small considerations as wet shoes and pants.
Rain in Ghana never stopped the world. Everyone was always out and about their business as if the day were sunny. I did the same thing. Before I left, I was given a fold-up umbrella as a gift. My first week there, when I had used it in the rain, I left it in a room, and it was gone when I went back a short while later. That didn’t really matter. After that, I just walked in the rain the same as everyone else.
The weather continues to be perfectly lovely. I can’t think of a better descriptor for a sunny day of 73°, but when I use the word lovely, I always feel as if I’m a character in a British novel of manners.
Last night, had the Red Sox won, the evening would have been a perfect. It was baseball weather, the stands were filled, I had my sausage sandwich with onions and peppers and I got to walk on the Fenway field carrying the Ghanaian flag. We, returned Peace Corps volunteers, were part of the pre-game ceremony honoring fifty years of Peace Corps. We walked onto the field in single file carrying flags from Peace Corps countries and stood ringed around the field from the scoreboard to the bullpen while a clip about President Kennedy played on the jumbotron, the anthem was sung, the first ball was tossed and play ball was shouted. We walked off the field in single file still waving our flags. All of us who attended the game sat in a block in the bleachers wearing red t-shirts with the Peace Corps logo on the back and, “Life is calling. How far will will you go?” written on the front. We were easy to spot.
Today I am attending a birthday luncheon for a woman turning 90. If you met her, you couldn’t correctly guess her age. She is one of those eternally young people. Her sense of humor is wry, she misses nothing and her exuberance for life makes me smile. Louise loves jokingly harassing people. I am often her target, and I return her harassment with a good comeback, and off we go, back and forth. Louise is a big Red Sox fan, and we often talk about the last game we watched, and we bemoan every loss and shake our heads when discussing the likes of John Lackey. I hope to be as bright and funny as Louise if I turn 90. Come to think of it, even next year I’d hope to be as bright and funny as Louise. I guess I’m going to have to start remembering why I’m in the kitchen.
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