Posted tagged ‘Peace Corps Ghana’

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“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.

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“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.

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“Stealers, keepers.”

December 30, 2023

We still have clouds and a damp day though the rain has stopped. It will stay cloudy and in the mid 40’s all day. I have no plans for today.

Yesterday Nala was at her most larcenous. She found a new target, a bookcase in the living room which had been untouched by her. How excited she must have been to find it. First was one sandal which I mentioned yesterday. Next was a ceramic house from Porto, Portugal. I then covered the shelves or so I thought. Nope. She stole houses from Philadelphia so I moved the rocker to in front of the shelves. I had secured the shelves, her original target, but not her new target, the coat rack. The last item was from the coat rack, my Konica camera, one I bought the year I bought this house. It was on the driveway.

The second most memorable New Year’s Eve in my life also happened when I was in the Peace Corps. It was my second and last New Year in Africa. I was on my way back home to Ghana flying from Niger, from Niamey, from the desert and from the camels to Ougadougou, the capital of what was then Upper Volta, now Burkina Faso. I arrived there the morning of New Year’s Eve and stopped at Peace Corps and found an invitation to all volunteers from the ambassador inviting us to his house for dinner. I wore my best dress. It was made of Ghanaian cloth and had two straps, wide colorful straps. Anyway, the ambassador’s guests were wearing gowns and tuxes. We volunteers were not, but we were wearing our fanciest. Circling through the crowd were waiters wearing white gloves pouring champagne or offering hors d’oeuvres. The food table was filled with foods I hadn’t seen in nearly two years. I filled my plate with sweet potatoes, turkey, gravy, stuffing and real mashed potatoes, with squash and carrots. I sat at one of the tables with other volunteers. Their plates were as filled as mine. We ate and we drank champagne. We chatted at dinner. It was a wonderful evening. As we got closer to midnight, the coffee and pastries were served. We’re talking real coffee, brewed coffee and chocolate cake and so much more. We all stood with filled glasses for the countdown from 10 to zero then we toasted and drank for a Happy New Year!! We all yelled and hugged. We sang Auld Lang Syne.

I didn’t know many of those volunteers, but I knew them. We all clicked right away. I think it had to do with us sharing a love of where we were. We hugged a long time that night. That this was our last New Year’s Eve in Africa was on our minds. The New Year felt almost nostalgic. It would be filled with lasts.

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“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.

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“Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.” 

September 8, 2023

The temperature is already 82°. The three of us, Henry, Nala and I, are happy to be in the cool house. Both dogs are sleeping. They had a hectic morning. They went out quickly, came in for a biscuit, went out again then came in and collapsed on the couch. This is their morning nap time.

I watch YouTube African Walk Videos. Most walks are through markets in Ghana. There is no dialogue except for the sounds of the market, the voices speaking Ga or Twi, the toots of motorcycles and the horns of taxi drivers. The cameraman just walks and never interacts. Along both sides of him, people walk through the market. The women wear tradition cloth or regular dresses or even pants. The men wear shirts, some in Ghanaian patterns. I watch for anything familiar.

The market is divided into sections of similar goods. In the food market section, tomatoes are piled like Jenga blocks. Garden eggs are sold from baskets. Onions, yams and oranges are in piles on the tops of small wooden tables, all of which look alike. The cloth market has folded cloth in tall piles. Picking a cloth in the middle means all of the cloth is taken off the pile then re-piled. Some sandals are in pairs while others are on the floor in a mishmash, jumble of a pile. Enamel pots and pans, toilet paper, plastic containers and whatever you might need is sold in the market. A dirt walkway, wide enough for a moto, a motorcycle, separates two lines of shacks, sort of three sided lean-tos where sellers sit under umbrellas.

I am always amazed by how much Ghanaian women can carry on their heads. I watch for bofrot, my favorite Ghana treat. They are yeasty, sweet deep fried balls of dough and are sold from glass boxes with wooden sides. I have never passed up a bofrot seller.

Watching these videos fills me with an ache, a wish I was there munching on bofrot while shopping in the market. I didn’t know what to expect when I first went to Ghana for Peace Corps training. What I found was a remarkable place with friendly, warm people, a home for those two years and for all the years after.

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“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.

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“Similar things are drawn to each other.” 

August 28, 2023

If I had slept any later this morning, I would have missed the sun. It disappeared: all traces are gone for the meanwhile, only clouds remain, but this remarkable disappearance calls for patience. The sun will be back. It is 69° now and won’t get any higher than 73°.

When I was a kid, by the time the end of August rolled around, I was just about ready for school. What had been fun and exciting in June and July had gotten boring. In September, the mostly unplanned days of summer disappeared and were replaced by a uniformity. From Monday to Friday I was up at the same time, wore the same clothes, my uniform, and spent the day in school. Only my lunches were different from day to day. Whenever I could, I played outside after school, but soon enough, the afternoons started to get darker earlier. Forced inside, I’d finish my homework and then watch some TV. I remember Superman and The Mickey Mouse Club. I remember eating dinner while sitting at the table with my back to the window. I remember having to go to bed early. “School tomorrow,” my mother always said and that was enough.

When I lived in Ghana, my weekdays had a similarity. I ate the same breakfast every morning: two eggs, 2 pieces of toast and coffee. The eggs were cooked in groundnut (peanut) oil giving them a distinctive taste, one which elevated the eggs to a different plane. The coffee was instant with evaporated milk, but after a while, that tasted just fine. I’d walk across the school compound to the classroom block and teach. Any break in the morning classes meant a walk home and some more coffee. After my day of teaching, it was lunch time, always a bowl of cut fruit, whatever was in season. The afternoons were mine unless it was volleyball or track season. I coached both. If it was a simple afternoon of no activities, I’d sometimes take a nap or I’d go into town and shop. I’d usually stop at the Super Service Inn to say hi and to watch the men play Oware, the Ashanti version of mancala, outside under the trees. It was fun to watch. The audience, all men, made comments about the moves or offered advice. I, an invited guest, just watched. From there I’d head home, prepare lessons and then eat dinner: either chicken or beef in a sauce, usually a tomato sauce, and yam. During the rest of the evening, students sometimes dropped by to visit or I’d read and listen to music. The last activity of the day before bed was my shower, always cold water.

I was never bored in Ghana. I was in Africa. Everything was different even in its similarity.

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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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“Instructions for living a life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”

April 30, 2023

The heavy rain started last night. I heard it on the roof. The dogs backed away from the door hoping the rain would stop. Later, they had no choice but to go out. The rain stopped overnight but will continue today. I did get my pansies planted yesterday but didn’t clear the Nala trash. That’s for another day.

Today is a day with no lists, no need to leave the house, a full larder and plenty of books and movies. It is a cozy day.

When I was a kid, I wondered what the nuns looked like under their habits. Once in a while I could see a sort of hairline under their wimples. One nun had black hair and the other white. I never really thought of nuns as people. They had their own race apart from the rest of us. I never saw nuns eat except for Sister Hildegarde who hid candy in her desk and ate it during the day. Nuns used to keep their handkerchiefs under the cuffs of their sleeves. When I was young, they scared me. When I was older, they amused me.

When I lived in Ghana, my days were mostly the same, but I was never bored. I was amazed. I was actually living in Africa.

Ghana was filled with color. The women wore dresses made with traditional cloths of many colors and patterns. By the middle of my first year, all my dresses had been made by the seamstress who lived next door, the wife of a tutor. I had bought the cloth in the market. My favorite dress was blue tie-dye. Men wore fugus, smocks, made on looms, woven in different patterns of cotton in strips then sewn together. Smocks were traditional clothing for men in the north and in the Upper Region where I lived. When I went back to Ghana, I was surprised to see smocks were now wore even in Accra, the capital. I have fugus I brought home. They are in different styles and colors. I also have some fugu cloth, white with black and red stripes.

My house is warm and quiet. Nala is napping beside me on the couch. Henry is napping upstairs on my bed. My ultimate cozies are the dress code for the day. I’m ready for my second cup of coffee and an onion bagel with cream cheese. I’m thinking life doesn’t get much better.

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