I have uploaded all the photos of my trip. My first thought had been to do it in pieces like Ghana I, Ghana II and up to whatever, but I decided just to add to the first batch and keep going. It took a good part of the day! Enjoy!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/misskath/sets/72157627565605469/
My Dear Hedley, Watch out!
Today 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/
The morning comes early when your body is still on a different time. Today it was 5 o’clock when Gracie, Fern and I rolled out of bed. I brewed some coffee and read yesterday’s mail. As you can tell, the daily routine is quickly back into my life. When the papers came, I read them and did all my puzzles. Yup, just a regular day here in South Dennis.
I went to take a shower on my first night in Bolga after all that traveling. There was no hot water so one of the women brought me a bucketful. I had a bucket bath for the first time in 40 years. In the morning I went to have breakfast. It came with the hotel rate. I ordered fried eggs, toast and coffee. The fried eggs were not at all tasty and the coffee came in single cup pouches: instant Nescafe, exactly what I used to drink as there is still no brewed coffee. The milk in the pitcher was evaporated. It could have been my breakfast forty years ago.
On that first full day in Bolgatanga, Thomas and I went to Bawku. During training in July 1969 we spent three weeks there living with a Ghanaian family who spoke the language we were learning. I stayed in the house of Imora Sanda, a wealthy, respected man. His house was the only one with lights as he had a generator for his house and the movie theater. I use movie theater loosely as you stepped through a door to the outside and sat on benches; no popcorn anywhere. Mostly they showed spaghetti westerns with the strange-sounding dialogue and odd music. One time they showed the ending of the film in the middle and the middle reel at the end. Well, back to now: the road to Bawku was horrible. It was mostly hard-packed dirt and pot holes big enough to eat a car whole. Along the way were small villages and cows, lots of cows, as the north is where they raise almost all of the cows in the country. Bawku was small when I was there; it is now sprawling and like most larger towns and villages it is filled with people walking, sitting, talking and riding bicycles and motorcycles. There are far fewer cars in the north than the south as it is a poorer part of the country with no cash crop so fewer expensive cars. We rode around a bit as I tried to find my bearings. We stopped and asked a group of young men if they knew the home of Imoru Sanda. One of them said yes, and he would get the son of Imoru Sanda to come.
When he came, I introduced myself: sun na Ladi. My name is Ladi in Hausa: a girl born on Sunday. I then explained who I was, and he took me right to his father’s house. I knew it immediately, and I knew the movie theater two houses down the dirt road. We walked inside the house and started to walk upstairs. I said my room is the second on the left. There it was exactly as I remembered it in my mind’s eye. There is a door to a porch at the other end of the room, and I said below the porch is a tree on the left, a dirt road and a small mosque on the right. It was exactly the same, and I swear the same men were sitting under that tree as they had in my day. Imora, named after his father, said his mother is still alive, and we walked to the family’s house. In 1969 it was a compound, and I used to walk between compounds to get there. Always were small children around the house and something cooking on the fire, usually my dinner. When I got to the house, Imora called his mother. I told her my name, and she repeated it then gave me a giant hug and told me how I used to visit her and the other wives, two of whom have died and the other, the youngest, in here in the US. We spoke a while then I went back to the open part of the house where dinner was cooking and kids were milling. One cried-I always used to make the toddlers cry simply by the color of my skin. I took a picture of the whole family then they took one with me. I had found my Ghanaian family after 42 years away. Imora Sanda had died a very old man in 1990. I always thought he was old when I knew him. They gave me a picture of my Ghanaian father to take home with me.
That night, back in Bolga, I sat and finished dinner. No longer do the Ghanaians use talking drums to communicate. They use cell phones and four students, learning I was in town, arrived that night to visit, the one I had met the night before and three more including Lillian who is married to the Bolga-naba, the chief and is his third of four wives, Francisca and Florence. We laughed and remembered for a long time. We had all kept our memories close and they were easy to find.
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.
Yesterday was perfect: sunny, breezy and cool. but today there is no sun which makes the air feel damp and chilly. We had a deluge the other night with thunder and lightning and nearly two inches of rain. It was dramatic and wonderful.
Tonight I’m going to the Red Sox game. It’s Peace Corps night. If you watch the game, look for the sea of red shirts in the bleachers, around 350 returned volunteers and their families. That’s me waving every now and then. Before the game, there will be a parade of Peace Corps country flags on the field. I’ll be one of the flag bearers. Between innings 3 and 4 and 7 and 8, we’re holding up tiles which will come together as the Peace Corps logo. You won’t see that. You’ll probably be watching a Sullivan tire ad or one for Dunkin’ Donuts.
Sometimes I wish I were money rich. I wouldn’t move into a bigger house or buy a different car, but I’d take my family on a huge trip. We’d travel on the Mediterranean and stop in so many places. I’d take a million pictures. Some would be in black and white like the travel pictures from the 30’s. They’re my favorites. I’d have the women wear hats and dresses for a few of those while the men would be in suits and wearing fedoras. My nephew’s son would wear short pants or knickers and an argyle vest over his shirt. In the family picture, we’d be lined up by height.
I would have loved living in the 30’s when people took the grand tour of Europe before they settled down into their lives. I’d bring a steamer trunk and fill it with satin like dresses, a few with flowers, hats with veils, a couple of pairs of fancy shoes and some sturdier ones for walking. A fox stole would be packed for those chilly nights. For the fancy dinners on the ocean liner, a few long dresses would do just fine. After dinner, before going to my cabin, I’d sit and have a drink or two in the bar, smoke my cigarette from a long black holder and have witty conversations with my fellow travelers. At every stop I’d buy a sticker for the outside of my steamer trunk.
After my trip, the trunk would be stored in the attic. In it would be a few souvenirs, some pictures and my diary. Years later, someone would find it, dust it off and spent an afternoon with me on my adventure.
The sky is a vibrant blue and the sun is warm. A slight breeze makes the day delightful. This morning my house is quiet. The routine of every day has returned because my company left last night. I miss them. Having company interrupts routine in the best possible way. We laugh, chat and enjoy being together. The house is filled with sounds different than every day when only the animals and I move about, and I’m the only voice. Gracie is sleeping on the couch which she does every morning except she didn’t for the last couple. She was intent on missing nothing and was our constant companion. The deck is empty and quiet. My sister should be out there reading her book and following the sun as it moves about the house. I need to get used to the quiet again.
I never lived alone until I was in Ghana. The house, where I grew up, was small, and there were six of us always bumping into each other. When we moved to the cape, I had my own room, but the house was never quiet. The kitchen, close to my bedroom, was the hubbub of activity. I didn’t mind. It had been the same all of my life. College was no different. I could fall asleep surrounded by people and noise.
I lived alone in Ghana, on one side of a duplex. It was the first time in my life I wasn’t surrounded by family or friends. I was depressed, lonely and homesick and had no one to talk to about it. I couldn’t tell my fellow staff members. It would sound a bit insulting. I did write to friends about it, and that was cathartic, but it was only a stop gap. The loneliness returned. I decided I would leave at the end of term one if nothing changed, but I was lucky. Everything changed.
I began to enjoy being alone, having time to myself. Ghana and my four rooms became home. At night, I’d sit outside under the most magnificent starlit sky with my mouth opened in awe then I’d go inside, read and listen to music. During the day I’d teach and in-between classes I’d go home and be by myself with my book and a cup of coffee until the next class. I enjoyed being alone and found company disruptive. I was at the polar opposite of where I had begun.
It took a while to find the middle, but I did. Company was welcomed. Being alone was never lonely. That’s still the way it is. I miss my recent company and their voices and their movements about the house, but I’m content to be alone.
The day is warm and sunny. Even this early Gracie is out lying on the deck, and Fern has staked her claim to the mat by the front door where the morning sun streams into the house. She is stretched out so all of her can feel the warmth. I must have instinctively known there was sun as I was up early, have read the papers, put on a wash and cleaned the table and chairs on the deck in anticipation of my company sitting outside to enjoy the day. My guess is they should arrive around noon.
We are most assuredly spoiled. When I was in Ghana, I made do with very little. Even though it was often over 100°, I didn’t even own a fan. I just sweated a lot. Going to bed still wet from my nightly shower was as close to air conditioning as I got. Coke was a treat as was a bar of Cadbury chocolate. Traveling even a few miles took forever in over-crowded mammy lorries or buses. I prayed for a window seat. The buses often smelled of goats or chickens, both of which were sometimes under the seats. Goats, however, were usually tied to the top with the luggage. It took close to four hours to go a hundred miles. From Accra, on the coast, to Bolga took 16 hours. It still does. Irons used charcoal for heat and bucket baths were common. I became an expert at bucket baths. I could wash my hair and all the rest of me then use the left over water to flush the toilet. I also became an expert at using public toilets with holes in the floor, and that dubious talent came into use more recently when I went to Morocco. When I was in college, we had pit stops, but they were more the result of a night of revelry than usual practice.
Ghanaians wasted nothing, and that was one of the most important lessons I learned. Bottles and cans were reused over and over. Sandals had retread tires for soles. Food from the market was wrapped in newspapers. My rice always came in a newspaper cone.
When I left Ghana, I vowed to remember I didn’t need much. A hand can opener works just as well and a broom can sweep a room clean. It has been forty years since that vow, and I have accumulated much, and those Ghanaian lessons have faded over the years. Now, though, for some odd reason, I find myself doing chores far more simply. I sweep the kitchen clean most mornings. My electric can opener died so I use the hand opener on those few cans which still require one. I use few dishes so I hand wash them every night. It gives me a small sense of satisfaction.
My life is getting simpler. I think it has to do with getting older. I need much less than I used to, but, no matter what, I can’t give up the air conditioner.
This morning I could smell the ocean. I didn’t want to come inside, but I reluctantly pulled myself away. It rained last night as it will every day this week. Today is still cloudy but a bit lighter than it’s been, and the street is beginning to dry. Gracie found the baby possum last night. I heard her making a weird sounding bark and went outside. I rescued the possum, but I don’t know how much life it had left. It moved when I grabbed it by its tail and put out it outside the yard. Gracie had only played with it, but her paws were no match for the baby possum.
I made an appointment to get my yellow fever shot for Ghana. Though the trip is still months away, every completed detail makes me more and more excited. Forty or so former volunteers will be in-country for the 50th celebration. I noticed one who served before I did. In different postings we have been referred to as the ancients and the old girls and old boys of Ghana. A current volunteer from the Upper West has offered me her expertise. She is posted in Wa where I’d visited a few times. Bolga is now in the Upper East. Long ago the whole area was just the Upper Region.
My group was the first in Peace Corps history to train completely in-country, and I sent the story to Ghana as the 50th committee was looking for historical perspectives. The story was accepted and is now posted on the Peace Corps Ghana site. I got a chuckle that it is described as part of Stories Through the Ages. Just click on an RPCV Story 1969-1971. Here is the link: http://ghana.peacecorps.gov/ThroughAges.php
Today I will be out and about doing a few errands. I think cloudy or rainy days lend themselves to errands. I have a list. Gracie, of course, will be my navigator. When I get home, I’ll just laze and read. I can’t think of a better way to spend a damp and rainy afternoon.
It’s in the mid-30’s and is again a bright and sunny day which feels a bit warmer than yesterday. I went out for my Sunday breakfast and was amazed at how crowded the roads were. I guessed people wanted all their chores done before the football playoffs this afternoon. I have one more chore I couldn’t do this morning as the store was closed when I went by it. I’ll go before the Pats play this afternoon. The game starts at 4:30.
Today is one of those not so much on my mind days. My muse has left for a warmer clime, and I don’t blame her. The snow has lost its glamor. It’s dirty along the roadside, pockmarked from the rain and filled with boot, shoe and dog prints. It needs to go rather than be replenished.
Yesterday the Earth was nearly destroyed by ice, a black hole, meteors, the sun, a behemoth disguised as a mountain and a volcano. Luckily, our hero, always a male, was always on hand to save the day, but it was usually the female scientists who first noticed something was amiss.
I checked the Peace Corps Ghana site to see if there was any information about the 50th anniversary. There wasn’t. I’m getting anxious about the possibility of missing another cheaper priced flight as I have missed two already.
This entry seems like the sale table in a store where everything is marked down to 75%. Usually that table is a mishmash of items including, months later, Christmas items which never sold. It’s just one of those days.
This blog is strictly non-profit, and intended for artistic and educational purposes only. Videos have replaced the MP3' and serve the purpose of letting y’all having a taste of what I think is great music. To quote the mighty Captain Beefheart: if you got ears, you gotta listen.
If you’re an artist or label with any objection to your work being featured here, please drop me a line for direct removal.
keepthecoffeecoming.blog 