Ain't no thing but a cockroach wing

I vividly remember the disgust I felt when I went to visit my site and discovered there were cockroaches in my latrine.  I could handle it during the day because I could see them run away, but the thought of visiting during the night made me shudder to my very core.  I hate cockroaches.  Bleh.

Flash forward about six months in Ghana.  The latrine is no cockroaches’ land after the application of some handy white powder and it’s really not a concern to me. BUT I walk into my room after being gone for about ten days and there’s a dead little guy lying by my door.  I kick it to the side and go about my business.  The other volunteer who came with me didn’t seem to mind either.  In fact, she put her bag on the scene of the cockroach crime.

What the hell happened to us?  How could we be so gross?  So you just join the Peace Corps and become a hippie? 

The last question depends on the person, but the best response is it just doesn’t bother us anymore.  Call it desensitization…call it what you will.  I’ve seen chickens slaughtered, dead rabbits in a hand I need to shake (and invariably, do), goats copulate, and a cat run by with a lizard flopping in their mouth. 

Today, I felt a drop of something wet fall from the roof of the store (a shack, basically) and on to my arm while I was eating.  Since it’s not raining we could only assume it was lizard urine.  If I didn’t have to use the private at that time, who knows how long I would have waited to clean up.   

The point of this blog wasn’t to tell you all how gnarly I’ve become, though I know you are all thinking you will not be giving me a hello hug when you see me next.  Instead, I want to illustrate how seven months (as of today!) can change long-held perspectives. 

Many of the things that used to seem to matter just don’t anymore.  I laugh at myself more.  I feel happiness in small successes.  I see the best and worst in people and still think it’s possible to change. 

If that isn’t worth seven months of my life, then I don’t know what is.

P.S. To those who wonder what the hell I do besides get down at church and eat chicken spines, here’s a look at some of my malaria education work. 

http://stompoutmalaria.org/weekly-awesome-ghana-volunteer-and-counterpart-spotlight-alisa-langford-and-osei-nkuah-jonas/

 

Nyame Adom II: The Offering

Today I visited the Catholic Church (called “Roman” by Ghanaians) as part of my tour de l'eglise.  There have been a few interruptions with timing and I was finally able to attend after a couple of weeks of trying. 

Everything seemed status quo based on my previous experiences – traditional religious components mixed (The Lord’s  Prayer in Twi, in this case) with a whole lot of dancing and singing. I was called up to the front to greet and describe my reason for being in Ghana, and I was pleased to find that saying these sentences in Twi has become second nature. 

I did my dance down the aisle a few times, took a few photos, and felt more like I was ticking a box than seeing anything new or interesting.  But that’s the thing about life – things are never what they seem.

Toward the end of the ceremony, they called the women up to deliver offerings of various foods and household items.  I assumed these were for the family of the baby who was blessed immediately afterwards, and as you’re likely suspecting, I was wrong.

The priest addressed me and told me that though the people of my village have little money, they would like to give me their prayers…and all of the baskets of items that were sitting at the front of the church.  I was so surprised that I let out a very loud “oooohhh!” that made the congregation burst out laughing. 

After many thanks and doing my best to conceal the desire to cry tears of joy, I led the congregation to my house.  By lead I mean we danced our way home – is there really any other way?!

They dropped off the various items, which included avocados (called pears here), oranges (that are green), rice, canned fish, eggs, bread, and soap.  We then danced a bit more in my courtyard and I saw them off as they headed back to church.

The Offering

Me, the priest, and the congregation

Dancing in the streets

 

The goodz

I was truly overwhelmed by the kindness the people showed me and it got me thinking about my Catholic family back home (my Filipino family).  The Rous / Ferrer family has showed me such incredible love and encouragement and didn’t think twice about throwing me a going away celebration. 

Though I’m not Catholic, I often wear the Our Lady of Mt. Carmel scapular that the titas gave me before I left because it reminds me that I have family and friends in this world that love me and want me to be safe.  The offerings of citrus, soap and sardines made me feel that maybe I have it here as well. 

I want to offer thanks to all of my family and friends who have showed such an outpouring of love and support as I begin this new chapter in my life.  It means more to me than you will ever know. 

Laughter is the best medicine

Yesterday, I was feeling a bit under the weather and have been recovering all day.  Jackson and Justice, my friend Gifty’s husband and baby, have also been sick today.  After spending much of my day shut inside, I ventured out to the shop and was offered dinner of rice balls and palm nut soup.  Per usual, Gifty’s cooking was delicious. 

I spent some time answering brother Jackson’s plethora of questions about America, then I decided to take my leave…

Me: Thank you for dinner.  I am going to bed now.  (yes, I do speak like that here)

Jackson: Okay, good night.  Yours sincerely.

Gifty: You say what?

Jackson: My English teacher taught me to say ‘yours sincerely’ when the person is going to sleep.

Gifty: That is only for signing a letter! 

She then proceeds to laugh until she cries for about twenty minutes, intermittently making cracks at him in Sefwi (the local language in my village) and slapping her knee with a dish towel -- all with a baby on her back.  Her unabridged laughter created a chain reaction where I couldn’t stop laughing either.  It was a snorting, have to gasp for air, kind of laugh.

Meanwhile, Ghanaians have such a strong sense of humor and thick skin that in no way does brother Jackson seem offended by the ruckus his words have caused.  In fact, he joins in and makes a joke about his teacher being “a very old man.”

It felt good to laugh like that with Ghanaians –- feeling a bit more like home.

Yours sincerely.

Nyame Adom – Part 1

In response to the question of “wo ho te sen?” (or “how are you?” in English), the most common response I receive in my village is “nyame adom,” meaning “the grace of God.”  The full response of “nyame adom, me ho ye” (by the grace of God, I am fine) has been clipped for either the sake of expediency or coolness, one cannot be sure.

What one can be sure of, however, is that the missionaries in Ghana have done their jobs, and done them well.   There is not a single Western religion that I know, which I have not seen represented in some form whilst here in Ghana.  There are even many Christian churches of which I’ve never heard, and had to google to verify their existence. 

To put this into perspective, I live in a village of 1,600 to 2,000 people (census schmensus) and there are eight churches.  Yes, eight.  This does not count those who subscribe to traditional beliefs.  Some of my fellow PCVs live in much smaller villages and have the same number of churches. 

In my village, we have the Pentecostal, Anglican, New Apostolic, Harris, Methodist, Roman, Seventh Day Adventists, and Deeper Life churches.  On my tour d’eglise, I have been to the first four.  You see, I decided that as part of my integration into the community, I should visit each one at least once.  Woaahhoooaahh, I’m halfway there… *

Off to church (my house is to the back-right)

During most of the services, I have no idea what they are saying.  I can pick up “nyame” and “adom” because of the aforementioned greeting response.  From there, I understand when I need to stand up (“soree”) and every once in a while I catch the cue for when I should say “amen” in unison with the congregation.

Somehow, I never fail to know when it’s time to dance.  If there is one thing that I have in common with Ghanaians, it’s a shared love of dancing.  I’m fairly certain that if I were to attend many of the churches in their country of origin, there would be far less dancing, if any at all.  It seems the missionaries learned the lesson of adapting to local customs to increase sustainability some time ago.

The usual means of dancing is in line to the front of the congregation, round and round in a few circles, then back to your seats.  This held true for the Pentecostals and the Anglicans, but with more drums in the latter.  Staying true to their German roots, the Apostolic did not dance, but they did sing some lovely hymns. 

The Harris Church had a special joint congregation with surrounding communities that lasted nearly five hours.  (My counterpart insisted I take a 30-minute lunch break, and I happily obliged.)  Despite its length, I found this service to be the most enjoyable.  The singing was nice, spirits were lively, and the dancing (oh the dancing!) was fanfreakintastic. 

There were several calls to do a “line dance” and I even had a special dance where the men shaking the axatse got down low and so did I.  Not that low, it’s church, after all.  Though I’ve always been a drum beat kinda dancing girl, the axatse is quickly becoming my favorite instrument in Ghana.  It’s basically a “shaker” made from a hollowed out calabash and the players hold the woven beads on the outside with one hand and shake with the other to produce music, beautiful music. 

http://www.dancedrummer.com/axa.html

After a little more than four hours of service, we all got up and danced through the streets.  Not in the overly choreographed manner of Westside Story, but in a sort of parade, led by about ten girls waving flags in unison.  We all did our own versions of the walking dance, which can often look like the running man in slow motion, and with less knee action.  Sometimes, the old women have the best “scoot” moves that are remind me of soul dancing -- my favorite.

During our parade, many people joined from the sidelines, if for no other reason to coax the oboruni (me) into doing the azonto dance.  I respectfully declined and continued with my scoot scoot down the market road, by the taxi station, around the football field, and finally to an open clearing where they sang and we shuffled our feet some more. 

After about an hour, I was dripping in sweat and exhausted from the African sun and decided to take my departure.  I was told that I needed to pay my respects to the priest, who put his hand on my head and said a prayer in Twi (or Sefwi, I dunno) for about five minutes as I knelt before him.  Though I was spent and on the brink of dehydration, the last hour of the Harris Church service was easily one of my most enjoyable experiences at site.

I have four more churches to attend, and will update you with how it goes. I also have a great video from the Harris Church service, which I hope to upload when my connection is faster. In the meantime, be well and many thanks for reading.

* Finish the line for the full (ahem) clever effect.

Where there is no oboruni

I realize that it’s been a while since I updated my blog.  Sorry, folks.  This is a girl on the Ghana go. 

Let me catch you up to date.  We completed technical training and have all been officially sworn in as Peace Corps volunteers.  I am currently at my site in the Western region and could not be happier.  Some days are better than others, but today has been an exceptional day. 

My friend Gifty returned from visiting her mother in the Eastern region so I hung out with her all day.  We had American coffee and American biscuits (Thanks, mom, dad and Mama Sue!) and she taught me some more Twi.  Her English is good and she’s funny and feisty – all a nice combo for a good teacher. 

I tried to pound fufu (google it) but it didn’t go so well.  I never thought it would happen, but I crave this food.  It’s basically a ball of dough that you eat with your hands in piping hot soup.  Not generally my idea of a good time, but it can be so goooood.  I don’t even mind eating the chicken meat from around the neck (this is considered prime meat cause it’s juicy) and peeling the bones from the fish.  All in the name of protein.

Another funny thing that happened today – I came back from the market and heard that I was just on the news for the Peace Corps swearing in ceremony.  Gifty came running from her store, “Sister Alisa!  Sister Alisa!  You were on the television!  You were dancing!”  I really wish I could have seen it. 

I should also mention that only Gifty and her husband call me Alisa.  To everyone else, my name is Nana Yaa Pomah.  I am named after the Queen Mother of my village and am also considered one.  You heard me, I’m a freaking Queen Mother.  It’s basically a ceremonious title, but I am supposed to serve as the head of all the women here.  The chief (yes, we have chiefs and mine is awesome) told me that the community will treat me as their mother and with respect at all times.  So far, so good. 

My village is surrounded by thick bush that is full of cocoa.  Everyone here is a cocoa farmer.  They endure the hard labor involved with bringing chocolate to our American and European palates (they lump us together here, something which I can only imagine many Americans and Europeans alike will not appreciate).  I have yet to go to the bush to partake in the farming activities.  Right now, they are preparing for the rainy season in hopes of a successful harvest in a few months. I will go and learn more about it when the time comes. 

I did, however, go fishing today.  And by fishing, I mean that I went to watch them pull the fish from the trap in the river.  Except I was late – I arrived home from my “trot” at 6:45 only to find my counterpart yelling that we would be late for fishing.  He told me 7:30 so I thought I had plenty of time.  I need to really remember that he is the only early Ghanaian and things always happen before he says.  Most of the time, Ghanaians have their own sense of time that involves them beginning 1-2 hours after the scheduled time. 

Anywho, I digress.  We walked through the bush and to the river to greet the fisherman.  They built a damn that forces all the fish to go through one location where BAM! they have a trap.  They caught many fish and gave me two of the best ones.  Gifty (who is an excellent cook) will prepare the fish for us tonight.  I can’t wait.

I take many of my meals with Gifty and her family.  She’s my best friend in my village and she thankfully speaks English pretty well.  Her husband, Jackson, is also quite nice and they have one of the cutest children in all of Ghana.  His name is Justice. 

I’ve received some messages about what I need over here.  Though I am finding everything I need pretty well, there are some “creature comforts” which would be much appreciated.  Though I’m surrounded by cocoa, they do not produce chocolate here.  I can only find it at an “oburoni store” in the big cities and it is quite costly.  So, chocolate in fun size form (Gotta watch it) is great.  Skittles, Starbursts and things like this would also be nice.  Also, Clif and/or Fiber One bars, beef jerkey, trail mix, coffee, nail polish (I got time, gotta keep my paws pretty), and any kind of seasoning you think would be nice to cook with.  Even prepackaged pasta pesto packs…. As for the kiddos in my area – they seem to like coloring books and colored pencils.  Maybe some educational books with the ABCs?  There are plenty of places to get gently-used clothing for cheap, so no need to send any of this…

Thanks for tuning in.  Until next time…

Lizard Push Ups

Hello, my blog lovin’ friends and family!  I’m in a town called New Tafo this fine Monday providing my brain with a much-needed break after my Language Proficiency Interview (LPI) today.  My brain runneth over with Twi.  So much so, that I’m having trouble writing in English.  

Despite my horrible illness last week (fever, chills, the whole bit), my body is adjusting quite nicely to Ghana.  I’m surprised, but relieved.  I think it’s why my Ghanaian mom calls me “Anokyewaa, din din,” which is Anokyewaa (my Ghanaian name) plus “din din,” which means tough.  Sure, Ill take it.

The idea that when one goes to Africa they will immediately lose weight is false.  Sally Struthers is full of it.  The food is good here and there are carbs for days.  Yams! Coco Yams!  Plantains!  Cassava!  Rice!  So unless you are the type who only eats meat and cheese and aren’t finding much in this way here, you have to be careful.  

On this note, I’ve accepted that I need to maintain a workout routine as I did in the states.  But without a high-octane gym, how is one to exercise?  The answer is in the roads, my friends.  With that, your dear Alisa is hitting the streets of Ghana (relatively) regularly and is now training for a half marathon (baby steps), which takes place September in Accra.  A few of my fellow PCTs have agreed to train with me, and I’m confident that we will all finish. 

This will come right around my 30^th birthday.  I can’t think of a better way to tell aging to suck it, can you?  Anyway, being surrounded by a lot of folks freshouttacollege is helping keep me young.  

Have you ever seen a lizard do push ups?  I have.  It’s spectacular.  If a male lizard can do push ups for days, I can run a half marathon.  They’re really setting the bar high.

Back to the lizard.  I can’t just throw out something that great without further explanation.  I’ve been trying to video it for weeks, but I never have my camera on me or I’m in class and it would be extremely rude.  The male lizards do push ups, but the female ones do not.  I can only surmise that this is the way male lizards display feats of strengths to the lizard babes.  So you see, it’s not much different than the muscle man cages of Venice or your local Gold’s Gym.  

Another PCT (T is for Trainee) says it reminds him of The Jersey Shore, because they are always doing push ups.  I can see it.  We also just learned that Snookie is pregnant.  Lawd ha’ mercy.

Alright, I must keep the blog short this week.  Have to pack for Kumasi.  Going to learn our sites on Wednesday!  Much love to the US of A!

Weighing In

Ghanaian babies are darn cute.  Heads a bobbin’ on their mommies’ backs, eyes big when they spot an oboruni, and feet danglin’ as they are weighed in.

Cute baby

Everyone that knows me is aware of my love of sweet lil babies.  Man, are they cute here.  And in abundance.  Babies everywhere – especially at the monthly “baby weighing day” at Tafo’s hospital.  Clothed in their Sunday best, mother and child (and only one dad, sadly) traipse into the city to weigh in, consult with the nurses, receive immunizations, and learn about various aspects of health, particularly breastfeeding. 

There were 40 to 50 babies, ranging from six weeks to five-years-old, and I fell in love with them all.  Most of them were so well-natured – very little crying, kicking and screaming.  The other funny thing – moms don’t mind if you hold their babies.  They sort of just trust you to hold him properly and not drop him or her on his lil head. 

Baby Weighing

I think it’s because pretty much everyone handles babies here from an early age.  In any case, hanging around Ghanaian families has made me realize how protective Americans are of their families.  We shield are children from the slightest danger and would never trust a stranger (and maybe some people we know) with our children.  Not a stone in their paths.

Of course, seeing my little brother run around with grandpa’s enema device might be a bit unclean and the toddler I saw wielding a machete should probably stick to My Lil’ Pony. I think we have a little to learn from each other. 

Back to my little brother, Kwaku, pronounced “Kwelku.”  This little guy is so darn cute.  He’s one and a half and talks like he’s a forty-year-old preacher.  Well, except he doesn’t really “talk” as much as he makes hilarious imitations of people talking.  People come buy and talk to him all the time.  You can see even the most serious Ghanaian (they exist, sort of) melt to pieces when they do. 

Oh man, I can hear the song the “Yum com kwaw” (not actual name) song on the radio and I know that little guy is dancing his little head off.  Such a cutie.  I won’t go outside though because I owe you folks a blog.  I take my commitment to your reading pleasure seriously.

And now the DJ is singing over the song.  This happens a lot.  Like, every song.  I prefer this to the other Ghanaian radio phenomena I’ve heard though, which I’ve just dubbed the “talk and play.” 

It’s exactly like it sounds.  They play the music for three to five seconds, then talk, play the music again in a similar time increment, continue their sentence, then play again.  This will go on for hours.  Usually, they increase the time they play the song and the time they talk so it’s not as spastic.  I don’t know which is worse.  Knowing your song will be cut off or the false comfort created by playing the song for a minute.

I’ve asked why they do this, and no Ghanaian has been able to tell me.  An American posed that they are using the time to think of what they want to say next.  Could be.  Likely just a difference in style though.  Those DJs sound like they think they’re sooooo cool when they bust a talk and play.

Alright, my followers of blog.  I’m off to sleep in the comfort of my mosquito net.  Yes, you caught me.  I don’t just blurt these out whilst being timed at an internet café.  I blurt these out whilst half asleep after a full day of language class, technical training, and greeting every person I pass.  

We have our language text next Monday, so I won't be travelling to the internet next week, then we're off for more intensive technical training in the Northern Region.  Not sure when I'll be on next.  Don't miss me too much!

Honor Killings, The Rooster Edition

I'm on a roll, folks!  Next Sunday, we're visiting Boti Falls so I'm getting a jump on the blogging.  Try not to overindulge.  

It’s difficult to explain, but somehow, you get used to seeing people wielding machetes.  Dawn to sunset, machetes all around!  How else does one hack plantains, bananas, and the like from a tree whilst in Africa?  I have no other ideas.  I will say though, the first time I saw a man with a machete, it scared the crap out of me.

But things are different here.  It’s normal to kill your dinner.  I tried to block this thought until my “maame” (fantastic home stay mother) brought about the hilarious image of her slaughtering a chicken to defend my honor.  I was sitting outside, eating my dinner as per usual, and a jerky chicken came by and knocked over my bowl of (ahem) chicken.  Without flinching, maame looks at me and says, “I kill him and make for you.”  I’m pretty sure I had that little jerk in my jalof (rice dish) last night.  He was a little tough, but revenge tasted sweet.

For those of you who think I’m being gross or extreme, my apologies.  I’ve become desensitized as a result of the horrific noises that come from the animals all around me.  It’s mainly the roosters.  And the goats. 

The lizards are chill and, quite honestly, the hens don’t really bother me much.  Crickets?  Chirp away!  But the roosters!  And the goats!  These animals make each noise like it will be their last.  Oh well, at least the baby goats are friggin cute.  (see below)

This will be a nice time to segway into what I learned about Ghanaian funerals a few days ago, but all of the sentences I’ve managed to scrawl out have been, well, a bit morbid.  So let’s just say I’d like to share some interesting information that I learned about Ghanaian burial customs.  Our language instructor always sends us home with questions to ask our families and they always lead to some interesting tidbits.

When you bury a chief in most villages, you cannot speak of his death for weeks!  If you do, there are severe penalties.  I heard death, but with the declining influence of the chief and his elders to carry out sentences, I’m pretty sure this is no longer true.  He is also buried inside of his house.  Brings new meaning to the phrase “home is where the heart is.”  Anyone?  Anyone?  No?  OK.

Internet time is a runnin’ low -- I must bid farewell.  I’ll do my best to update weekly (except next week), but unlikely to have any more internet access than that.  Training is getting intense and we have little free time. 

And since you were wondering, I don’t really NEED anything, but WANTS are a poppin’ up.  Coffee ground for a French press, baby wipes, chocolate (in some less melty form) and Cliff bars would be great.  It’s only been a couple of weeks though and I’m adjusting nicely.  Not required to keep reading my blog…


Talk to you all in a couple weeks!

Wash away!

Greetings from Ghana!  I’m in a town outside of my training site called Koforidua (sp?) getting my interwebs on.  This Vodafone shop has air conditioning and a flush toilet! It feels so good. 

I’m just going to come out and say it – I’m the dancing oboruni (white person) about town.  It all started when I was learning to cook Ghanaian style and my home stay aunts, grandma, and mama started with the moves. 

“Wash away, wash away” as they simulated a scrubbing motion and threw one hand up to a sound I can only describe as “nooint.”  I think that’s the sound of throwing out the water, but I digress.  I started doing it with them, learned a few more moves, and now whenever they take me anywhere, they have me perform my “azonto dance” for their friends.  It usually ends in howling laughter, but I’m just going to take it as a compliment.  Besides, grandma LOVED when I did the robot and the running man has now become “run away, run away, noint.” 

Speaking of wash away – cleaning anything here is a lot more work.  Hand washing laundry is not for the weak of forearm.  And boy, do Ghanaians scrub!  I’m just going to try to hide from my mom when I wash clothes so she’ll stop telling me “scrub harder!”  My American clothes are used to pampering…sorry, ma.

I also carriedwater on my head for about the length of two football fields on grounds much more rickety.  I didn’t spill.  Two times.  Imagine that.  One trip is the amount of water I use for my two daily bucket baths.  Usually my “sister” or the “small boys and girls” fetch the water, as they are much more skilled, but I need the practice for later.  I will never take a shower and/or running water for granted again.  Ever. 

These adjustments are but a small price to pay to live here in Ghana, and specifically among the people of Anyinasin.  They have been so friendly and welcoming and are providing a nice transition to our lives at site.

Though much of our training still focuses on the culture, we are now beginning to learn a little about our projects and the Peace Corps approach.  I have no idea where I will go (it will be Twi-speaking!) but I know that I will do my best to help the wonderful people of Ghana.  For now, I will continue to practice Twi and work to integrate here in the Eastern region.  Even if it means dancing like a fool.

Don't say No No to the Tro Tro

We’ve been in Ghana for a week now and it’s been amazing.  Exhausting and overwhelming, sure -- but mainly amazing.  We’re currently in a location a few hours northeast of Accra and in the first official week of training.

For me, each day feels like a week – it’s hard to believe that I can learn Twi, nuances about the Ghanaian culture and safety and security; receive vaccinations until my arms is about to fall off;  AND get to know a group of kind, energetic, talented and diverse individuals.  There is so much to learn and I am doing my best to embrace knowledge with open arms. 

Last week, we had “Accra Quest” where we ventured into the capital armed with 10 cedis, minimal Twi, and a few of our counterparts to locate various sites around the city.  We were prepared via a mini tour on our first day, a map, and a hilarious skit introduction to life on a tro, which was our mode of transportation to and from our current location.  Please google “tro.”  I have no idea what will come up, but it’s bound to be ridiculous.  At least, that was our experience.  More on this later.

My group (Heather and Sheila!) waited at the main road and quickly found a tro to Madina, then Madina to Accra.  Sure, we were squeezed together and the man in the front seat to Madina was blaring what sounded like a football announcer yelling for a goal, but we made it to Accra in a little over an hour with no issues. 

“Close your fly!”  A taxi driver yelled from a distance about my sweat-soaked pants.  Thanks, extremely straightforward Ghanaian man.  If not for you, I’d likely have walked around Accra as the obruni (white person) with her fly down.  So far, bluntness is my favorite quality of Ghanaians.  Once someone calls me “fat,” which apparently means “healthy,” I may think differently. 

On with the quest – first came the National Theatre.  We walked across the street and were confronted by two “guards” sitting under a tree talking to a man.  They lightly interrogated our purpose at the theatre and told us we can walk around. 

We asked the standing man to take our photo and he obliged, making sure we took several angles of the three of us smiling.  When done, he asked for money for food and I handed him 10 pesewa.  Ten pesewa is enough to buy a small bag of water (yes, bag) and he made it known.  “I can’t get any food with this!”  We said we had no more money and went on our way.  Lesson learned.

On to our way to the next sites, Independence Square and the Accra stadium, we walked through a tro station and were quickly engrossed by the smell of raw sewage.  As health and water sanitation water workers, we were exposed to one of the main sanitation issues in Ghana.  We made our way through the station and were offered various items for purchase – water, mentos, fried dough, smoked fish, etc.  It was tough to feel hungry amidst the smell.   Besides, we were on a mission.

The stadium is impressive, as is Independence Square, which serves as a reminder of when Ghana achieved independence from the UK in 1957.  There wasn’t much traffic for a Saturday, and we quickly took a picture, asked where the presidential castle was located, and hopped into a tro back to the station.  We then caught a tro to Madina after a little confusion and were on our way. 

Things were almost moving too smoothly.  It looked like we were going to be back early.  Of course, this couldn’t last for long.  Our tro made a detour and dropped us off in the middle of the city of Madina, not the station.  We asked to go there and they told us that we needed to get off in the city.  Uh oh.

Pardon my language, but hoooly shit.  Madina was much more bustling than the part of Accra where we ventured.  There were people hawking goods everywhere, tons of traffic, and more consecutive honking than I’ve ever heard in my life.  People were busy and we were confused. 

I’ll spare you many of the details, but it took about an hour just to get out of the city and to the station, which was no more than half a kilometer away.  We all kept our cool, asked for directions, and shared a laugh when we realized that people with whom we never spoke knew which tro we were trying to catch.  Overall, the people were helpful and friendly. 

We did receive directions from a girl that led us the wrong way down a road where we encountered a Ghanaian street shouting match.  Man vs. parking attendant.  Been there, done that, but not with quite as much fervor nor with an audience.  Oh yeah, and the attendant could only cite me through a ticket, not by placing tire damaging spikes in front of the car.  With a line full of traffic, the violator couldn’t back up nor could he go forward.  Best just to pay the fine, buddy.  Just not without a fight.

We eventually made it back via a couple of tros and a some friendly Ghanaians.  Turns out, there was no rush.  We were still among the first few groups back.  We agreed that though it threw a wrench in our intended course, we learned a great deal on the detour that will serve us well in the future.  We also impressed ourselves by staying cool-headed – not an easy thing to do in the hot Ghanaian sun.

That’s all for now, folks!  I have many more stories to tell, but little time to tell them.  I will keep you updated as much as possible.  In the meantime, feel free to send me letters (or packages, hehe) to the following address:

Alisa Langford, PCT

Peace Corps
PO Box 5796
Accra-North, Ghana
West Africa

Much love to you all!

Airport Greetings

Greetings from the Newark Airport!  We've all managed to limit our luggage to about 80 lbs of crap and are waiting for our trip to Ghana. 

As many of you know, I've struggled with what to name my blog for some time. I settled on Ghana with the Wind a couple of weeks ago thanks to my wordsmith friend, Brian.  (Hey, thanks)  Turns out, it's not available as an IP address, so it's <insert name here> in Ghana.  Clever girl.

Admittedly, I've been procrastinating beginning the writing process, because it often feels like there is nothing worse.  Four hours in Newark Airport (with more than two to go!) -- yeah, there is worse. 

While many played games on the floor, a few of us sat and drank.  At an airport bar.  For three hours.  We viewed the modeling photos of one of the servers, spoke much of "hatereade" and got to know each other a bit better.  It was great to find someone else who hates ketchup, except on the occasional burger.  Candied tomatoes?  Bleh.

I can't wait to get to Ghana.  I know that this will be the journey of a lifetime and am excited to learn about the culture, speak Twi, and work with the people.*  I'm happy with my decision to join the Peace Corps -- it's nice to feel this resolved and content.  I'm trying not to set too many expectations about what Ghana will be like, but everything I've seen suggests that this will be an amazing place filled with wonderful people.

To my family and friends -- I love you dearly and will connect with you as soon as I am able when I arrive in Ghana.  It may be a few days though.  Please hang tight. 

Much love,

Alisa

*I plan to embrace the Oxford comma