big black boogers

On Monday morning this week I was on my way to work when I realized I had not tried the tea that I see women selling about every 50 meters on the side of the road. I hadn’t eaten any sort of breakfast my first week of work, mostly because I just don’t want to bother with it, but also to save money. But I figured this morning would be a good time to start with some tea and bread.
I pulled up to a table and asked for some tea and bread and waited. The middle-aged frail woman served me a large chunk of a fluffy white baguette (though not firm on the outside) and a very large plastic mug of tea, heavily treated with milk and sugar. I cannot describe to you the sensation of the first sip (though of course I’m gonna try). I was back in India for just a moment. Now, I cannot easily explain why this is. It was made from bagged tea, I don’t think there were any chai-like spices, and being served in large plastic instead of tiny terracotta, it was really very little like Indian tea. It may have been the milk that was used, or simply the environment in which I was consuming it. A slightly bustling street, a decrepit wooden bench, filthy air that results in big black boogers at the end of the day, a baked good to soak up the hot liquid, and curious children. That could have had something to do with it. The $.80 price tag, however, was nothing like India, and this may have to be just a once-in-a-while morning treat.
At work that day I hoped to find out that I would be heading into the field with either the Micro-credit project or the maternal health and child survival project for a few days. Both project leaders had told me they might be spending some time in the field that week, but weren’t sure. Well, unfortunately the trip for the micro-credit project was postponed, so now I was counting on the other project.
I had a few meetings that day with various project managers to talk about how I can serve their journalistic needs while I am here. Unfortunately it was sounding more and more like there would not be any trips into the field soon, leaving me feeling very useless.
Every day during lunch I go with the same group of guys to the same woman who serves us fried yams, plantains, beans, salsa (made from the local peppers, tomatoes and onions), and ground peanuts. There is a child, maybe 2 or 3 years old, who is always there, and every time he sees me he freaks out, starts crying and screaming, and runs away, continuing his screaming until he is out of earshot. Ya know, he should learn that we were able to reconcile our racial differences in America, and there is no reason he shouldn’t be able to in Africa. I mean, come on, get with the times kid.
The next day at work I was given a sweet new office project. The team that deals with water and sanitation recently had their staff cut, as well as other setbacks. They were supposed to put out a newsletter about the progress of their new project by November, but it still wasn’t done. Plus the format of their previous newsletter was not correct according to the NGO’s standards. My task was to create the newsletter. So that was what I spent most of Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday doing. Reading over tons of project reports and some of the material they had started to write for the newsletter, and working them into articles that would fit the proper newsletter format. It was less than exciting, but it got done. And I guess I can say that I freed up their time so that the Water and Sanitation team could focus their efforts on the very important meeting with Unicef today. Yea!
Oh, and Tuesday was inauguration day! Yay! I spent a lot of my spare time at work reading news articles about Obama and what he was working on, so I was pretty excited. However, I was less than excited about the extravagant funding of the whole thing. I am just as excited as anyone for this, but I would have appreciated him to set an example of being a bit more…say, frugal? Does that work? I mean, it’s great that he said, “go spend MLK day doing something to serve your community”, but the next day he spent $150 million in public and private money on a party for himself. Though I am excited about his quick work toward closing Guantanamo, getting presidential records public, and making some quick foreign phone calls.
At about 4:00 PM Ghana time, when some of the official inauguration business was going to start, I tried getting onto CNN.com to watch live, but of course, the internet was down again. So I started asking around and one of my co-workers Zita said her sister-in-law might be watching it at her place. After a quick phone call, I was on the back of Zita’s motorbike speeding toward where she lived with her brother and his wife. I got there just in time to see Cheney in a wheelchair and Biden get sworn in.
I thought Obama’s speech was not the best one he had ever given, but still pretty inspiring. I am glad that so many people (like my family!), voted Republican, but can still be optimistic about Obama. I was really disgusted, though, with some of the stuff I read on certain news sites in response to articles about the inauguration. A lot of it really showed that our nation still has a long way to go regarding the issue of race. I explained that to Zita and her sister. They seemed to be under the impression that Obama’s election was a sign that America’s race problems had been solved and were surprised when I explained otherwise.
I was kind of lonely for the first time that day though, kinda wishing I could enjoy the festivities back home, but I knew that it was also kind of exciting that I was watching it from so far away. One of the guys that I work with, Simon, asked me if people in America understand how much the rest of the world, especially Africa, looks up to America. I wasn’t really sure how to answer that. I am learning that in Africa America is like a big brother. I explained that I think that Americans know that, but don’t really understand the implications of it. Like, when we act, I don’t think that Americans realize that a nation like Ghana might follow in our lead. I feel kind of like Charles Barkley when he was criticized for his behavior. He said something to the effect of “I am not a role model, I don’t think your kids should be looking up to me”. Well, to bad Charles, you’re a basketball star, so you better set a good example. Does this make any sense? Any thoughts loyal blog-readers? Anyway, on the way back home that day I passed some kids, and instead of yelling out “hello” like most kids up here do, they yelled “China!”. Just like they did to my Korean predecessor Josh Lee! Haha, I called back “Ghana!” just as Josh had done a year ago.
That night I celebrated by going to the spot next door (the one with the guy that speaks Spanish with his dreadlocked wife, Akos) and having a beer. Akos asked if I voted for Obama and I said yes (yeah, even though my absentee ballot never arrived), and she looked surprised. “But you’re white!” she said. Instead of arguing about my partial Mexican heritage, making me kinda brownish, I explained that plenty of white people had to have voted for Obama or he couldn’t have won.
So on Wednesday the guys wanted to do something different for lunch and they were really excited about it. They had asked me a couple days before if I “take” pork. Psh! Yeah I take pork! So that day we were off on a short drive down a few dirt roads to this obscure spot where an elderly woman sat with a large bin filled with chunks of pork. When I looked in I saw one of the pieces had the curly tail sticking out. Another had an ear. And the most tempting piece had a full row of teeth and a tender looking tongue. It is really kind of funny to think how in America all the meet we eat is so…unidentifiable as an animal. I mean, think of a hot dog or a hamburger, quintessential American foods. What part of which animal do those come from? All parts of several animals if you do well! Haha! We picked out a bunch of pieces, and the woman took a big knife to them, chopping them up, taking some of the bones when possible. I knew this was a special treat in this predominantly Muslim city. The guys said that we had to get there early to get the good pieces (not a soul was there when we left at 12:30) and that by 1:30 it is all gone.
We took the pork back to the office where we had some kenke (remember that tamale-like food) to eat with the pork. And the sauce served with the kenke was much better than the previous time, and I really liked it. The kenke was better too. And so we all tucked into our big back of pork and our communal lumps of kenke and sauce. The pork meat was really good, though the skin was impossibly tough to chew. Plus, if you remember the line I drew about eating meat that still has visible hair on, well, yeah, I crossed that line. The pieces with skin (most of them) had an extremely rough quarter-inch stubble like toothbrush bristles. Mmmm! Dipped in the salsa, the good pieces of meat were great though.
After work I rode my bike in to town for a couple of missions. The first was oranges. Check. Didn’t take long. The second was to find some good music. After looking at a few stalls and a bit of bargaining, I got a couple of Nigerian Video CD’s. Then the last errand was to get a local newspaper with Obama taking up the entire front page. At the newsstand a couple of the guys and a girl seemed to be laughing at me. One of the guys rubbed his smooth chin and pointed at me. “What, my beard?” I asked. “Yes, yes! You look like Osama bin Laden” they laughed. I laughed too, and realized that I hadn’t noticed that having a beard here probably means you’re Muslim, as so many men have beards here. In fact, I remember one person asking if I was Muslim for what I thought was no particular reason. I asked them, and they assured me that a beard means you’re Muslim. I was like, whatever. Jeez, in two days I was mistaken for being Chinese AND the leader of a terrorist organization.
So, today I finished that newsletter, finally, along with a couple of smaller tasks, and got out of work a bit earlier than normal. I headed in to town on a new mission. CHEESE! Now, when I am abroad I have learned to steer clear of any kind of western food or imported specialties (as a means of saving money and forcing myself to dig deeper into local culinary culture). But what does one do when they crave cheese and has seen nothing but some weird Bluebell imported Cheese Spread? Well, I am a problem-solver like that.
I had noticed on more than one occasion that there are cows here. This happened once when a heard walked right past me at an outdoor spot, and another time when I almost crashed into one on my bike. Cows, I remembered, made milk. And if I am not mistaken (I have been to the Seattle Cheese Festival every year it has existed so I know a bit) cheese is made from milk. Therefore, there is a good chance they know this in Ghana and have in some way or another harnessed the God-given powers of the cow for things other than steak and roadblocks. I asked a couple people at work, but they couldn’t really think of anything. Then on my way out I asked Ramatu, one of the head peeps, and she said to go to one of the grocery stores in town by the traffic light. No, no, no, that wouldn’t work, I would just find that imported junk. I asked if there was anything Ghanaian made, that might be at the market. She thought a minute, and said, Oh, wagashee. Yeah, you can find it by such and such, girls might be selling it there.
Well, when I got in to town, of course I could not really find any girls selling any sort of cheese-like substance, nor could I really remember the name. Washeeba? Yeah, that sounded right. I asked a guy who sold me a bootleg CD where I might find any sort of cheese (he didn’t understand that), you know, like…washeeba?…umm, medicine?…no, cheese…wabeesha?…His friend seemed to know, and pointed me toward the small grocery store right next to us. At least they would speak better English, I thought. I went through the same thing with a young employee, showing her the Bluebell spread, saying, “yes, like this, but made in Ghana, cheese…washeeba?” She didn’t seem to know, but she seemed to know what I was looking for. She asked someone, and sure enough, they knew, “ahh! Wagashee!” They pointed in a general direction and that’s all I needed.
Wagashee, wagashee, wagashee, I kept repeating in my head. I stopped on the way and grabbed some kelewele, plantains fried and marinated with ginger and other spices. Then I just kept asking people, wagashee? And they would point. Eventually I was in the local marketplace being pointed down narrow walkways until I was pointed back the opposite way. I was so close!
Then I saw it. Not what I expected, but I knew I was there. I asked the large middle-aged woman, “wagashee?”. Oh yeah, it was fried! And soft. I had had something very similar in Nicaragua. It was not exactly what I had been craving, but $.50 of it turned out to be a pretty satisfying little snack. Plus the thrill of the hunt was just as much fun. I wandered around the market for a while longer, and eventually stumbled (quite literally) across something else I was trying to find. Obstructing the aisle was a huge pile of rubber scraps, seemingly from used tires. There was about ten men working diligently, the fruits of their labor out of sight. I knew I needed to investigate though. I was right! They were making “Afro-Moses” the rugged and cheap sandals made from used tires. One of the men said he would custom-make a pair for me, but the price of $5 was a bit steep for me. I offered him $3, and surprisingly he declined, and let me walk away. Oh well, I will be back for them. They looked really rad, though due to their weight they do not look like they would be ideal if I ever needed to run to catch a bus or evade cops.