HARD CORPS

On Saturday Awine was complaining about our little puppy. “He won’t eat! I bring him food every day but he just won’t eat. Every dog I have grows big and strong, but this one, no.” It was true that the dog always seemed to have a full dish of leftover whatever we had, and was still just as tiny as my first day here. Also, this dog has that dangerous type of curiosity that I usually associate with cats. When something moves near him, he must get as close to it as possible. That means when I am pulling my bike off the porch, I have to lift it because he just waits under the tires. I have to be careful when I walk near him because he just crawls toward my feet and tries to get under them. One time he wouldn’t take his head away from the door that Awine was trying to close and Awine yelled at the dog in frustration, “You will die! You will just die!” I don’t know why, but the way he said it made me laugh.
Sunday was pretty relaxed. For lunch I went down the street for some plantains, yams and beans. I asked them to give me the pepper (which consists of tomatoes, onion, and chili peppers ground into something very reminiscent of salsa, but not as good) in a separate bag. When I got back I ground up some mango, garlic, and lime with the pepper to make something a little more like a Mexican salsa. Awine tried it and he was very impressed. The simple addition of lime made a world of difference in the whole meal. It really took me back to Mexico/SoCal, since my Seattle diet is unfortunately fairly devoid of the glory of lime. I ate my food out under the mango tree, which I have been trying to do more often lately. I let the neighbor girls try my mango salsa and they were pretty amazed, yet shocked that I would use such ingredients to make pepper.
The woman next door, Vivian, sat under the tree with me and continued to give me compliments in my ability to do as the Romans, so to speak. “My guests from other countries do not know how to eat with their hands,” she said, sounding disappointed. “And they do not eat our mangos! They think it will make them sick.” When she said that, she sounded more offended than anything. I didn’t blame her. To welcome people in to your home, and then have them refuse to eat your food, or fruit, or eat how you do must be discouraging. She also said that people passing by are always surprised to see a white man eating outside, under the mango tree on a concrete block. “We think that white people are private, and always take their food inside.” Yes, I admit, that spending time with her is very self-indulgent, as she is so sweet to me.
After chopping my lunch, I went to town to buy plantains for making fufu. When I got to the market I was pleased to see there was some sort of celebration going on. I followed the sound of the drumming, which was surrounded by a large crowd. I forced my way into viewing distance. There were about eight men pounding on talking drums, and a dozen more playing a stringed instrument made from a calabash, typical instruments of this region. Large, authoritative-looking men and women dressed in beautiful traditional clothing danced around the musicians. People took turns coming up to the dancers to make donations by sticking coins to their faces. Most coins lasted anywhere from 2-10 seconds, pressed against their skin, and when they fell, a small boy would come up to collect them. Eventually I realized that it was some sort of rally for the NDC, the ruling political party as of about 5 weeks ago. Some of the women were dressed traditionally, though the fabric was an NDC pattern, featuring black green and red umbrellas (the logo) and pictures of the new president John Evans Atta Mills. Africa has a fairly awful reputation for the way politics is done, though here in Ghana I have been fairly envious of the spirit of the political parties. I mean, how boring are political rallies in America? The two parties competing for president even had little dances based on their slogans. The dance move for the NPP, the previously ruling party, involved making the Donald Trump “You’re Fired” hand gesture with both hands and represented their campaign slogan, “Moving Forward”. The NDC, who was pushing for “change” did a dance involving spinning your index fingers around each other, to resemble a rolling wheel. I watched for about a half hour, and because there was no sign of a lull in the music any time soon, I knew I had to get a move on.
Back home I cut up vegetables, while Awine fixed my sling-shot. Two of his friends came over, and after I was finished prepping the ingredients for a stew the three of us went bat-hunting, while Awine cooked. All three of us failed for about 20 minutes, but when Awine came out he knocked one out of the tree on his second shot. After it hit the ground it started to fly away, so Awine chased it, grabbed it by the wing and swung it against a wooden fence. Before coming here, I was debating joining the Peace Corps after college, or even Americorps or Jesuit Volunteer Corps. Awine, however, has inspired me to create my own organization called the Hard Corps. It would consist of living simply in third world countries and doing hardcore things like climbing 30 feet up into trees to pick mangos, and skinning bats and drinking sachets of local gin without a chaser. Cooking would involve the three essentials: meat, fire, and plenty of hot peppers in one form or another. I would probably also incorporate large amounts of coconut-obtaining, though that branch of the Hard Corps would have to reside in moister climates than northern Ghana. Upon entrance into the Hard Corps, you would be issued a machete (of appropriate style to your host country) and not much else. Little bottles of Purell and insect repellant would be strictly prohibited.
While we ate our dinner, one of Awine’s friends told me that I act very strange for a white man. I laughed, though was curious what exactly that meant. “Well, you behave very…normal,” he said. “Not like all the other white people that come here. They always act very different.” I was flattered, I guess, but it was still kind of a weird thing to say. I pictured the same exchange happening in America between a white guy and the one black guy he actually knows. “Yeah, but, you’re not like…them…you’re different than the other black people.” In that context it seems very offensive, and I suppose I could have taken offense to what he was saying, implying that he doesn’t really like Americans and Europeans that come here…except for me. I know that the two examples are fairly incongruous, but it is still something to think about, especially as I was kind of glad that he had said what he did.
He also mentioned that he didn’t like the way that Africa is portrayed in the media, which is fair. “People come here and just snap pictures of the bad side of Africa, and just make it seem like we are all poor.” Awine joked with him and said, “you are poor.” He had a good point though. I explained that if there weren’t people here to tell the story of the impoverished, the oppressed, the victims of war, then how would anybody know? How would anybody be able to help? He agreed, but it brought up something that I think many westerners don’t always think about when watching or reading the news: Africans get the news too! Yes, that’s right, the internet is here, as is satellite TV, letting Africans watch all of their problems. Hell, National Geographic, the very symbol of depressing reports on Africa, is not too hard to find here.
When I woke the next morning, something felt different. When I looked outside, sure enough, it WAS different. It seemed a bit darker, and, whoa, are those clouds? Since I have been here, it has been nothing but blue skies or a duller, reddish grey sky due to the amount of Saharan sand in the air. But this was different. I asked the girl next door, Adinam, if it was going to rain. With absolute certainty she said, “No, it won’t rain until April.” I still kept my hopes up, as rain would be quite welcome in this heat.
When I got back home that evening the weather maintained a sinister-looking tone. I helped Awine cook dinner. We made light soup, and then we pounded yam/plantain fufu. I am getting better at it. As it started to get dark, I saw lightning pretty far in the distance. Awine assured me, however, that it would not rain. To me it really felt like it was about to rain, but I figured I better trust the locals. Especially when people here have a sixth sense about weather since it actually affects their livelihood much more than in America.
After dinner, we went on another long walk. At this point the winds had picked up and it felt like a mild sandstorm. I was squinting to keep the sand out of my eyes and within a few minutes, I was chewing grit. The sky had the pinkish hue that I associate with cold winter nights when it is about to snow. After ten minutes I felt a drop. I told Awine, but he assured me it was not rain. Well, ten minutes later it WAS raining. Not too hard, but big drops coming almost sideways with the wind. I loved it. It was funny, though, because the streets were now almost empty. Somebody once told me that Ghanaians are more afraid of rain than of cars. When a car is barreling down the road, nobody moves, but when the rain comes, everyone gets inside ASAP. It is funny because I assumed that after a few months of such dry, hot weather, people would be freaking out. I know I was.
Eventually we met Awine’s girlfriend at the regular spot, though she didn’t have a beer, since she was getting over a case of malaria. The bar had a cozy feel since the weather was getting kinda crazy outside. At one point I put my hands up on my head and leaned back. They asked why I was doing that, and I just said I was relaxing. They said that is how people sit when they are mourning. Interesting, I should quit relaxing so freely without understanding the implications. They also told me that whistling at night is something to be avoided, as it attracts the evil spirits. Awine said that one time he was walking down the street whistling at night and heard voices near a flowing water pipe. He didn’t see anybody, so he went to turn off the water. When he walked away, he heard the voices again, and the water started flowing again. He turned the water off three times before giving up. He also said that one time when he was whistling he saw something huge (presumably a spirit) holding down his friend and he couldn’t move. I don’t remember his full account of the story other than that it was pretty terrifying, especially since a red light bulb was giving a big red glint in his eye. Definitely creeped me out.
On the way back home we passed two women and one of them called out to us in Dagbani. Awine stopped and we went to talk to them. They were probably in their late twenties, and apparently one of them was propositioning me for marriage. She was very thin and looked like Ducky from Land Before Time. I think this was my fourth such offer. Awine translated for us, and when she asked if I was married, I told her I had three wives. She said that white men don’t take more than one wife. “Well, you’ve never been to Utah,” I said…I didn’t really, as I knew the joke would be lost.
By the time we got home the rain was coming a bit harder and the thunder was moving closer.