After finishing the trip with the visiting Americans, I had a busy night preparing to leave again the next morning. First, I had to catch up on e-mail, as I had not been able to use the internet for about 4 days. Then that night I had to do a write-up discussing all that happened on the trip (not in blog form unfortunately), then pack for departure the next morning, and was still able to make time to get a beer with Liz at Pat’s place.
The next morning I got a ride to the Upper West Region to join some people at work that were in the middle of supervising a series of workshops and cleanups in various communities. The first day was basically just travel, as it is quite a long way.
Thursday morning we went to the first community to check out their clean up project that was going on. Basically it was to stimulate the practice of keeping their community clean, and a local private waste management company had been hired. Unfortunately, though, the most advanced waste removal technology is fire. So community members and workers from the waste management company swept up accumulating yard waste and plastic garbage and lit the piles on fire. Yes, it didn’t seem environmentally friendly at all, but hopefully it would help people take more pride in the aesthetic appeal of their communities, so that when there eventually is proper waste removal, it will be used effectively.
We went to the next community where they had already finished their cleanup, and were now beginning a workshop in basic sanitation. There were about a hundred people gathered under a mango tree when we arrived, and were involved in games to teach them about stuff that we take for granted. Like, wash your hands after using the bathroom, or don’t poop in the open near your water. I got a really nice photo of the guy running the workshop in the local language holding up a drawing of a little boy making bears. At the end of the workshop there was loads of pito to drink, and they brought me a big calabash of the local millet brew.
I generally really like the people I work with, but during this trip some of them have really been frustrating me. I think in my discussion of the visiting Americans I may have implied that they complained a lot, and I may have associated that with being spoiled westerners. Well, I am quickly learning that the people I work with do quite a bit of complaining, particularly the drivers. They complain about the service at our guesthouse (“Hey, the woman has not brought us water yet?!), other drivers (constantly), the “foolish” villagers that come in to town on their bikes and get in everyone’s way (I just hope that when we go to the villages they complain about the foolish city folk that come careening through blaring their horn at every pedestrian, biker, and animal on the road), the consistency of the fufu (dude, it’s fufu, get over it!), and the deaf (“the blind are very good people, but the deaf and dumb, they are so troublesome!”). A lot of their complaining, and hyper-critical attitudes toward, well, everyone else, seems to come from this sense of superiority that comes with an education and a relatively good job in such an underprivileged area. Although it hasn’t been said directly, much of what I hear wreaks of the “get a job” type of sympathy of toward the poor. Things that I see people doing in the city, that I see them doing out of difficult circumstance, the drivers seem to criticize as being foolish. I also think driving the SUV everywhere doesn’t help their attitude. If an SUV makes people feel that much more superior in America, imagine what it does to someone’s ego in a country like Ghana. But if I am so critical of their criticisms, am I just being hypocritical?
The next morning we drove to a community that I had been to before, which had a farming area set up for the local blind. This day we were in a big truck (all the SUVs were already in use) and on the way into the community we stopped at a fork and were unsure which way to go. Just then an old blind woman was waving to us, and started hobbling toward us as fast as she could. We figured she would direct us to where they were holding their workshop, but when she got to us, she started to climb into the back of the truck. The driver got out and started to yell at her, telling her she couldn’t ride with us. She didn’t speak English, and he didn’t speak her language, but she got the message. We continued left (the direction she was going) and drove a quarter mile, arriving at the farming community, which was not where we meant to be. I felt bad for the woman as we passed her on the way back. I know it is our policy not to pick up people, and I think it is a very valid policy, but come on, she’s blind and like 80, and nobody else was around.
We eventually got to the area of the community where they were having a workshop. Again, it finished with a mass distribution of pito. Some of the women came up to me and asked if we could take them somewhere on our way out. I spoke through an interpreter and told them we couldn’t. Predictably, though, several women tried to climb in before we were left, leading to our driver to get out and yell again. This was an example of when this policy is just fine. We can’t turn into a taxi service, especially when an entire community is watching.
That night we went to the local radio station to be guests on a show. I didn’t really do much. Basically the whole thing was in the local language and was to inform the people of what the project was all about. There were a few people that called in, and even a couple from the communities which we had worked int. Just being in the studio was a cool experience.
My schedule is getting increasingly busy, and every night after a long day in the field, I am going back to the guesthouse to work on photos, and write-ups for newsletters. This is because I had a solid four weeks in the office where I was unable to do almost any work. Now it is all being dumped on me in my last three weeks here.
On Saturday we went to our last community, which was by far the largest of those participating in this project. We arrived at about 8:30 and a small handful of community members were helping with the cleaning. I wrote about this community’s shortcomings in tree planting project during a previous visit. Apparently, we learned, this has something to do with a recent chieftaincy dispute causing violence and division in the community. One of the guys I am working with worried that this would make us unable to carry out the workshop. The participation in the cleanup was already pretty meager.
At the beginning of the workshop there were about 25 in attendance, mostly men. A lot of this had to do with a nearby funeral, which the women were preparing for, but undoubtedly due to the conflict as well. Throughout the meeting though, women brought out the pito to be enjoyed after the meeting. The meetings, including the pito, are funded by the NGO. Therefore, as 300 pots of the drink were accumulated by the end of the meeting, the attendance easily tripled. Most of the people that had come late did not seem to be paying attention to the discussion and were just waiting for their free drink. As the meeting ended, women started to pass out calabashes and the pito was poured. The huge volume of the drink led to immediate hoarding, and I saw one young guy who had come during the last ten minutes of the meeting to talk with his friends guarding six pots of pito. A middle-aged woman nearby had poured probably 8 pots into a bucket and was on her way out, when one of the local partners stopped her and told her to put some back. He did the same with the young guy. There was a lot of yelling in the local language, and it was sad to see it come to this. I was just glad that there was not an all-out brawl over millet beer. I mean, come on people, it’s millet beer.
We got back to our guesthouse fairly early that day, around 2:00, which I was very glad about. It was the last day of this project and these guys would be going home the next day. I, however, would be staying to join up with the micro-finance group that was also in the area. I had been told that the next day, Sunday, would not involve me, which I was very grateful for, as I had a lot of stuff to work on, not to mention laundry, and a few minutes of relaxing. Saturday would be my 13th day in a row working. I could have done laundry with my free afternoon, but I decided that I had not seen the town of Wa, that I had now spent about 8 nights in. It was market day as well. So I just went for a walk through the market, which was super dirty and chaotic, just the way I like it, and they actually had, in my opinion, cooler stuff than Tamale. I bought a sweet hand-made clay bowl for $.20 and also spent some time bartering over some cloth. It took a lot of searching and a few rounds of bargaining, but I got three yards of some awesome blue batik cloth (supposedly imported from Mali) for about $6. When I get back to Tamale I am getting it made into some pants, and hopefully a matching hat if there’s enough fabric.
That evening I saw my first weather report. I never watch TV, but when we are at this guesthouse, there are a couple channels, and the guys were watching. The Americans that had visited had complained incessantly about the heat, which I still find pretty extreme, but have come to terms with. The local temperature in Wa was 35C (102F right?) and 37C (106F right?) in Tamale. Dang! I had no idea it was that hot. I figured it was mid 90’s at most! I think I might do ok in Phoenix this summer after all.
On Saturday I headed out with Lizzy, who is in charge of the micro-finance projects, and all four drivers to the border of Burkina Faso. We were there to pick up a group of people who were visiting the NGO’s projects in Burkina and Ghana. This trip has been somewhat of a thorn in my side since I started my internship. My first task was to create a briefing book for the group coming that explained stuff about the projects, what they would be doing, who they would meet along the way, as well as a perpetually changing itinerary. The visit was always referred to as the Bishops visit, or something to that effect. I always thought that meant that the trip would be with American Bishops, which I thought would be kind of cool. Better, at least, than the last group of visitors to the NGO. It was a church group from Seattle that had come to visit a community that they had donated money to so they could build a borehole for clean water. I thought it was great that the church was so generous to provide the money to build a borehole for this community, but how necessary was it for ten of them to spend $2,000 or more each to come and see it?
Anyway, before departing, I had looked at the 4 tapes sitting in the car. There was a reggae tape, one called “Best Love Songs” (presumably crappy American music), a Ghanaian Hi-Life tape, and another blatantly crappy American music tape. After we got on our way, Rashid, who was driving this vehicle, started to slip in one of the tapes.
“Wait!” I said, “What is that?”
“Some cools,” he said.
“What?”
“Some cool tunes.”
“No, let me see,” I said, as I popped the tape back out to look at it. Sure enough, it was “Best Love Songs”. I grabbed the reggae tape (I already knew that reggae was Rashid’s favorite music) and popped it in, and we had quite a nice journey from there on. When we got to the border, we were early, and the group coming from Burkina was late. So with the spare time, Rashid and David, another driver, wanted to get their first stamps in their new passports, and I wanted to try my luck, even though I only had a single-entry visa for Ghana. The Ghanaian immigration officials were really friendly, and while they couldn’t really give me an exit stamp and let me back in later, they did offer to hang on to my passport while I tried to cross the Burkina border.
We drove the few hundred yards to the Burkina border, and went in to the immigration office. An elderly German (or maybe Dutch) woman who I had seen going through customs on the Ghana side, speaking English, was now speaking French to the Burkina officials. None of us spoke French, but the two drivers were able to get their stamps without too much confusion. As we got up to leave, the stern official, pointed at me, and, I assume, asked for my passport. We all just kinda motioned and mumbled in English that it was in Ghana…and that we just wanted to cross the border and come right back. He pointed at the bench and spoke angrily in French (my interpretation), “Hey, you stupid Anglophones, I am so angry, and I am yelling, and you will never ever pass this border ever passport you need to sit down and be quiet, while I smoke more cigarettes!”.Pretty much I only heard the word passport. The four of us got nowhere in trying to figure out the situation, and the German lady, who could have helped us out, just ignored our little fiasco, got her stamp and passed on through. I thought this was incredibly rude. Whenever I encountered struggling non-Spanish speakers in Central America and Mexico, I would always help them out if they needed it. It is a duty that comes with speaking another language. Finally, the angry official said in English, “Go! Get passport. Come. Voila!” And simply hearing him say voila in this context was all I needed in my brief trip to Burkina Faso. That satisfied me. In other Burkina news, the biggest film festival in Africa is held every other year in the capital, Ouagadougou, and is coming up next week. French girl Liz wants me to go with her, but I don’t think I will have the time or the proper visa to get back into Ghana.
When the group of Americans arrived, I quickly realized they were not Bishops (the trip was for them to visit some Ghanaian Bishops) but were actually Seminarians from Chicago. As they reached our group of vehicles and they started to load their stuff, I heard the one woman with them call out in a very mom-like fashion, “Ok you guys, make sure you drink a lot of waaaater! It’s gonna be really hot today!” I was thinking, oh, dude, these are all pretty much adults…and of course it’s gonna be hot, we’re in freaking Africa! *Punch* The woman was a representative from the NGO, who, so far as I could see was put in charge to be the babysitter…and photographer for the trip (I thought that was my job, but it’s an assignment I would readily give to her). In the group was one priest, the babysitter, 9 seminarians, including one friar (can someone explain to me what that means other than that he has to wear a heavy black robe with a rope all the time?), and 3 Poles. It was an interesting group, to say the least. They all reminded me of Peeps, but the bunny kind (not the chick kind) because they were all kinda pink and fluffy. Except peeps don’t wear silly hats to hide from the sun, or wear cameras around their necks.
We loaded all of their enormous suitcases and souvenir hats into our vehicles and headed to our first stop, the Paga Slave Camp. This was actually a very interesting, though brief, stop. It was an area where slaves from Mali, Niger, Burkina, Ghana, etc. were kept in transit to the region’s biggest slave market, 200 miles away, and eventually to the coast to be sold to Europeans. There was a group of trees which the slaves would be chained to, a rock that the disobedient slaves would be tortured on, divots dug out of a slab of rock to serve as bowls for the slaves, as well as an “entertainment spot” which would serve as a drumming and dancing spot.
After that we headed back to Tamale to get the group checked in to their guesthouses. On the way I got a call from my sister, which was great since I have not talked to her since I left. She was asking about the violence that had happened in Tamale a few days earlier, and I tried to describe it as discreetly as possible, as I did not know if our visitors had heard. When I got off the phone, the two guys in the back seat inquired about the conversation. I was surprised they had not been told, but I assured them that they would be safe. I could already tell that the group was uneasy about the frequent military checkpoints on the highway, which were always there, not just recently.
As we got the group checked in to the guesthouse (the same one I had stayed in for my first couple of weeks) there were immediate problems. Lizzy was mad because, even though she had made the reservation two weeks in advance for everyone to be on the same floor, they were now all separated. I didn’t see the big deal, but I felt that Lizzy was really trying hard to impress them. Then the woman of the group (previously referred to as the babysitter) came down and said, “there’s no towels in the rooms.” *PUNCH* I was wondering what the hell any of them were even carrying in their huge suitcases if they didn’t have a towel or toilet paper (which the hotel apparently had run out of too). The woman also told every single person about her “hilarious” bathroom situation. “Is your bathroom like this? Mine is so small that I have to step over the toilet to get to the shower.” When she finally got to tell Lizzy, her tone was of complaint, thinly disguised as good humor. Right after this the power went out, and basically that equaled all hell breaking loose. Lizzy was upset, but I told her that when I had stayed here that the power outages, which were very frequent, were never more than thirty minutes at a time. The complaints were generally, few, though I could sense a lot of tension in the air.
We all went to the hotel restaurant to have dinner, assuming that the power would be restored quickly. The dinner was good because I didn’t have to pay for it, plus it was the first western food I had since I had been in Ghana: fried chicken (mediocre) Chinese fried rice (not western, but you know what I mean) and fries with ketchup (which were to effing die for). Some of the guys asked about typical Ghanaian food, which it turned out I was much better at answering than the drivers (I mean, can you describe American food to a foreigner?) I then asked them what the food was like in Burkina. One of them replied “It was pretty much just like this. They seem to eat a lot of fries in Burkina. Must be the French influence.” *PUNCH* One reason that I love Catholics, though, is that they have no qualms about drinking, and most of them were excited to try the local beers. Lizzy was insisting on replacing empty bottles and refilling wine glasses, even though she was not drinking anything. By the time the dinner was over, they had a generator running power to their rooms.
The next morning, Sunday, we met them at the hotel at 6:30…Can I repeat that? 6:30! BAH! Anyway, we found out that the pipes had been shut off during our dinner and still weren’t on in the morning, so nobody had been able to shower. Lizzy was angry, but I doubted that this was much under the control of the guesthouse. At my house, the pipe down the street where we usually get our water has been off for two weeks, and our stash of jugs and buckets is getting quite low. This is just what life in Africa is like sometimes and there’s nothing you can do about it. Also, I heard a couple people complaining that because the hotel was running from a generator, there was not enough power for their air conditioners. My fan in my room has been broken for about a week now, but what can I do? The same thing they can do about their air conditioners: Simply understand that the discomfort will be over, and we will all be able to return to the luxuries we are used to, that most people here never get to experience.
We headed to the local Seminary school to attend mass with the Seminaries. As much as I despised the hour of this mass, it was actually really cool. The music just made it unreal, and so much more enjoyable than the generally dry Catholic mass of America. I have now been to Catholic services in Mexico, Nicaragua, India and Ghana, and I love the fact that it is pretty much the same everywhere (save for the music of course). It is kind of weird, but really cool, to see people of different races, speaking different languages all over the world performing mass in the same way.
After mass we all had breakfast with the Seminarians and Priests, and I could tell that the American group was really enjoying themselves, as they had so much in common with this group of Africans (some were from Mali, Burkina and Kenya). Plus, as most Ghanaians are, they were ridiculously lively, not like you might expect of Seminarians. It was a really great atmosphere.
After that, we took them to a batik shop in town while Lizzy and Rashid frantically tried to find a new accommodation for the group after the fiasco of the night before. We ended up checking them in to a guesthouse that was about double price and then we headed out to Yendi, a town about an hour east of Tamale.
On the way out of town I saw a big black cloud of smoke rising from a neighborhood that looked the same as I had seen from a burning house just 4 days earlier. Everyone had said that things had calmed down, but you never know for sure. I didn’t say anything, as I didn’t want to scare our guests needlessly.
In Yendi we met with the local Bishop, and he was very friendly and informal. In the middle of his discussion with the group, I got a text message from Liz that said, “They are fighting again in Tamale. I almost got shot.” I know her sense of humor and assumed that she was kidding about being shot, but that left wondering if they were really fighting in Tamale. I texted her back, but her response was less than clear as to what was really going on. I figured that I would not be the first to know, so I asked Rashid, and he didn’t know anything.I stepped outside and called Liz, and sure enough, she said that there was some more fighting, and no, she was not almost shot. I found out later that during the funeral procession for the man who had been killed in the previous bit of political violence there were gunshots. Somebody was shooting at the family of the man who had been killed. Luckily, nobody was killed, but it still resulted in house burnings. I haven’t heard for sure how many. At first somebody told me two, but later I was told that it was actually seven.
After lunch with the Bishop, we went to a micro-finance community nearby. The 40 or so women involved were having their monthly (or weekly?) meeting to deposit funds into the communal cash box, report earnings, etc. Part of their meetings include some singing and a bit of dancing which was fun to see, and the visiting group really got into it. Although the group was predominantly Muslim, they asked the Priest with us to pray for them. He got up and said a prayer and then we left.
The next day we went back up north to Bolgatanga to visit a support group for people living with HIV. The group meets once a month, and they were supposed to meet on the 28, but they changed their meeting time so that our group could see the meeting. I figured it was good for the group to see the meeting, but I felt bad because the change in meeting days had caused a lot of the people to be unable to attend the meeting. The meeting opened with singing and dancing, and then we had a question and answer session. Before we had gone in there were a lot of issues about asking questions and photo-taking. The American rep. from the NGO reminded us of the no picture policy regarding people living with HIV(which apparently I was exempt from). I could understand that the people there might not feel comfortable with ten foreigners coming to visit for thirty minutes to snap a bunch of pictures of them, but at the same time, they talk so much about the stigmatization they face, I felt that treating them differently and saying no pictures just alienates them even more. I have noticed that on the NGO’s website, they never include photos of the people with HIV when they have an article about them. I know they are trying to protect them (their community might find out who they are) but I feel that it will do nothing to help the stigmatization. Also, she felt that the people in the meeting would not be comfortable answering questions about their condition. The people that worked with them assured us that they would be open. I figured that was the great part about getting a couple hundred people with HIV together to form a support group. They were no longer forced to be ashamed about their condition and they could discuss their stories freely. Some of the questions were really great and the answers were equally interesting. One person asked how their faith played a role in their condition. One Muslim woman stood up and said that when she found out about the condition she wanted to commit suicide. She had lost hope, and one night she had a dream and her late husband was there. He asked why she had stopped doing her midnight prayers. She tried to hold him, but he disappeared. After the dream, she started doing her midnight prayers and it gave her the strength to keep living.
After that there was some drumming and dancing. Women would take turns coming up to the front of the meeting hall, where the visiting group were sitting in a semi-circle, and do a crazily energetic dance. Eventually one of them grabbed one of the seminarians, and he hopped up, looking nervous at first, but quickly lost all inhibitions and did a very impressive crazy white boy dance, that led to deafening shouting and laughter from everyone. Different women came up and pulled up a couple more of the seminarians for a dance. It was all really fun to watch, and the seminarians were quick to have a good time and really…cut loose…footloose.
We left the meeting soon after and headed to the local crafts market. It felt a bit like New Market in India the way that so many people were there to jump on foreigners and force them into their shop. One guy, whose shop was the first one on the left side of the strip of shops, actually convinced one of the seminarians to leave a different shop and come into his by saying, “excuse me, sir, the first shop is over here. You have to come to this shop first, ok?” He followed obediently. I kept my distance, but I also wanted to help these guys get better deals (to serve my own bartering pleasures) as the prices they were being quoted were ridiculously inflated. I helped one guy get a drum for less than half the initial price, and somebody else get a mancala board for even cheaper.
That night we had dinner dinner with the Bishop and several local priests. Throughout the course of the meal, several of them gave some very inspiring little speeches. I sat next to the NGO’s rep. during the meal and talked to her about other places she has taken groups to visit projects. Nigeria, Madagascar twice, Rwanda, Guatemala thrice, India, Israel/Palestine. I was impressed, but I couldn’t bear to ever do what she did and take a group of ten people to these countries for less than two weeks. It is great, though for all of these people to see how people around the world live. I realize that I have been fairly critical of this group of visitors, and I feel really bad about it. They were all extremely friendly and enthusiastic people with good intentions. I have been judgmental of these people, and why? Because they wore big hats and were overly excited that we had a stash of chilled Coke in the vehicles? Not everybody makes international travel a priority like I do, and I should have been more welcoming to the group of Americans, many of which were seeing extreme poverty for the first time. While they were not actively improving the situation of the people they visited, the understanding of how most of the world lives (in poverty) is incredibly valuable. I believe that a visit of this nature would be beneficial for any American, and our world as a whole, even if those visitors don’t have to live a little more simply than they are used to during their trip.
As we dropped the group at the border back in Burkina Faso, everyone gave me a warm handshake and wished me luck with my journalism career. When I went to say goodbye to the representative from the NGO, I was surprised that she gave me a big hug. We had been getting along a lot better the last two days as she told me about the places she has taken groups to. And while it is the kind of travel I could never do, she was perfect for it, as she is a knowledgeable and responsible guide, and will undoubtedly keep her groups out of trouble better than someone like me ever could.
On the way home from work yesterday I had to take a taxi, and it was just starting to get pretty dark. As the taxi was cruising down the main road at a good clip, a guy started to try to cross the street quite a ways in front of us. The driver honked his horn continuously, expecting the guy to get out of the way. He just slowly proceeded right in front of us and I was sure we would just destroy this guy. Finally the driver slammed on his brakes, making an awful screeching noise, and the pedestrian casually stopped walking. We barely missed him, and he was just standing there, so close to us that he was slammed by the side view mirror on my side, and folded it in. The guy barely flinched. The driver said we didn’t hit him because he always prays before he starts driving every day. I find this to be quite common here, to give a prayer before setting out on a journey.
Today I am leaving back into the field. I will be spending a few days in the Upper West Region working the water and sanitation team, and then will spend a few days working with the micro-finance project. I will be gone for about a week. My last few weeks, unlike my first half of the internship will be incredibly busy. Aight. Later!
Here is the first evidence that I have existed in Ghana, since I have yet to take any photos of myself:
I am turning the fufu (staple dish usually made from yam or cassava, yam in this case), while Awine pounds it. If I lose the rhythm, I lose a finger. I believe that this method of making food could be an integral aspect of the HARD CORPS (see previous blog post).
The woman that lives next door, Vivian, came over and was shocked to see this and insisted I bring my camera so she could take a picture. Apparently man Ghanaian men refuse to turn the fufu, because they are afraid of getting smashed (and I am sure partially because it is considered woman's work). She also said that white people can't even watch when she pounds fufu because they don't want to see her smash a finger. I just wanted my dinner done sooner. This has become my favorite food here.
In other news, Tamale is experiencing some unrest. I heard of it last night as there were some gunshots. This is nothing new to me, living in Seattle's Central District, but still surprising here in Ghana. On the way to work this morning I saw a couple clouds of big black smoke, which turned out to be burning homes. It turned out to be political violence (yeah, a month and a half after the peaceful election) and one of the staff members that lives in the conflicted neighborhood couldn't leave his home this morning to come to work. I imagine this should be over pretty quickly.
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.
Every day on the way to and from work I pass groups of uniformed school children. The Christian schools seem to have their kids in blue uniforms, while the Muslims are in green, girls all with hijabs to ensure their modesty. On the way back from work the other day I saw one of the young, maybe 6 or 7, Muslim girls on the way home with some friends. The girl was so preoccupied with her friends, and disheveled with her book bag and the whirl of bicycles, motorcycles and men with carts all around her that somehow she had managed to lose control of her uniform and was basically exposing most of her bare chest. I couldn’t help but laugh, because the hijab was still perfectly intact, keeping her hair out of sight and thus maintaining her modesty.
After work on Friday I tried hunting bats again, but was still unsuccessful. The woman that lives next door, and hosts the Dutch volunteer, Therese, came over and said, “I hear you enjoy the African dishes.” It seems that any time I am eating in public people are always surprised that I am eating the local food. Sometimes when I walk up to a food stall and ask what they have, they give me a funny look and say, “oh, no, we only have banku and t-zed.” I am left thinking, yeah, good, that’s what I came here for. I mean, what else would I be eating here? I am learning more and more though, that most westerners just really do not like the food here. The woman next door said, “you have done very well here. Therese does not take African dishes.” I was surprised and assumed she was exaggerating, but no, she doesn’t eat T-zed, fufu, kenkey, banku, or any of the lovely soups. I asked what she ate, and she shrugged,. “she has been here for four months, but still only eats spaghetti…andrice. I have had six volunteers live with me and only one of them has eaten African food.” I laughed thinking about how I had eaten bat the night before. I just couldn’t imagine spending that much time in a new country not learning to like the food. I didn’t like some of the dishes the first time I tried them, but I at least gave them second chances. I also believe that Europeans, having a better, and more defined, food culture than Americans have a natural attachment to some of their staples from back home. I thought that I missed cheese, but when told the Dutch girls this, they just laughed and said, “oh what? You miss that yellow cheddar cheese? Haha!” Admittedly, yeah, kinda, and I know it’s not the fancy artisan cheeses they are used to, and have a much stronger attachment to.
Word on the street (a text message from French girl Liz) was that there was some sort of a concert at the Picorna Hotel, and she told me to meet her at the Giddipass (lame, expensive, western restaurant that never has change) at 7:45, when they would be done eating. When I got there she was there with a traveling Dutch girl and two Canadian girls she knows that I had met last time I had been there. The Canadian girls were talking about how they secretly hoped to get really sick so they would have an excuse to leave early…and maybe just spend the last month in Holland instead. “We just really loved backpacking around Europe and we really want to go back! Especially Amsterdam!” I almost punched them in the face (not for liking Europe, but not appreciating how awesome it is here…and for coming to Africa and not realizing that it might…difficult. It’s not all giraffes, drums and khaki, kids), but instead suggested that we move on to the place with the entertainment. When we asked a girl outside the restaurant how to get there she insisted that it was far too early to go, so I suggested we go have a beer somewhere that was not the Giddipass. Liz and I agreed that the girls needed to go to the little “spot” with the drunken security guard and the bathroom with a dirt floor and a 4 foot wall. When we got there, we saw that there was a nearly identical spot across the street, except that they were bumping 2Pac, while the first place was basically silent. I herded the 4girls (who inevitably attract a huge amount of attention that I am not used to) into the very cramped bar where about 7 guys were getting rowdy to “Changes”. They were pretty transfixed on the blessing from the lord that walked in at first, but I was able to hold all their attention by singing along all the words to the song, while the girls ordered. I was sitting next to the new Dutch girl, Joyce, and she was actually really cool, even though she admitted that after a month in the country she still didn’t like any of the local food. I forgave her because she has spent almost a year in Ethiopia, working with the missionaries of charity as a nurse, and loves the food there. She had also spent time volunteering in Namibia and South Africa. I kinda felt bad for her that she was leaving for Accra the next day with the two Canadian girls.
I really enjoyed this spot, as they were playing constant American rap songs that I knew the words to, even two Busta Rhymes songs! All the guys loved that, and they were really friendly. Though I realized quickly it was a really bad idea to go in there with 4 white girls. As I got preoccupied in my conversation with Joyce, the guys started to get exceptionally friendly with the other girls. As soon as I finished my beer, I told the girls to hurry with the beers they were splitting so we could get a move on. When we finally did, the group of guys all of a sudden seemed to get exponentially drunker, and when we left, the whole bar emptied onto the street. I literally had to grab one guys arm off of one of the Canadian girls and tell him to go back inside. He didn’t move, but he swayed alright, so I just kinda pushed him back inside. As we started walking two of the guys were still following us. I stopped, turned around and asked the guys, “where are you going?” One of them replied, “Picorna Hotel”, the same place we were headed. I wanted to yell, “which one of you actually TOLD these guys where we were going.” I was really annoyed, and I couldn’t really say that he couldn’t go. One of the guys, though, did go back to the bar pretty quickly. None of us knew how to get where we were going, and this guy said he would lead us.I didn’t trust him, so I kept a close eye on him and confirmed with passersby that we were still on the correct path to the Picorna. I realized I was back in the same mode I had been in India, when I always had to be extremely protective of the girls I was with. It is worth it to hang out with girls while traveling if they are fun, but I don’t know if this group of girls was worth my hassle.
When we arrived I checked my bike in (the girls were on foot) with security and we headed to the place to pay our entrance fee. This guy (whose name I never really learned) forced his way to the front of our group and spoke with the ticket seller. He turned to Joyce and said quietly, “it’s 12 Ghana Cedis for all of us,” about $10. Joyce handed over the 12 cedi and we all started to get out our money to pay Joyce. This guy started saying, “no no, put that away, put your money away, it’s taken care of, don’t worry.”I think he was trying to make us think that he had paid for us, when he clearly hadn’t. It was really bizarre.
As we entered, the girls found a spot to watch the show, and the guy asked if I wanted to take anything at the bar. I said I needed to go to the bathroom, so he grabbed me by the hand (a sign that he is trying to be my friend, and companion, but I just interpreted it has him still trying to get something from me) and walked me all the way to the bathroom, then waited for me and held my hand all the way back to the bar. He asked again, “will you take something before you sit down?”.Ok, yeah, I want a beer, so he walked me to the bar, and I asked for a Castle. “Just one?” they asked. “yeah, just one,” I said. I expected this guy to say that I wanted to but instead, he just said, “yeah, just one.” Oooh, clever man.
Just as I handed them a 5 Cedi bill, he quckly said, quietly, “oh, and one Star.”
I told them, “I am just getting one Castle,” as they started to grab a Star beer from the cooler.
“And one Star,” he repeated.
“Are you buying a Star?” I asked, then I turned to the bartender as he opened the Star, “I am only paying for one Castle.”
“Won’t you buy me a beer,” he asked. Normally I am pretty non-confrontational, but I was sick of this guy, especially after he conned Joyce for his entrance fee.
“Why should I buy you a beer?” I asked.
“Well…” he started to stammer, “I mean, I brought you here.”
“No, you followed us here. We paid for your entrance fee,” then I unleashed on him, “Is this what you see white people for? Do you think that if you see white people you can follow them around and just expect them to pay your way everywhere? No, it doesn’t work like that! This is not what I am here for!” I surprised myself, and the guy looked embarrassed. I saw the bartender put the bottlecap back on the beer and put it back on the cooler.
I walked back to where Liz and Joyce were standing in the back, while the two Canucks had sat in chairs in front of us. There was a big stage set up with traditionally dressed Ghanaian dancers and drummers performing in front of a banner that said something to the effect of“Ghana-Denmark Audio-Visual Collaboration.” I had a tough time getting into it at first because the guy was still with us, standing next to me, just kinda staring at me with this dejected look on his face. This guy, probably about our age, was not wealthy, but by African standards, he was far from poor, it was obvious by the clothes he wore. I wondered why he was still with us, and after maybe twenty minutes, he murmured to me, “please, I would just like some rice.” I was tempted, as it seemed it might make him leave, but I knew that wouldn’t be fair to the hundreds of other, poorer, people who I had refused money in about ten other countries. He kept asking, saying he was hungry, and I kept refusing. Eventually, he switched tactics.
“Please, I would just like some money for a taxi.”
“Why don’t you walk home?”
“I live very far, it is too far to walk, and I have school tomorrow.” I thought, if you have money for school, you have money for a taxi. Plus…isn’t tomorrow Saturday?
“It was not my choice for you to come here. Why is it my responsibility to get you home.”
“Do you know (such and such neighborhood)?”
“No.”
“Please, it is very far.”
“No. Sorry”
He eventually disappeared, but in the meantime, I was thinking, I wish I had money for a taxi to get from home to here and back. Instead, I have to ride my back in the dark, where someone might try to rob me again. But that was my choice, and I am not an opportunist relying on foreigners. I think the reason that I have not had to deal with this kind of thing very often here is that I am usually alone, or with one other foreigner or a Ghanaian, drawing much less attention.
The entertainment was good, but this guy had put me in a foul mood. There was a Danish rapper, who wasn’t bad, but it was kind of a ridiculous thing to see at first. Toward the end, though, he started beatboxing, and he was actually really good, and the crowd went nuts. There was a half-caste (mixed white/black) performer who was pretty good, but she seemed disappointed in the lack of energy from the crowd. At one point the people who had organized the event came on stage to talk about…something. It was two Ghanaian men and two Danish women, who were elaborately dressed in traditional African dress and jewelry. I laughed hysterically when Joyce said under her breath, “wear your own damn clothes.” A few minutes later she said, “Come on, it’s not like any African women get to wear clothes that nice, why should you get to?” I had to give her mad props for saying that.
It seemed that, while the audience was predominantly Ghanaian, the majority of foreigners in Tamale had made it here for this concert. Most of the foreigner girls were somehow dressed like they were going out to a club. I really hoped that they had not wasted space in their suitcases on their chunky belts impractical shoes. I was glad that the girls I was with were dressed relatively conservatively so as to attract just a bit less attention.
The Canadians and Joyce left around 11:00 as they had to get up early for their flight to Accra, but Liz, surprisingly wanted to stay, even though she had been feeling sick all week from some bad water she had drank. I was tired and wanted to go too, but I stuck it out to the end, through two repetitive reggae bands and plenty of white girls dancing in front of the seated audience with their new Ghanaian friends. We left at two, and I led Liz to a taxi, then had an incredibly fast and adrenaline-filled ride back home.
Saturday, Valentine’s Day, was originally supposed to be kind of an event. Awine and a couple of his friends and I were planning to chip in on a dog (about $2.50 each) and have a little feast. They say that it is good to eat dog because it will chase away bad spirits. This is because dogs can see well at night, which has given them the reputation of being fearless against the evil spirits that lurk after dark.Unfortunately, though, somebody bought the dog they were planning to get, so we just ate rice balls and soup instead. I had tried hunting bat again, and on my first shot, I nailed one right in the head. All of the bats around him flew away, but the one I hit stayed put, and did not fall. It’s wings were half-way extended, and I am pretty sure I killed it right then and there. I tried for a while to hit it again, but the rubber on the sling-shot started to tear. So now I think we have a dead, rotting bat in the tree. I suck at this game.
Liz came over to join us for dinner (under the condition that “there’s no bats nor dogs nor rats nor frogs:, even though she said she had eaten dog in Korea) and afterward we headed to the much anticipated “entertainment” at the Stadium that night. The three of us (I don’t know what ever happened to Awine’s friends that were planning to come) took a taxi in to town and met up with Awine’s girlfriend and then took a taxi to the stadium. We were all under the impression that it would be a concert of some sort, but when we got there around 9:00 and paid our exorbitant $4 cover, the main part of the stadium was dark, and the “entertainment” was in a space within the stadium. We were probably among the first 20 people to arrive, and it seemed that all that was happening was a DJ and a deserted dance floor. We decided to go to a bar first, since there was not one in the stadium.
On the way to a nearby bar somebody came up from behind me and grabbed me around the waist. Admittedly I am still a bit jumpy and it freaked me out, until I realized it was a kid that I had met outside a soccer game a few weeks before. He laughed at me, and I was a bit embarrassed. He followed us all the way to the bar, which I didn’t mind, because he was a friendly guy who didn’t expect anything from us except for some attention. We spent about two hours at the bar. Liz and I each nursed one beer, while Awine just had some juice and his girlfriend guzzled down two beers. I was sure he enjoyed that.
When we got back to the stadium there was probably a hundred people just hanging around the entrance. Some of them were selling stuff, others socializing, and quite a few kids doing who knows what. Inside, the dance floor was now packed, but Awine did not seem in the mood to dance and neither was Liz. It all turned out to be kind of boring. Awine’s girlfriend was drunk, and he seemed annoyed with that. We stayed there for about an hour and a half, and then took a taxi back in to town, going our separate ways. I was glad, though, that I did not have to ride my bike back home. At one point Awine’s girlfriend fell onto a gate in front of a home and knocked it open as she hit the ground. I wanted to laugh, but judging by the look on Awine’s face I knew it would be a bad idea.
Just a reminder, if you haven't, check the previous blog for the best music ever. K?
This week at work has just about nothing interest to discuss. But after work on Wednesday I tried my second attempt at bat-hunting. I was unsuccessful. That night, Awine and I went on another little expedition. We went on foot to a friend’s home. It was a long walk, but it was worth it. The home of his friend was in the traditional style of the area: a group of circular huts arranged in a circle with a large open space in the middle, a courtyard, if you will. When we entered it seemed that everyone was just kind of laying around, relaxing, and avoiding the heat inside the huts. Nobody in the family of 8, other than Awine’s friend and two young girls, spoke much English, so they thought it was great as Awine assisted me in making small-talk with them in Dagbani. They were also excited to show me their living space, since I had never entered one of these traditional homes before. The two girls showed me their hut first. It had a small door that I had to duck down quite a bit to enter. Inside they had a couple of small lights on, and it was very cozy. I don’t know what is practical about a round hut, as they seem to waste a bit of space with rectangular beds, but I am sure there is a reason. There was something about it that made me feel like it would be fun to have this kind of little hut up in the mountains. There were 6 huts in all, and the one that had a little round hole for a door was for their chickens. They also had a few goats and a dog. We stayed there for a while and then went with Awine’s friend to another friend’s place, a small room in a concrete “U” of rooms. We sat and talked for a bit and somebody randomly turned on a bootleg DVD of “Blood Diamond”. If you haven’t seen this movie, see it. Sometimes it is a bit too Hollywood and the journalist character is pretty ridiculous and far-fetched, but it is a very fascinating portrayal of the horrific war in Sierra Leone (where I almost went instead of Ghana). It was also interesting to watch it with Africans, as they gasped at the shocking atrocities that had happened less than 700 miles from them. With the amount of war or conflict in Africa, even in close proximity to Ghana in recent memory (Cote d’Ivoire, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Togo, Guinea) I kind of expected them to see the movie with a very matter-of-fact attitude. However, their aghast looks, amazed at what Africans would do to each other, and what a white man would do for money, was further proof of Ghana’s reputation of a peace-loving nation, though revealing of my new friends’ naivety. Regardless of this, however, Awine’s dream is to serve in the army. He cannot, however, because there is an initial fee of about $400 to enter, as well as fees for training during the first 6 months. His brother is in the army (and was actually in Sierra Leone as a mercenary I believe), as was his father, who fought in WWII (he fought in Cambodia, Burma, etc.) and his grandfather, who fought in WWI (though I am not sure if the math works out on this one). He asked me if it was possible to become a U.S. citizen by serving in the military (as my grandfather had done in WWII), though I didn’t know. I imagine not, as I think we would have a much larger army. I discouraged him from this anyway, as there is a good chance that he would serve in Iraq, a war that I am against. I agreed with his sentiment that it is a noble thing to serve your country, but it was hard for me to come to terms with serving your country for an unjust war that really (in my opinion) has not and will not benefit our people. Throughout the film (which people here insist on pronouncing as “flim”) we kept getting some weird power surges that would shut off the TV. About ten minutes before the movie was over, it happened again, and we couldn’t get the TV to come back on. I told them that all the main characters die in the end…just kidding. When we got home, I had to make a call to America and I received some awesome news! The next evening when I got back from work I continued to hone my slingshot skills under the mango tree in front of the house. The little girls from next door joined me as usual and eventually asked if they could try. Both of their attempts were laughable, as they weren’t quite strong enough to pull back the thick rubber band. Just as I was showing one of them the proper way to hold it and the best technique to shoot small flying animals, two very attractive white girls passed by. I gave a sheepish hello, and they just had this curious look on their faces like, “is this guy really teaching little girls how to hunt bats?” Whatever. I was teaching them a life skill. I was teaching to fish, so to speak, feeding them for a lifetime! Well, I still couldn’t even do it myself, but my aim was getting better, and I think I probably injured at least one bat that day. Awine came out to see what was going on and he grabbed the slingshot to show me up. About 4 stones later, and a screaming bat was falling through the branches. The whole time I was trying to shoot them, I had this fear that I would actually get one, because I really had no idea what to do with it. I have never seen a bat up close, and while it is true that they are a lot like flying rats, it mostly reminded me of a mix between the vampires in I am Legend and the zombies in 28 Days Later. It has had a huge mouth with plenty of sharp teeth that it kept flailing about. It was kind of sad, as it’s only wound was a broken wing, and it was still very much alive. I was very scared of the little thing, as were the girls, because of its loud screams and intense flapping about. I started to change my mind about actually eating one of these things.
Please click this photo to enlarge it and see, close-up, the pure terror that are Ghanaian bats!
5 minutes later and Awine had gotten a second bat. We were about to hav a feast! Eventually Therese, the Dutch girl that lives next door came by. She was pretty curious, but also not too keen on the idea of killing them for food. We called her friend, Linda, who is a devout vegetarian. She somehow already knew why we were calling and refused to come over for the slaughter. We settled on 2 bats as it was almost dark. Awine took them out back and slit their throats, cutting all the way through their esophagus as they let out a final gurgling cry, bits of blood squirting to the beat of their heart. Like that imagery? He then peeled the skin off its body (which relieved me as they were surprisingly hairy). Now this naked red mass with razor teeth and light brown eyes looked straight from a horror film. Awine tossed away the intestines, lungs (very large) and other organs, which surprise me as it was about half the meat on this little bugger. Then he tugged at the tongue, which stretched a good two inches out of its mouth. He said some people enjoy the tongue raw. I wouldn’t be opposed to marinating it with lime and salt and cooking it in spices, but raw? Not yet.
*I have some more graphic images of the slaughter, but I figured I would spare you.
We (no, actually just Awine) rubbed the bats with some spices (not sure which) and I told him to squeeze some lime on them. Then we put them on a grill over some coals and let them cook. We also had some rice simmering and Awine had already made a tasty tomato and cabbage stew. After about 20 minutes the bats were ready and Awine ground some peppers into a paste to use with the bats.
Bats are on the barbie as the little girl that lives next door watches. She's pretty cool and speaks better English than almost anyone I have met here.
Now that the little rodents looked more like edible meat, rather than horror movie creatures, it was easy to eat them. The meat was tasty, though there was not much of it. Some parts of it were easiest to just chew up the small bones with the meat. I liked the crunch, which reminded me of eating the bones of sardines. I was now even more excited about the mango trees in front of and behind our house, as they provided TWO foods! I think I am gonna try to make some mango curry with bat in it! That would be rad! Bat is probably the most extreme food I have eaten, though not the worst by a long shot. I would much rather eat bat than sea turtle, cow udder tacos, or green beans…gross. What about fried meal worms or cockroaches? Are those more extreme than bat? Either way, they were pretty good. But seriously, thinking of green beans right now makes me seriously want to puke. During our meal I played Yusef Islam’s version of call to prayer for Awine. We hear call to prayer 5 times throughout the day, and it is usually just not that…pretty. He liked Yusef’s (formerly Cat Stevens), but after a brief discussion of Islam, Awine said that Muslims are “wicked people”. I was fairly shocked as I had never heard anybody here be so up front on their opinion on another religion. However, I had sensed that there is a big disconnect in Ghana between the Christian and Muslim population. From what I have seen, my interpretation is that the Muslims stick together and keep a tight-knit community, while the Christians see their constant prayer as bizarre behavior. I couldn’t just sit there with Awine’s comment hanging there, so I had to ask him why he thought Muslims were so bad. “They kill their wives and then they burn them!” he said. This seemed kind of ridiculous, and as expected, he said he only knew of it happening once. “Does the Koran say that it is alright to burn your wife?” I asked. He didn’t know. I explained that Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists can all do evil things, and it has nothing to do with the religion itself. I also told him that I have Muslim friends in American that are some of the most kind and hospitable people I have ever met. He was surprised to hear that there are Muslims in America, and I was surprised to hear that he didn’t have any Muslim friends in this predominantly Muslim city. Is that what happens when you have enough people in a certain population to only associate with “your kind”. I imagine for Muslims in America it is difficult to only make friends with Muslims, since there are not that many. Here in Tamale, there are enough Christians that it is possible to only associate with Christians. In fact, because I know most people through Awine, the only Muslims I know are through work. After he realized he could not really argue with my denial of Muslims as “wicked people”, he seemed somewhat dejected and quiet, and I felt kinda bad. After our meal we went on a walk. I never really know where we are going when Awine says “let’s go for a walk”, but I know it’s better just to go with it. He always makes sure not to take any of the main roads, so that I learn how to navigate the dirt alleyways, and makeshift paths between roads. I have never told Awine how much I enjoy these little adventures, but I am glad he keeps bringing me along on them, even though the long walks wear me out. After becoming completely disoriented from all the meandering through dirt paths in the dark, we arrived at a “spot” we had been to a week before, though from a completely different direction somehow. Awine’s girlfriend was already there waiting for us. Overall, it seemed a bit tense that evening as we had a round of beers. Awine seemed annoyed with his girlfriend, and they wanted me to help settle their dispute. I told them I wanted to stay out of it, but they insisted. The girlfriend (who’s name I still can’t remember) was mad because Awine told her not to go out alone after seven. His reasoning is that she goes to bars and drinks too many beers. I said that he should let her do what she wants, and he should trust her. He said that women shouldn’t drink so much. “But it’s fine for men to drink?” I asked. Awine agreed with that, though he said that he never has more than one or two beers, which I have seen to be true, but his girlfriend drinks a lot more. “And after a woman has taken so much to drink, then the next day she is tired and cannot pound fufu for me! If I am hungry, and she cannot cook, what can I do?” he asked. This attitude, while common here was too much for me, and it was hard for me to agree with him. However, it all related back to the idea of a relationship as “exchange”, which I have found to be very common here through observation and a book that I have read. The idea is not foreign to must cultures either. It is the simple idea that a woman’s role is just to cook, raise kids, and keep the house nice, while the man provides for the family. If a woman drinks too much, what kind of mother and husband would she be the next day? It would be unfair to Awine to work all day and come home and have to cook his own food while his wife is still sleeping. And it was hard to say that Awine had a double standard for his girlfriend as he never drank more than a couple beers, so that he was able to work the next day. It was still uncomfortable, though, to hear him be so controlling of her, and demanding that she not go out alone after 7. I tried to avoid involvement, mostly because it was difficult to explain that a man should not have that much power over a woman, when I am in a culture in which relationships do not operate the same way as I am used to. On the walk home, Awine seemed frustrated, and I felt bad for disagreeing with him. It was true that his girlfriend did seem a bit lazy, and just wants to have a good time all the time, but I couldn’t agree with him telling her what she can or cannot do. And today is Friday. I had an unproductive week. I was told that the reason that I am not getting into the field much is that due to budget cuts, they couldn’t send people out unless it was really necessary, and for me to come along was even less likely. It looks like I will be working on weekends so that I can accomplish something. Next weekend there is a group of American Bishops coming to visit projects and I am lucky enough to document that. Am I being sarcastic? Yeah, mostly. I mean I would not mind doing that if I was also able to go into the field to produce human interest stories like I came here to do. The next weekend I may be going with staff member on a privately funded trip to the field so I am able to visit the communities and actually document what is going on in them.
