Part of my job is to visit the different projects to see our volunteers and NGO partners in action. Yesterday I went with two of our volunteers to a talent show and drama competition in Gynkabo, the community in which one of our volunteers had been performing health outreach for the past three months.
I will describe the experience in a later entry, but I want to first address what happened after the Gynkabo community events.
Lauren, our 3-month volunteer from Utah and one of my most favorite people I've met in Ghana, is leaving next weekend. She wanted to go to Kakum National Park to spend the night at the canopy walk as her last-weekend-festivity. I opted out because I wasn't in the camping outside mood and had already enjoyed spending the day with Lauren. After the talent show, drama competition and presentation of prizes to the communities of Gynkabo and Frami, which put us at about 6:30 p.m., Lauren, McKell and I waved down a tro-tro and headed back to Cape Coast.
Lauren and McKell told the mate they wanted out at Kakum National Park. We joked about how embarrassing it was that they were getting off at Kakum, considering most Ghanaians assume that because we're white (and therefore we are tourists, not volunteers or expats working in Ghana) we want to go to Kakum. Lauren and McKell were telling me that every time they walk to a taxi/tro-tro station to go to Gynkabo for their outreach, which is past Kakum, people shout at them, "Kakum?" They think to themselves, Um, no we're doing outreach in a rural village and they all call us by our names instead of "obroni" and say we're their Ghanaian sisters. It's difficult to describe the pride you begin to feel as a long-term volunteer - most of the volunteers and expats I've worked with and met have considered it borderline offensive to be called a tourist.
When the mate told the driver to stop at Kakum's entrance, I had to get out of the tro-tro first to let Lauren and McKell out. As I was hugging Lauren goodbye and wishing them a fun night, the tro-tro began to leave. I ran after it and yelled, "Hey! WAIT!" and banged on the side of the tro-tro. I stayed with the tro for a few seconds but then it accelerated. It was almost dark out and the mate didn't seem to see or hear me but I think the other passengers noticed I was chasing the van and told the driver to stop. I don't know why the mate told the driver to leave. I know it wasn't because I was taking too much time saying goodbye to Lauren and McKell because the tro took off literally as soon as we all got out. I hadn't paid the mate for the ride yet either so I don't know why he thought I was going with Lauren and McKell, besides the fact that we were sitting and talking together.
The tro-tro finally stopped about 25 meters ahead and reversed back to me. I hopped in, with Lauren and McKell still at the Kakum entrance probably laughing at our collective misfortunes as foreigners, and heard the driver talking rapidly in Fante or Twi to the mate and a couple other passengers muttering to each other and I figured it was because of what had just happened, seeing that the ride was silent before, besides Lauren, McKell and me. I couldn't tell if everyone was angry at me or the mate or the driver, but then the woman next to me told me, "Sorry." I like that about the Ghanaian culture; when a local tries to blatantly rip you off, sometimes another Ghanaian comes to the rescue, as if to salvage our perception of Ghana and its people. Each time this has happened to me I've noticed it is a woman who apologizes or corrects on her people's behalf.
The ride from Cape Coast to Gynkabo only took 45 minutes, but our ride back to Cape Coast took an hour and a half because of all the people we picked up along the way. Shortly after I got back into the tro, a woman with a baby and man got inside. The woman sat next to me and kept her baby on her lap, which I thought was strange considering most mothers use beautiful fabric to wrap their babies and toddlers onto the small of their backs. They don't take the babies out of the back wrap even when they're sitting in taxis or tros; they simply sit on the edge of their seats.
I assumed the reason the baby was on its mother's lap was because the mother was nursing. It was dark and the baby was wrapped generously with fabric so I couldn't get a sideways glance to confirm my assumption. Several times throughout the ride I heard the woman's baby making noises resembling a snorting sound and assumed his or her nasal passage was clogged up or that the baby had sucked the mother's milk too quickly. After each snorting session the mother would say something in Fante or Twi to her child. I noticed that the woman sitting on my left, the one who apologized for the driver almost leaving me at Kakum, would always cock a sideways glance at the woman and child when the mother would say something. I wondered what the mother was saying that drew such blatant attention from other passengers.
About half an hour later we got to Abura, a suburb of Cape Coast. The mother and child and the man they entered with got out. As soon as the mate gave the sliding door a good slam, the woman on my left told me, "Her baby is about to die. She is on her way to the hospital." Everything I said ("Really? Dying? I just thought her baby was having a hard time sleeping. That's awful." followed by a dumbfounded stare and ajar mouth) and everything I could have said would have made me sound like an idiot. We had been bumper-to-bumper in traffic for the past 20 minutes before the mother and child and I'm assuming the father got out - I couldn't imagine having to bring my deathly sick child to the hospital via public transportation. I thought of the time I got a phone call at home six years ago from a man who was with my father when he had had a sudden cardiac death at a local soccer complex and how I drove like a maniac to the hospital 45 minutes away and I was lucky I didn't cause an accident or get pulled over.
I hope the baby is alright. I hope no one with a sick child has to use public transportation to get to a hospital.
I'm sad that my hopes may be too much.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Taxi Drivers Remind Me I Am a Minority
I figured it’s about time to talk about my love-hate relationship with the transportation system in Ghana. It took a couple weeks to get acclimated to the Ghanaian way of driving, which is offensive rather than defensive, but it's a comforting sort of recklessness. When I was in Peru, the driving was more suicidal than reckless. Ghanaian driving is like coloring outside the lines of a picture, and the picture turning out better because you dismissed the limitations of suggested guidelines; whereas Peruvian driving is coloring outside the lines, off the page and onto the desk, with horrific colors. At least the majestic Peruvian mountains and lush trees were satisfying distractions.
But I digress. The source of my sporadic frustration is not Ghanaian driving, but the transportation system as a whole; specifically, the unfair prices I sometimes face as a foreigner.
I get around Cape Coast by shared and drop taxis. Shared taxis are cheaper than drop taxis. Shared taxis pick up everyone on the side of the road who is pointing toward the direction the driver is going. Occasionally it can take as long as 15-20 minutes to find a shared taxi going your way. The function of a shared taxi is comparable to the purpose of a metro bus. The best part about taking shared taxis is hearing and telling the passengers “good morning” and “good afternoon,” and the drivers know they can't try to rip you off because a shared taxi is always a set price. Sometimes our volunteers are uncomfortable taking shared taxis and tro-tros the first couple weeks because they’re packed with Ghanaians. I don’t understand why, but I’m trying to. It's smart to avoid dodgy crowded areas in foreign countries, but it's pretty unavoidable in developed countries if you want cheap transportation.
Drop taxis take you from wherever you are to wherever you need to be. I use drop taxis when I don’t know where I’m going, when I’m really late and when it’s dark. Drop taxis are also used when you want to go from one town to another, as shared taxis only operate within town, but it’s a lot more expensive than using a tro-tro or a Ford van.
When I go from Cape Coast to another town, I use a tro-tro, which are boxy vans with three sitting benches in the middle. Tro-tros are the same price as shared taxis and are much cheaper than using drop taxis to get from one town to another. They’re similar to the combis I rode in while volunteering in Peru but much less crowded. Ford vans are more spacious than tro-tros and have air-conditioning. They’re most suitable when you have a long journey ahead. If you have a lot of bags, it’s best to use a drop taxi.
I’ve only come across taxis with air-conditioning in Accra. AC is a luxury in Cape Coast. Driving with the windows down is more fun anyway. I rely on my morning taxi rides to dry my wet hair from my shower and the afternoon rides to dry my sweat and cool me down. Seat belts are available, but they’re either stuffed into the seats or have a clip in them that you have to remove before fastening. I’ve been meaning to ask one of my taxi drivers the purpose of the clip. Kirsty told me it’s smart to build an army of taxi drivers by taking phone numbers from the ones I like. I call my drivers when I need someone to “pick me” (they don’t say “pick me up”). I only take phone numbers from taxi drivers who are calm, respectful, friendly but don’t talk the whole time, don’t ask me for my number and give me a good price the first time I ask. Ha, man, I’m a toughie. But really, I savor the quiet time the drop taxis provide me. They are my refuge after a chaotic bout in the market. Kirsty judges drivers based on conversation and how good of shape their car is in. Cape Coast taxis are all manual cars, which you don’t notice until you want to roll down the window and the lever is broken. But taxi drivers share cars, so I never recruit them into my army based on their car.
From my apartment to the main road at the bottom of the hill, it’s about a 10-minute walk. If I want to go toward Elmina, which is a 15-minute drive west of Cape Coast, I cross the road and try to get a taxi from that side. But most days I stay on the side of the road by the bottom of the hill to head to town or to Abura (a busy suburb where most of our volunteers’ homestay families live and where many of our NGO partners’ offices reside). When I see a taxi coming from the left, I use my right hand to point forward in the direction of Abura, or point behind me if I’m going to town. It’s disrespectful to use your left hand for anything in Ghana because historically the left hand was thought of as the dirty hand.
If I want a drop taxi I look for the taxis with no passengers. It’s 3 or 4 cedis to take to town. When a taxi pulls over for me, I bend down until I’m level with the driver (no need to lean in on the door – your money gets you a lot farther than your cleavage, unfortunately.. or fortunately?) and ask through their unrolled window, “Kingsway?” They nod. “How much?” I learned the hard way that no matter how long you’ve waited for a taxi, how hot it is, or how late you are, you must never forget to ask how much the fare is before getting in.
Whenever I forget to ask, I realize I’ve forgotten as soon as I get inside his car and we start driving. My stomach plummets because, out of sheer absentmindedness, I’ve subjected myself to a possible asshole. I’ve come up with the embarrassingly pessimistic discovery that every time an obroni approaches a taxi driver here, there’s a 50 percent chance he’s an asshole. I hate arguing with taxi drivers. It’s exhausting to constantly have to prove that I’m more than my white skin; I’m more than a money sign, and it’s even more exhausting to listen to their relentless bantering, all the while knowing that I wouldn’t even being having the conversation if my skin was black.
I only argue with taxi drivers when I have to. The majority of the arguments took place in July and August when Cape Coast was busting at the seams with obronis on their summer break from school, and the taxi drivers thought every obroni was only here for a few weeks. So of course, when they asked how long I’ve been in Cape Coast, the first question on rotation of all taxi drivers’ small-talk talking points, they were all delighted to hear that I’d been in town for a while and I’m staying for two years. The thing that really gets under my skin is when the driver and I agree on a price of a drop taxi and then when he gets to my apartment he tells me he didn’t realize how far away I live (bull shit) and tries to charge me more. Or when the driver picks up me and one or two of my obroni volunteers as an agreed shared ride – 30-60 pesewas each, depending on the route we give him – and then a few minutes later the driver says, “Where am I dropping you?” But at least if this happens you can get out, not pay anything and look for another ride.
During my first week in Ghana while trying out the taxi system without help, I forgot to ask the fare amount until I got to my front doorstep and the driver charged me double the expected price. I didn’t have any one cedis either, so I couldn’t give him the amount he should’ve charged me and then made an exit. It’s not very advisable to do that when you’re with a particularly hostile driver, but you can get away with it if you disagree over the price early and make pleasant small talk with them during the drive. It feels like a passive-aggressive cop-out but whatever.
I forget I am a minority in Ghana until I do anything that involves spending money. It's frustrating to be discriminated against, but I got used to it quickly. You have to. And I realize I have nothing to complain about if this is the most blatant form of discrimination I've faced in my life. To Africans, simply not being from Africa automatically means we have more money than they do. In Ghana you are considered wealthy if you can provide yourself your needs and most of your wants. If we used this principle as a measuring stick of wealth in America, I would be considered rich. Most people would be considered rich.
But we must not compare apples to oranges.
But I digress. The source of my sporadic frustration is not Ghanaian driving, but the transportation system as a whole; specifically, the unfair prices I sometimes face as a foreigner.
I get around Cape Coast by shared and drop taxis. Shared taxis are cheaper than drop taxis. Shared taxis pick up everyone on the side of the road who is pointing toward the direction the driver is going. Occasionally it can take as long as 15-20 minutes to find a shared taxi going your way. The function of a shared taxi is comparable to the purpose of a metro bus. The best part about taking shared taxis is hearing and telling the passengers “good morning” and “good afternoon,” and the drivers know they can't try to rip you off because a shared taxi is always a set price. Sometimes our volunteers are uncomfortable taking shared taxis and tro-tros the first couple weeks because they’re packed with Ghanaians. I don’t understand why, but I’m trying to. It's smart to avoid dodgy crowded areas in foreign countries, but it's pretty unavoidable in developed countries if you want cheap transportation.
Drop taxis take you from wherever you are to wherever you need to be. I use drop taxis when I don’t know where I’m going, when I’m really late and when it’s dark. Drop taxis are also used when you want to go from one town to another, as shared taxis only operate within town, but it’s a lot more expensive than using a tro-tro or a Ford van.
When I go from Cape Coast to another town, I use a tro-tro, which are boxy vans with three sitting benches in the middle. Tro-tros are the same price as shared taxis and are much cheaper than using drop taxis to get from one town to another. They’re similar to the combis I rode in while volunteering in Peru but much less crowded. Ford vans are more spacious than tro-tros and have air-conditioning. They’re most suitable when you have a long journey ahead. If you have a lot of bags, it’s best to use a drop taxi.
I’ve only come across taxis with air-conditioning in Accra. AC is a luxury in Cape Coast. Driving with the windows down is more fun anyway. I rely on my morning taxi rides to dry my wet hair from my shower and the afternoon rides to dry my sweat and cool me down. Seat belts are available, but they’re either stuffed into the seats or have a clip in them that you have to remove before fastening. I’ve been meaning to ask one of my taxi drivers the purpose of the clip. Kirsty told me it’s smart to build an army of taxi drivers by taking phone numbers from the ones I like. I call my drivers when I need someone to “pick me” (they don’t say “pick me up”). I only take phone numbers from taxi drivers who are calm, respectful, friendly but don’t talk the whole time, don’t ask me for my number and give me a good price the first time I ask. Ha, man, I’m a toughie. But really, I savor the quiet time the drop taxis provide me. They are my refuge after a chaotic bout in the market. Kirsty judges drivers based on conversation and how good of shape their car is in. Cape Coast taxis are all manual cars, which you don’t notice until you want to roll down the window and the lever is broken. But taxi drivers share cars, so I never recruit them into my army based on their car.
From my apartment to the main road at the bottom of the hill, it’s about a 10-minute walk. If I want to go toward Elmina, which is a 15-minute drive west of Cape Coast, I cross the road and try to get a taxi from that side. But most days I stay on the side of the road by the bottom of the hill to head to town or to Abura (a busy suburb where most of our volunteers’ homestay families live and where many of our NGO partners’ offices reside). When I see a taxi coming from the left, I use my right hand to point forward in the direction of Abura, or point behind me if I’m going to town. It’s disrespectful to use your left hand for anything in Ghana because historically the left hand was thought of as the dirty hand.
If I want a drop taxi I look for the taxis with no passengers. It’s 3 or 4 cedis to take to town. When a taxi pulls over for me, I bend down until I’m level with the driver (no need to lean in on the door – your money gets you a lot farther than your cleavage, unfortunately.. or fortunately?) and ask through their unrolled window, “Kingsway?” They nod. “How much?” I learned the hard way that no matter how long you’ve waited for a taxi, how hot it is, or how late you are, you must never forget to ask how much the fare is before getting in.
Whenever I forget to ask, I realize I’ve forgotten as soon as I get inside his car and we start driving. My stomach plummets because, out of sheer absentmindedness, I’ve subjected myself to a possible asshole. I’ve come up with the embarrassingly pessimistic discovery that every time an obroni approaches a taxi driver here, there’s a 50 percent chance he’s an asshole. I hate arguing with taxi drivers. It’s exhausting to constantly have to prove that I’m more than my white skin; I’m more than a money sign, and it’s even more exhausting to listen to their relentless bantering, all the while knowing that I wouldn’t even being having the conversation if my skin was black.
I only argue with taxi drivers when I have to. The majority of the arguments took place in July and August when Cape Coast was busting at the seams with obronis on their summer break from school, and the taxi drivers thought every obroni was only here for a few weeks. So of course, when they asked how long I’ve been in Cape Coast, the first question on rotation of all taxi drivers’ small-talk talking points, they were all delighted to hear that I’d been in town for a while and I’m staying for two years. The thing that really gets under my skin is when the driver and I agree on a price of a drop taxi and then when he gets to my apartment he tells me he didn’t realize how far away I live (bull shit) and tries to charge me more. Or when the driver picks up me and one or two of my obroni volunteers as an agreed shared ride – 30-60 pesewas each, depending on the route we give him – and then a few minutes later the driver says, “Where am I dropping you?” But at least if this happens you can get out, not pay anything and look for another ride.
During my first week in Ghana while trying out the taxi system without help, I forgot to ask the fare amount until I got to my front doorstep and the driver charged me double the expected price. I didn’t have any one cedis either, so I couldn’t give him the amount he should’ve charged me and then made an exit. It’s not very advisable to do that when you’re with a particularly hostile driver, but you can get away with it if you disagree over the price early and make pleasant small talk with them during the drive. It feels like a passive-aggressive cop-out but whatever.
I forget I am a minority in Ghana until I do anything that involves spending money. It's frustrating to be discriminated against, but I got used to it quickly. You have to. And I realize I have nothing to complain about if this is the most blatant form of discrimination I've faced in my life. To Africans, simply not being from Africa automatically means we have more money than they do. In Ghana you are considered wealthy if you can provide yourself your needs and most of your wants. If we used this principle as a measuring stick of wealth in America, I would be considered rich. Most people would be considered rich.
But we must not compare apples to oranges.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Women's Day at the Cape Coast Festival
The 47th Oguaa Fetu Afahye, or Cape Coast Festival, is underway. The Cape Coast Festival is one of two main festivals in the central region of Ghana, the other being the Panafest every other year. People from every nook and cranny of West Africa drive or fly in to Cape Coast for the first week of September to celebrate Oguaa Fetu Afahye. And Cape Coast's residents are all about it too - mere acquaintances were asking me in July if I was excited for the festival, which was a month and a half away.
August 27th to August 31st was comprised of fundraising, communal labor, harvest presentation, a choral concert, Youth Day, Akoms Night and Bakatue/Regatta. I was busy at work those days and wasn't able to make it to any of those events. Plus, I was told the fun really starts in September.
Today I finally managed to duck out of work for a few hours to attend a ceremony for the Women's Day. The official festival program states that it was 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. The NGO I work for only has two volunteers right now, and we had planned to meet up around 1 p.m. at Ato Austin Garden for the event. One of the volunteers, Lauren, was in the village Jukwa teaching women basic health issues and ended up waiting 2.5 hours for a tro-tro after she was done. The ceremony stopped about an hour short of the projected time, so she missed it. The other volunteer Danielle couldn't make it either because she had to go to class at the University of Cape Coast. My boss, Kirsty, was hanging out with her parents who are in town, so I ended up going alone.
Before setting out, I asked Lawrence where to find Ato Austin Garden. Lawrence is our full-time Ghanaian staff member who works as a Volunteer Coordinator. Lawrence knows everyone and everything about Cape Coast.
"Do you know where the Heritage House is?"
"No."
"Do you know where the First National Bank is?
"No."
"You know Kingsway."
I nodded.
"The First National Bank is up the street from Melcom (our mini Target). Go up to the street and it's opposite First National Bank."
There are no addresses or street signs in Cape Coast. We go by landmarks.
I got a shared taxi for 50 pesewas into town at the Kingsway drop-off, which took a lot longer than usual because of all the people in town for the festival. I walked up to the First National Bank, crossed the street and stopped. I was looking for a crowd of people and was listening for music and saw and heard neither. I went over to an umbrellaed stand with three men standing at a booth selling something, phone credit probably, and asked them where Ato Austin Garden was. One of the three knew and pointed me to behind the building they were parked in front of, and then proceeded to ask me if I was going to Kakum. It so happens that I've been to Kakum National Park twice since mid-July. I get asked "You go to Kakum?" and "You been to the castle yet?" at least twice a week. It's funny to me that so many Ghanaians assume obronis are in Cape Coast only to see the slave castle and Kakum. No man, I just asked you where Ato Austin Garden is, not Kakum. I care about the major social issues in your country - I'm not a damn tourist.
I walked past the building and saw four colored tents lined up in a row shading about 75 seated women. My entrance from that side would have been too grand, so I walked down the hill and went to the gate on the side. Three small girls with baskets on their heads were standing at the gate peering in. When they saw me approaching, their curiosity quickly transformed into: "50 pesewas for one orange," recited like a destitute prayer, and I didn't hear the others because I shook my head and told them I wasn't hungry. Two of them left, but one lingered and asked me again if I wanted her pastry for 30 pesewas. I smiled and told her they look good but I'm not hungry. She smiled back and ambled away.
Still at the gate, I turned my attention back to the program. I had expected there to be a couple white faces in the crowd, thinking the Women's Day would have drawn in NGO volunteers, but there were none. My eyes settled on a woman who I felt had been staring at me since I'd gotten to the gate. She was sitting on the edge of the tent closest to the gate. She motioned for me to come over and pointed to the open chair behind her.
I would have eventually walked through the open gate and found a seat myself, but I was more than grateful for the invitation. Yes, I am a woman, but the festival is a Ghanaian festival honoring Ghanaian women. I wanted to attract as little attention to myself as possible.
As I entered the scene from the side and walked to my seat, I was reminded I could never attract little attention to myself as a white blonde 20-something in Ghana. Nearly every head in the crowd turned toward me, including the MC. I smiled at the woman who had invited me, whispered "thank you...medaase" and sat. Ghanaians always smile happily when I tell them "medaase." Lawrence explained that they see it as an honor that we've willingly left our country of riches to be in Ghana. Similarly, they love when foreigners make an effort to speak the native language, which works out well because I enjoy surprising them with the little Fante I know. (I think I like surprising people with what I know in general.) Speaking Fante with Ghanaians whenever possible is my way of thanking them for giving me this beautiful country to live in and to serve. It's the bottle of wine I would bring to a dinner party I was invited to.
I was on the outer edge of the far right of the crowd, but I could see everything I needed to see. There were about 20 male and female government officials sitting in the shade of a tree behind the tents, five men over the right shoulder of the MC working the sound system and a tent of 15 drummers and dancers over the MC's left shoulder. The MC was speaking in Fante, but I was hoping it was just his personal preference and the next person he would pass the mic to would opt to speak in English. After about five minutes he introduced an older woman who was sitting at a center table in front of the first row of chairs. She was a bigger woman with glasses, a bright gold turban and well-tailored and elaborate bright gold dress and draped shell necklace. In fact, everyone was dressed beautifully. These women I was surrounded by were in their 40s or older and seemed well-established, not to mention forward-thinking for attending an event dedicated to them when historically, Ghana and most other African countries have not been known for paying tribute to their women.
This woman turned out to prefer speaking in Fante as well. About a minute into her speech, a lady a few seats to my left and back a row got my attention and motioned for me to sit closer to her. With the help of the lady next to her she was switching the apparently less comfortable white chair with the red chair next to it. She patted the top of it and nodded at me to sit. I thanked them, thinking they had offered me this seat because it was closer to the action, but then the lady on the right said, "I want to tell you what she is saying. You don't understand any of this, do you?" I smiled and shook my head, "No, I don't." I was grinning like an idiot at her kindness.
The first thing my new friend Cecilia told me was that this woman was the grandmother of the Cape Coast community and is speaking on behalf of all the women of the area. Cecilia said the grandmother is happy with this new tradition of having a day dedicated to women during the Oguaa Fetu Afahye. She wants to continue with this tradition each year and wants there to be so many in attendance that the entire Ato Austin Garden would be filled to the edges with people.
Cecilia leaned forward and softly translated for me about every five minutes throughout the rest of the two-hour program. The grandmother discussed the Ghanaian woman's rites of passage through courting, marriage, child birth and old age. Throughout her near-hour speech, I switched my attention between the little man in the festive pants and vest with no shirt underneath and the canary yellow umbrella pole in his hands, his arms almost fully extended directly out from his chest. How did he manage to hold it steady for almost an hour? I imagined what a funny scene it'd be if his arms suddenly gave out and the umbrella collapsed on him and the grandmother.
The next part of the program was an open mic session for the audience. A couple women gave a semi-brief speech about random subjects regarding women. For example, a lady from a bank in Kumasi told us the importance of the woman being the one in the family in charge of saving.
Next thing I knew, I heard the MC say the word, "obroni." Obroni is the nonderogative term Ghanaians use for "foreigner." I knew he was talking about me, as I was still the only white person in the arena. Yep, all eyes now on me. I was leaning on the right side of my chair and became aware that I was scratching my face in a way that probably looked like I was raising my hand. I looked back at Cecilia and she was laughing with the other lady, Francis. Then, to my great pleasure, the MC turned away from me and continued rattling off something in Fante.
I leaned back in my chair toward Cecilia and she asked, "Did you have anything to say or do you have any questions?"
"About.. women? Not right now, no."
"He thought you were raising your hand."
"Oh, no. I didn't mean to."
Then Francis tapped my shoulder and said loudly, "You should say something!"
Cecilia nodded and said, "You should."
I turned around in my seat to see both of them. It seemed to be more than a lighthearted suggestion.
"Well, I guess I could find something to say. Let me think for a bit."
"You should say something!" Francis said again.
Then we listened to another woman who had been living in Cuba for the past 20 years but emphasized several times that she is a Ghanaian. She led a prayer dedicated to the women and the success of the remainder of the festival and the success of next year's Women's Day at the festival.
I was working out what I'd say if I had to talk. All I could think of was this book I started to read called "Half the Sky" and what it means to be a Ghanaian woman. All of a sudden, Francis was waving her hand above her head and grabbed my arm with her free hand and thrust it into the air. "She will speak next!" she told the MC. I looked back at Cecilia for an out, but she was smiling.
It was quiet while I was making my way up to the MC, which felt neither good nor bad. He handed me the mic and answered his ringing cellphone as he walked to the right of the tents. I smiled at the group of dignified and vibrant women sitting before me and said, "Hello. My name is Michaela. Ekuwa." They smiled and laughed lightly at my mentioning of my Ghanaian name. When obronis speak in Fante or use their Ghanaian names while talking to Ghanaians, it's like we're playing a chord on the guitar for them when they're not expecting us to be musically inclined.
The rest of my speech went something like this:
"And I'm from the U.S. I want to thank you for sharing this special day with an outsider. Although I am a woman, I am not a Ghanaian woman. I've worked with women in America, Peru and now Ghana, and I must say Ghanaian women are the strongest of all. They are strong in their outlook on life, they are strong in their words, strong in their actions, strong in their love, strong in their hope and strong in their faith. There is a Chinese proverb that says, 'Women hold up half the sky.' I believe this is true. And some days, in Ghana, the women hold up more than half the sky. Happy Women's Day."
I'm such a cheese ball. A respectful applause followed and I handed the mic to the MC who shook my hand and snapped my middle finger and said, "Medaase, Ekuwa. Ekuwa? Wednesday born?" "Yes, Ekuwa," I told him and went back to my seat. Cecilia and Francis were still clapping when I got there. The program resumed but it seemed to be drawing to an end. A woman carrying a box offered my row water sachets and before I could grab one, Cecilia dug out from her purse a bottled water and put it in my hands.
I felt happy yet undeserving of such good treatment by a small society that I didn't entirely belong to. But as I thought about it more, it is my society. It's going to be my society for the next couple years or however long I stay in Ghana. I am truly looking forward to making the most of it.
August 27th to August 31st was comprised of fundraising, communal labor, harvest presentation, a choral concert, Youth Day, Akoms Night and Bakatue/Regatta. I was busy at work those days and wasn't able to make it to any of those events. Plus, I was told the fun really starts in September.
Today I finally managed to duck out of work for a few hours to attend a ceremony for the Women's Day. The official festival program states that it was 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. The NGO I work for only has two volunteers right now, and we had planned to meet up around 1 p.m. at Ato Austin Garden for the event. One of the volunteers, Lauren, was in the village Jukwa teaching women basic health issues and ended up waiting 2.5 hours for a tro-tro after she was done. The ceremony stopped about an hour short of the projected time, so she missed it. The other volunteer Danielle couldn't make it either because she had to go to class at the University of Cape Coast. My boss, Kirsty, was hanging out with her parents who are in town, so I ended up going alone.
Before setting out, I asked Lawrence where to find Ato Austin Garden. Lawrence is our full-time Ghanaian staff member who works as a Volunteer Coordinator. Lawrence knows everyone and everything about Cape Coast.
"Do you know where the Heritage House is?"
"No."
"Do you know where the First National Bank is?
"No."
"You know Kingsway."
I nodded.
"The First National Bank is up the street from Melcom (our mini Target). Go up to the street and it's opposite First National Bank."
There are no addresses or street signs in Cape Coast. We go by landmarks.
I got a shared taxi for 50 pesewas into town at the Kingsway drop-off, which took a lot longer than usual because of all the people in town for the festival. I walked up to the First National Bank, crossed the street and stopped. I was looking for a crowd of people and was listening for music and saw and heard neither. I went over to an umbrellaed stand with three men standing at a booth selling something, phone credit probably, and asked them where Ato Austin Garden was. One of the three knew and pointed me to behind the building they were parked in front of, and then proceeded to ask me if I was going to Kakum. It so happens that I've been to Kakum National Park twice since mid-July. I get asked "You go to Kakum?" and "You been to the castle yet?" at least twice a week. It's funny to me that so many Ghanaians assume obronis are in Cape Coast only to see the slave castle and Kakum. No man, I just asked you where Ato Austin Garden is, not Kakum. I care about the major social issues in your country - I'm not a damn tourist.
I walked past the building and saw four colored tents lined up in a row shading about 75 seated women. My entrance from that side would have been too grand, so I walked down the hill and went to the gate on the side. Three small girls with baskets on their heads were standing at the gate peering in. When they saw me approaching, their curiosity quickly transformed into: "50 pesewas for one orange," recited like a destitute prayer, and I didn't hear the others because I shook my head and told them I wasn't hungry. Two of them left, but one lingered and asked me again if I wanted her pastry for 30 pesewas. I smiled and told her they look good but I'm not hungry. She smiled back and ambled away.
Still at the gate, I turned my attention back to the program. I had expected there to be a couple white faces in the crowd, thinking the Women's Day would have drawn in NGO volunteers, but there were none. My eyes settled on a woman who I felt had been staring at me since I'd gotten to the gate. She was sitting on the edge of the tent closest to the gate. She motioned for me to come over and pointed to the open chair behind her.
I would have eventually walked through the open gate and found a seat myself, but I was more than grateful for the invitation. Yes, I am a woman, but the festival is a Ghanaian festival honoring Ghanaian women. I wanted to attract as little attention to myself as possible.
As I entered the scene from the side and walked to my seat, I was reminded I could never attract little attention to myself as a white blonde 20-something in Ghana. Nearly every head in the crowd turned toward me, including the MC. I smiled at the woman who had invited me, whispered "thank you...medaase" and sat. Ghanaians always smile happily when I tell them "medaase." Lawrence explained that they see it as an honor that we've willingly left our country of riches to be in Ghana. Similarly, they love when foreigners make an effort to speak the native language, which works out well because I enjoy surprising them with the little Fante I know. (I think I like surprising people with what I know in general.) Speaking Fante with Ghanaians whenever possible is my way of thanking them for giving me this beautiful country to live in and to serve. It's the bottle of wine I would bring to a dinner party I was invited to.
This woman turned out to prefer speaking in Fante as well. About a minute into her speech, a lady a few seats to my left and back a row got my attention and motioned for me to sit closer to her. With the help of the lady next to her she was switching the apparently less comfortable white chair with the red chair next to it. She patted the top of it and nodded at me to sit. I thanked them, thinking they had offered me this seat because it was closer to the action, but then the lady on the right said, "I want to tell you what she is saying. You don't understand any of this, do you?" I smiled and shook my head, "No, I don't." I was grinning like an idiot at her kindness.
The first thing my new friend Cecilia told me was that this woman was the grandmother of the Cape Coast community and is speaking on behalf of all the women of the area. Cecilia said the grandmother is happy with this new tradition of having a day dedicated to women during the Oguaa Fetu Afahye. She wants to continue with this tradition each year and wants there to be so many in attendance that the entire Ato Austin Garden would be filled to the edges with people.
Cecilia leaned forward and softly translated for me about every five minutes throughout the rest of the two-hour program. The grandmother discussed the Ghanaian woman's rites of passage through courting, marriage, child birth and old age. Throughout her near-hour speech, I switched my attention between the little man in the festive pants and vest with no shirt underneath and the canary yellow umbrella pole in his hands, his arms almost fully extended directly out from his chest. How did he manage to hold it steady for almost an hour? I imagined what a funny scene it'd be if his arms suddenly gave out and the umbrella collapsed on him and the grandmother.
The next part of the program was an open mic session for the audience. A couple women gave a semi-brief speech about random subjects regarding women. For example, a lady from a bank in Kumasi told us the importance of the woman being the one in the family in charge of saving.
Next thing I knew, I heard the MC say the word, "obroni." Obroni is the nonderogative term Ghanaians use for "foreigner." I knew he was talking about me, as I was still the only white person in the arena. Yep, all eyes now on me. I was leaning on the right side of my chair and became aware that I was scratching my face in a way that probably looked like I was raising my hand. I looked back at Cecilia and she was laughing with the other lady, Francis. Then, to my great pleasure, the MC turned away from me and continued rattling off something in Fante.
I leaned back in my chair toward Cecilia and she asked, "Did you have anything to say or do you have any questions?"
"About.. women? Not right now, no."
"He thought you were raising your hand."
"Oh, no. I didn't mean to."
Then Francis tapped my shoulder and said loudly, "You should say something!"
Cecilia nodded and said, "You should."
I turned around in my seat to see both of them. It seemed to be more than a lighthearted suggestion.
"Well, I guess I could find something to say. Let me think for a bit."
"You should say something!" Francis said again.
Then we listened to another woman who had been living in Cuba for the past 20 years but emphasized several times that she is a Ghanaian. She led a prayer dedicated to the women and the success of the remainder of the festival and the success of next year's Women's Day at the festival.
I was working out what I'd say if I had to talk. All I could think of was this book I started to read called "Half the Sky" and what it means to be a Ghanaian woman. All of a sudden, Francis was waving her hand above her head and grabbed my arm with her free hand and thrust it into the air. "She will speak next!" she told the MC. I looked back at Cecilia for an out, but she was smiling.
It was quiet while I was making my way up to the MC, which felt neither good nor bad. He handed me the mic and answered his ringing cellphone as he walked to the right of the tents. I smiled at the group of dignified and vibrant women sitting before me and said, "Hello. My name is Michaela. Ekuwa." They smiled and laughed lightly at my mentioning of my Ghanaian name. When obronis speak in Fante or use their Ghanaian names while talking to Ghanaians, it's like we're playing a chord on the guitar for them when they're not expecting us to be musically inclined.
The rest of my speech went something like this:
"And I'm from the U.S. I want to thank you for sharing this special day with an outsider. Although I am a woman, I am not a Ghanaian woman. I've worked with women in America, Peru and now Ghana, and I must say Ghanaian women are the strongest of all. They are strong in their outlook on life, they are strong in their words, strong in their actions, strong in their love, strong in their hope and strong in their faith. There is a Chinese proverb that says, 'Women hold up half the sky.' I believe this is true. And some days, in Ghana, the women hold up more than half the sky. Happy Women's Day."
I'm such a cheese ball. A respectful applause followed and I handed the mic to the MC who shook my hand and snapped my middle finger and said, "Medaase, Ekuwa. Ekuwa? Wednesday born?" "Yes, Ekuwa," I told him and went back to my seat. Cecilia and Francis were still clapping when I got there. The program resumed but it seemed to be drawing to an end. A woman carrying a box offered my row water sachets and before I could grab one, Cecilia dug out from her purse a bottled water and put it in my hands.
I felt happy yet undeserving of such good treatment by a small society that I didn't entirely belong to. But as I thought about it more, it is my society. It's going to be my society for the next couple years or however long I stay in Ghana. I am truly looking forward to making the most of it.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
In Ghana, Everything's in a Name
Turns out I can learn a lot more in Cape Coast, Ghana besides how to machete a coconut. (See previous post for explanation, or don't, if you like ambiguity.)
For instance, what's in a name? Get a taxi into town and you'll come across In His Mercy Salon, He Is In Me Entertainment, Jesus Is Lord Nails, The Favor of Jesus Is With Me Phones and It's a Miracle Electrical Store, to name a few. My boss Kirsty texts her dad in Scotland every time she sees a particularly humorous one. To explore the concept "what's in an expression" next, simply turn around in your taxi seat and look at the bumper sticker on the back window or on the backs of other taxis and you'll see "Christ the King," "Medaase" ("thank you" in the local language, Fante), "Shalom," "Philippians 4:13," "Forgive and Forget," "Yes!" "Jesus is my Helper," "Except God" (yes, it's "except," not "accept"), "Through Him," "Please" or my personal favorite, "Why Not?"
Ghanaians also have a peculiar way of naming nongovernmental organizations, or NGOs. Instead of using imagery or word play as American- and European-born NGOs do, Ghanaians name their NGOs with the intention of conveying their specific outreach. Here are a few of the local NGOs I've come across:
- Health and Life Protection Foundation (HALP)
- Rural Women Development & Health Initiative (RUWDHI)
- Foundation for Economic Development & Educational Promotion (FEDEP)
- Health Prevention and Environmental Sanitation (HEPENS)
You tend to see similar themes in the full name of Ghanaian NGOs (health, development, educational, sanitation, etc.). At least the development world speaks fluent Acronym.
For instance, what's in a name? Get a taxi into town and you'll come across In His Mercy Salon, He Is In Me Entertainment, Jesus Is Lord Nails, The Favor of Jesus Is With Me Phones and It's a Miracle Electrical Store, to name a few. My boss Kirsty texts her dad in Scotland every time she sees a particularly humorous one. To explore the concept "what's in an expression" next, simply turn around in your taxi seat and look at the bumper sticker on the back window or on the backs of other taxis and you'll see "Christ the King," "Medaase" ("thank you" in the local language, Fante), "Shalom," "Philippians 4:13," "Forgive and Forget," "Yes!" "Jesus is my Helper," "Except God" (yes, it's "except," not "accept"), "Through Him," "Please" or my personal favorite, "Why Not?"
Ghanaians also have a peculiar way of naming nongovernmental organizations, or NGOs. Instead of using imagery or word play as American- and European-born NGOs do, Ghanaians name their NGOs with the intention of conveying their specific outreach. Here are a few of the local NGOs I've come across:
- Health and Life Protection Foundation (HALP)
- Rural Women Development & Health Initiative (RUWDHI)
- Foundation for Economic Development & Educational Promotion (FEDEP)
- Health Prevention and Environmental Sanitation (HEPENS)
You tend to see similar themes in the full name of Ghanaian NGOs (health, development, educational, sanitation, etc.). At least the development world speaks fluent Acronym.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)