Leaving Ghana and "How It Was"

Somehow, leaving Ghana was less painful than anticipated. I was ready for my next chapter. I left knowing I will return some day, and Ghana will be waiting with welcoming arms. 

Leaving the Ghanaians I had grown close to however, well, that was the most difficult thing I've ever had to do. I was bursting into sporadic fits of tears the entire week before my departure. Sometimes a mere glance from a Ghanaian friend - a stranger, even - would cause me terrible distress. I sobbed the entire second half of the last drumming and dance performance of the cultural group that had become my brothers and sisters. If that wasn't theatric enough, I left the performance early - ran up the stage's steps (dramatically, the only exit), past the Cape Coast Slave Castle and into the night, raw as an open wound.

What saddened me most was the idea that every relationship I made in Ghana would never again be as I know it now. When I return to Ghana we will all have changed. I'm not opposed to change, but the concept of "how it was" is sacred to me. Leaving my Ghanaian community was like waking up too soon from a good dream. You have the mental power, the imagination to finish it however you want, but you would rather find the happy ending by returning to the dream. You go back to sleep and try to continue the good dream, but you can't. 

"How it was" has reshaped me, and now it will be only a memory.

After completing my work in Ghana in September 2011, I finished my 14-month adventure in Cape Coast with the annual "Oguaa Fetu Afahye," or Cape Coast Festival.

Before I left Ghana I learned the organization I worked for was planning to open a site in Cape Town, South Africa. I offered to help set up the site, knowing that I would be visiting the country anyway. So, in September and October I spent a weekend in Johannesburg, a week in Durban, a week around Mbabane, Swaziland (and was stranded there because of the public transportation drivers' riots), and four weeks in Cape Town.

In Cape Town I was contracted by my former employer to meet with local businesses to lay the foundation for the new nongovernmental organization office. I met with over one dozen community partners and set up the projects, accommodation and excursions. The site officially opens in January 2012. It was such a cool experience to network and search for potential business partners in Cape Town and hear about what these innovative enterprises do.

I fell in love with Cape Town, Durban and South Africa's complicated social and political history. Swaziland was also a fascinating country with interesting political history, being the last absolute monarchy in the southern hemisphere. I would love to return some day and spend more time there.

Update:  I actually did end up returning to Swaziland two months after this post. I was hired by a responsible tourism company and lived and worked there for about one year. 

Summer of Silence

This is the first summer I can remember that has left me more stressed, more anxious and more exhausted than before it started. Our site has led and accommodated between 20 and 50 volunteers each month from May through August, including four study abroad group programs. With the Project Coordinator Intern's angelic assistance, I have managed all individual volunteer and intern projects and group projects – the miscommunications, the questions, the complaints and the positive feedback from the local project partners, volunteers, interns and faculty leaders. I also approved funding applications and distributed the funds for all these projects (5 projects in May, 12 in June, 17 in July; 9 in August). It was a lot of administrative work and a lot more of putting out fires.

Of the 10 country sites our international nongovernmental organization operates within, the Ghana site was expected to have the most action this summer. After a few months of the Ghana Site Director nagging the President about getting more help on-site, our request was granted in May. Our site grew from four full-time staff members (two local, two foreign) to also include a local temporary Project Coordinator Intern (May-September), a foreign Program Advisor from our marketing department (May-July) and a foreign Volunteer Coordinator (one-year contract). At the end of June, two managers from different departments in our U.S. headquarters office visited for two weeks. It was the first occasion anyone in a managerial position came to our site since it opened in July 2009, a long absence even if the staff hadn’t been stifling complaints about the way things were being managed on-site.

Since mid-May at least once per week there have been personal and professional conflicts among the staff that have resulted in shouting matches, tears and even premeditated public shaming in front of community partners. Somehow I always found myself in the middle, mediating. I’ve been tempted to add to my job description in my resume, "mitigated temper tantrums, nervous breakdowns and verbal attacks between parties."

My blog has been quiet this summer. I assure readers it is not out of laziness. It is because I am tired.

I am emotionally depleted from the 15-hour work days and being on-call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, approving a volunteer’s ideas for her project money donation at 8 p.m. on a Friday night, being called by a host mother at 10:15 p.m. asking if her “daughter” was at our volunteer house because she hadn’t come home yet and then being woken up at 6:50 a.m. the next morning to a volunteer’s call about a question regarding her host family. It is the nature of the job, yes, but that on top of being the site's unofficial peace-keeper? For project partners, volunteers and staff too? My exhaustion stems from always needing to be available, practical, approachable for others (customers and colleagues) even outside of the regular 8 to 5 work hours. It is one of my personal and professional strengths, but these days and in this particular environment it is wearing me down.

I am also tired because I have so many things to say – about how disheartening it is that young people all over the world come to "the country Africa" to Make A Difference and then get frustrated when they learn that they can’t make a difference in two weeks or even two months because their definition of "help" is different than Ghanaians' definition. (Not all, but most volunteers have this viewpoint - especially the summer batches.) I have more to say about how I don’t like how difficult it is for me to find joy in being a foreigner, always standing out. About how even though I feel safe in Ghana, two lost souls with a gun, a machete and a craving for power shook my core in early June. I hate that I jump and look around when I hear people running now.

A more deep-seeded reason for my silence is because I love Ghana, her people and her culture, and I'm immensely grateful for the experiences I’ve been given. My silence is because I don’t feel like my attitude reflects these feelings right now. I've hardened, I've become jaded and cynical (realistically optimistic?). I don't like it. I hope it doesn't last.

My work contract was from July 2010 to July 2011. In April, before summer bombarded, I made the decision to stay onboard through August 2011 to help with the busy season. After my initial shock of being home in a land of infinite excess and waste and unnatural lights and vanity and refined sugar aromas and mammoth-sized cars and Walmart and who knows what else will toss me off my rocker, I hope I will find peace in the aftermath of this summer.

I Specialize in Damage Control

I work for an international nongovernmental organization (INGO) that brings foreigners (about 80% Americans) to Ghana, India, Thailand, Brazil, Peru, Mexico, Belize, Costa Rica, Nepal and Ecuador to serve communities in the health, community development and education sectors while living with host families and learning about the country's culture. I am the Project Coordinator for our site in Cape Coast, Ghana. Besides locating and cultivating partnerships with Ghanaians and their nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) and developing work plans for foreign volunteers and interns, I also end up doing a lot of the volunteer coordinating. Additionally, I update our media outlets and teach a biweekly cross-cultural training seminar to the volunteers. I live with my boss. I work on weekends, sometimes. I live in a compound connected to our volunteer house. I'm "on call" for the volunteers 24 hours a day, seven days a week. What I do is not a job - it is a lifestyle.

During the summer my job requires a shift in focus. One, I become a glorified camp counselor - a shepherd, if you will. Don't get me wrong - we get some cool volunteers - I even consider a few my friends. But when I'm working with them, I am a shepherd. A "bosslady." My boss Kirsty identifies herself as the Mama of the volunteers and me as the fun older sister. I'm okay with that.

Two, I orchestrate the preparations for the projects for both the volunteers and their project partners. This is my second summer working for this INGO. Last June, there were five volunteers on-site. This June? Twenty-three volunteers and interns are working at 12 different projects. As for July, 10 of the June participants will be staying  through the month, overlapping with 18 new arrivals who will be spread out on nine projects, not to mention a group of 15 university students on five projects. Where do I come in? I'm responsible for checking in with everyone throughout their programs to make sure both the volunteers and their partners are satisfied (mending the inevitable communication problems). I am also managing the project money for all the partners and each of their volunteers.

And three, I specialize in Damage Control. Project and Volunteer Damage Control.

One of my favorite damage control stories is from this May. It involves a volunteer who served as an assistant teacher for an elementary school (called "primary school" in Ghana). The Ghana education system allows canes to be used by the teachers to discipline the students. The foreign volunteers who spend time in the schools are deeply disturbed by this, especially when students are caned for reasons such as getting an answer wrong, not leaving enough space between each letter when they write, or for jumping out of their seat with excitement when answering a question. Caning is so ingrained in Ghanaian culture that even when this particular school's headmaster instructed the teachers to cease the caning, the students' parents complained.

When volunteers sign up for the education projects, we warn them before their arrival that caning is the culture's preferred method of punishment. They still have difficulty witnessing it. One of the girl volunteers asked to be caned by a teacher to see how it felt. Others stepped out of the classroom when they felt uncomfortable or upset about it. Until this May, no one had tried to "fix it."

During our organization's orientation and through the cross-cultural training courses I teach, we encourage our volunteers to know their place within the country they are serving while also maintaining a positive outlook on their roles within their NGOs' projects. We explain at length that it is neither acceptable nor worthwhile to try to change an aspect of a culture by imposing one's own culture on theirs. Some then may think, Well, then why should we volunteer at all? Westernized solutions for X-country's problems will never work. Moreover, it can possibly offend the locals. Attempting to impose one's culture on another's is culturally insensitive, arrogent, naïve and distinctly "American." (Sorry to say it.) However, say for instance a volunteer wants to teach community members about the importance of recycling rubbish. There's no harm in that, as it is a solution suitable for a Ghanaian problem.

However, *Bob was determined to change the minds of the 11 teachers at his school during his three-week program. When he told me he was going to try to "fix things," I got nervous. Then he admitted he knew he couldn't banish caning from Ghana's education system, but he hoped to at least influence the teachers at his school as much as possible during his three-week program. During his first few days at the school he asked for a meeting with the 11 teachers and headmaster and provided examples of less painful methods of punishment. Wall sits was his main suggestion. From what I had gathered from my sporadic informal check-ins with him throughout his first week, Bob was going to continue to educate the teachers on alternative ways to discipline the students and hope for the best. 

One afternoon Bob came to our volunteer house after working at the school. A university group was staying at our volunteer house, and many of them were hanging out in the dining room. Bob had been in Ghana maybe a week before the group arrived. He strode into the house, put his backpack on the floor, pulled out a broken cane and triumphantly raised it over his head. He announced to the room, beaming, "Ten more to go!"

I was mortified.

I asked him to come over to where I was sitting. I asked what he had done and why he did it. I reminded him (informed him?) that he had taken and broken someone else's property and such an action could have severed the relationship between him and the school and perhaps the school and our organization. Then came the excuses: "Well, it wasn't that good of a cane anyway," and "...the teacher can just get a new one." I told him what he had done had gone against our organization's ideals, against everything our staff had told the volunteers about keeping our own culture to ourselves.

What Bob did made me think of all the examples in America's history of self-imposing, both recent and in the textbooks. For some reason, this situation triggered a major disappointment in my home country. I don't know when this hostility toward the U.S. started exactly, and I'm not sure if it's just the U.S. who is guilty of this, but something deep inside me scoffs at people's impulse to "help." What qualifies as "help?" What qualifies as an "improvement?" Every culture, every person has a different perception of what it means to "help" and to "improve." In order for change to occur within a society, the society must be ready for change. Going back to the recycling initiative in Ghana, Ghanaians are ready for an improvement on their waste management system. They want help, they want guidance on how to improve their environment. That's why projects focusing on recycling in Ghana have been working.

Eventually Bob seemed to understand what he did was wrong and the potential ramifications of his actions. He apologized and said he wouldn't break anymore canes.

There are definitely some drawbacks to having a job that becomes your lifestyle, but many many positives too. On a scale from 1 to "nooo way, I can't believe that" in terms of damage control tales, this job has delighted me with quite the range. And in hindsight, long after the initial drama, who doesn't love a good story?

Conversations Over Street Food: Religion, Virginity and Love

I set the alarm on my phone for 2:30 a.m. I would have to recruit a taxi driver from the roadside to pick me up at 3 a.m. from my guesthouse. Hopefully I wouldn’t oversleep and hopefully he wouldn’t be late – I didn’t want to miss the bus to Tamale and be stuck in Kumasi another day.

It was almost 4 p.m. With strained effort I got up from the guesthouse’s soft mattress. My body and mind ached for a nap but I knew I should find some dinner instead and head to bed soon after that.

I left the guesthouse and wandered down the street. Bantama is a suburb of Kumasi, the second largest city in Ghana. This street and the ones branching off it were laden with men. Staring and talking at me in Twi, then laughing to each other about it. I was used to friendlier strangers and felt more like a zoo animal rather than a celebrity, a status I had grown accustomed to (but was still skeptical about) in the past 10 months. From the way they were acting I could’ve assumed I had suddenly grown a ghastly tumor on my face.

I turned right at an intersection in hope of finding Ghanaians who wouldn’t stare, jeer, laugh and point at the obroni. And to find a taxi driver for tomorrow morning. And to buy juice – I was feeling fruit-deprived.

Shortly after the turn I found myself on Bantama’s main drag. Loud music blared from every fifth shop, trinkets from the outdoor market crept from the building to the sidewalk, leaving a walkway wide enough for only two people to pass each other. I maneuvered around the neatly stacked displays of shoes, jewelry, purses, black wigs, fabrics, football (soccer) gear and clothes. I turned into a corner shop and bought a box of pineapple juice.

Then I stood on the side of the road and waved an empty taxi car to my side. Without a word, I got inside. I greeted him and and told him I needed a driver to “pick me” from my guesthouse at 3 a.m. I asked if he would do it and he agreed.

“Where to?”
“Metro Mass Station.”
“You mean the station this way or this way?” he asked, pointing forward and then behind him.
“This way. Metro Mass Station,” I said, pointing behind us. I felt a surge of gratefulness for Isaac, the taxi driver who drove me from the Metro Mass Station to the guesthouse and showed me how close it was.
“Oh, ok,” he said. “And please, where is the guesthouse?”
“I will show you. Drive forward and pass right here.”

I directed him to the guesthouse which was around the corner from where I had gotten into his car. We negotiated a price for the morning fare. He tried charging me 10 cedis but I knew the distance was more deserving of three. He laughed when I called him out on it and agreed to three cedis. We took each other’s names and numbers and parted ways.

Now back at the front of my guesthouse, I continued down the street again in search of a rice stand. I found one past the intersection that initially I had turned onto. Spacious enough for two to work inside, the stall had countertops on each side and plastic windows to keep the flies out.

I said "good afternoon" to one of the two women working inside the stall, the woman nearest to the front cage screen. She looked up from scooping rice into a plastic bag for another customer's takeaway and smiled. She spoke in Twi to the other woman but maintained eye contact with me. All I understood was “obroni” and then they both laughed.

She scooped red spicy sauce called "gravy" or "stew" into a plastic bag, then scooped the rice on top of the sauce. I asked for 30 pesewas of salad (coleslaw), an egg (available at rice stands in hardboiled form) and stew (spicy and sometimes fishy reddish brown sauce). She added those bits, wrapped the plastic bag in newspaper and put it inside another black plastic bag. I paid and left before remembering to ask for a plate and utensils. I was in a hurry to leave - I felt unwanted and disrespected as a foreigner there, with the woman talking about me, at me but in another language which she knew I didn't understand, to everyone around.

About 20 paces down the street back toward the guesthouse, I approached a teenage girl as she was walking through the side door of a rice stand. We exchanged greetings. I asked if I could use a plate and utensils. She shook her head quickly and said, “No.”

The next business that was open was another rice stand a few meters from the entrance of my guesthouse. I had walked by earlier but no one was around except a woman sprawled on a bench behind the stand sleeping. As I walked by again I saw she was still laying on the bench but was awake and staring at me. I went over to her behind the stall, greeted her and asked if I could use a plate.

“O, yes, come,” she said, sitting up abruptly. “What food is it?” she asked, moving into the stall. Her hand hesitated between a bowl and a plate.

I told her it was rice and she looked a little disappointed. I explained I had come by her rice stand earlier but she was sleeping and I didn’t want to wake her.

“O! It is fine!” she replied. She rinsed a bowl in a tub of water, shook the water droplets off and handed it to me. I removed my food from the outer bag and newspaper, pulled apart the plastic and dumped the food into the bowl.

“Will you eat with a spoon or your hands?” the woman asked.
“Normally I would eat with my hands but I don’t want to today.” I wanted her to know that I do like to learn and practice her culture.

She washed a spoon and handed it to me. She sat on the bench next to me and leaned back against the white wall. We talked about our Ghanaian names, our ages, why I’m in Ghana, where I’m from, who she knows in the states, if I go to church, what religion I practice, which church, etc. Her name is Adjowa, she is 37 years and she has four children ages six to 13. She is married. She met her husband in their church's choir practices. She is a Baptist. Her rice stand has been on this street corner for five years and she is from this town, Bantama.

“So, do you want me to be your pal?” Adjowa asked.
“Yes, of course!”
“I will be your senior sister, and you will be my junior sister.”
“I would like that very much.”
“Do you have a driver for tomorrow when you leave early in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know him?”
I knew his name, his number and that he’s a driver in Kumasi. “Yes.”
“Is he a good driver?”
“He is.”
“So will you wait for him here?” Adjowa pointed around me to the front entrance of the guesthouse, where I had told her I was staying.
“Yes.”
“Ok,” Adjowa nodded. Her eyes moved left to right over the street. “Where do you live? Does your place of work have a living quarters?”
“No, I live in a different part of town than where my office is.”
“Do you rent space?”
“Yes, the organization I work for rents it for me and my roommate.”
“How many rooms? Do you have three rooms?”
“Yes!”
“Do you have a hallway?”
“No, we have three separate rooms, each with doors. We have a self-contained kitchen, and it is connected to another room that has our shower and toilet,” I responded.
“Are you a virgin?”

WOW...did she seriously just ask that? I stifled a laugh. I nodded slowly and said "yes," remembering from our conversation earlier that she is a very religious woman. The judgmental type, I suspected. A woman who goes to church Sundays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays – sometimes twice a day – would not like hearing that I wasn’t a virgin if I am not married. But, wait a minute. How is my sex life related to where I live?!

“Thank God!” Adjowa exclaimed. Please, laughter, stay inside. “Thank God you have kept yourself. Because men will take you and then dump you, you know that?”
“Yes,” I responded solemnly.

I was more a spectator in this conversation than an active participant. I could’ve shared what I really thought, but I didn’t want disharmony – especially not while I was eating.

Yet, out of desire for more amusement, I blurted a Ghanaian phrase that took the middle road between my polite answers catered for strangers and my real thoughts. “But it’s hard-o.”
“Yes, but thank God you have kept yourself.” Adjowa continued, “You said you are not married and do not have a fiancé – do you have someone in mind?”
“For me, there is almost always someone in mind. I never start that serious though.”
“Then is your fiancé white or black?”
“I don’t have a fiancé.”
“You said you have someone you want to marry.”

I wanted to explain that crushing is different than dating, dating for fun is different than dating someone you could marry, and most people who are in a relationship don't know for at least a year or two and sometimes longer if they want to marry that person.

Instead I said, “Oh, I don’t want to marry anyone right now. In the states, usually being attracted to someone just makes you want to get to know the other person. Then, if you become friends, you might want to date more seriously and eventually become fiancés. Those feelings take time to grow.”

I noticed Adjowa had stopped listening and was staring intently at my bare arms beaded in sweat. “Where is your handkerchief?” she asked. I pointed to my bag. “You are too wet! I will get your handkerchief for you.”
I laughed. “Yes, I am always wet in Ghana. Eating hot food makes me even more wet.” In Ghana people say "hot" when they mean "spicy."
Adjowa reached into my bag and placed my purple and orange plaid handkerchief in my lap next to my half-eaten bowl of rice. “Finish your food. Keep the houseflies away and then you can use your handkerchief.”

I smiled to myself as I spooned more bites into my mouth.

“Do you want a white or black husband?” Adjowa asked.
“You can’t choose who you fall in love with.”
Adjowa was clearly fishing for a juicier answer. “Do you want to marry a rich man? Or…would you rather marry a rich man or a God-fearing man?”
I paused. “Neither. I want to marry someone I’m compatible with and who loves me for who I am and who challenges me to be a better person.”

Blank stare and silence.

“But you wouldn’t want to marry a God-fearing man?” she pressed. “You wouldn’t want to marry a man who fears God?”
“No.”
Adjowa’s jaw dropped. I continued, “I don’t like the word ‘fear’ in this context. I would rather have him embrace God, however he understands God.”

I finished my water sachet in silence and glanced sideways at her. Her stare was fixed on the street where half a dozen children were playing tag.

“I must go,” I told her. “I need to sleep.”
We both stood. “You won’t bathe before you sleep?” she asked with concern.
“Oh, you’re right. I should bathe tonight.”

I handed Adjowa my dish, uttered medaase and hiked my bag over my shoulder.

Adjowa grabbed my shoulders and squared them so I was facing her. "You said you are Christian," she said gravely. "Are you a good one?"
"Sometimes. I try."
"You must try harder."
"I will," I assured her.
Adjowa smiled and squeezed my shoulders and stroked my arms. “Safe journey to Tamale tomorrow.”
“Thank you, medaase. We will meet again, Adjowa.”
“Yoo, goodbye, sistah Ekua.”

I walked through the children’s game to my guesthouse, marginally oblivious to their obroni calls, wishing I could've shared that conversation and experience with a friend.

Expecting Things in Return (And Not)

As our 22-seater van pulled into the Kejetia lorry station, I asked the man sitting next to me if he knew Kumasi well.

“Yes, please, I am from Kumasi,” he said.
“Do you know how much a taxi from Kejetia station to the STC station should be?”

He pondered a few seconds and said it should cost me three cedis. I thanked him. He pulled my bag out from under the seat in front and brought it off the van for me. I thanked him again and scanned the scene for a taxi driver. I didn’t have to try hard – three men engulfed me as soon as I set foot on ground. “Where are you going?” “Need a taxi?” “White woman, need a ride?”

I took my bag from the man and walked away from the crowd to a taxi driver leaning against the hood of his car. I asked him to take me to the STC station.

“OK, let’s go,” he said, moving toward the driver’s seat.
“How much?” I pressed.
He rested his folded arms on the top of the ajar door and gazed across the Kejetia market, the largest open market in West Africa. “You give me 15 cedis.”
“Fifteen?!” I laughed. I turned to walk away and saw the man from the van standing close by, smiling and shaking his head.
The taxi driver followed me. “The traffic is too much at this time of day.”
“The traffic is always too much – this is Kumasi!” I retorted.

I shouldn’t have expected to get a fair price at the lorry station anyway. The lorry stations in Ghana’s bigger cities are known for overcharging drop taxi passengers – foreigners and Ghanaians alike. The Van Man and I walked away from the station along the main Kejetia road. The taxi driver did not follow.

“You will get a taxi for three cedis, don’t worry,” he promised me. I find it amusing that when Ghanaians want to help me they find it necessary to promise that everything will be alright and not to worry. Both men and women do this to foreigners, I’ve noticed. Very peculiar – more on that later though.

We spotted a taxi driver with no passengers inching along the road in traffic. Van Man lowered his head and spoke in Twi to the driver. I was perfectly capable of getting my own taxi but let him help anyway. He looked back up to me, smiled and proudly said, “Three cedis.” I chuckled and thanked him. Before I shut the car door, Van Man asked, “How can I reach you?” I laughed softly to myself – I had felt that one coming. “Next time I’m in Kumasi, maybe I will see you.” I shut the door and waved goodbye.

The lady at the STC bus station was not nearly as helpful. Extracting information from people is one of my duties as an INGO Project Coordinator – I didn’t want to work on my holiday. After a painful question-and-answer session, I finally found out that the STC bus from Kumasi to Tamale this day and the next were already full. I had some wildlife to see – I wasn’t about to lounge around Kumasi for two days before getting a bus, only to take another bus to my final destination. I opted for my next option, the Metro Mass bus, which was positioned inconveniently on the other side of the city. I walked outside to the drop taxi station and asked a driver if he could take me to the Metro Mass station.

This man was a hospitable driver, transportation system informant and tour guide. When we got to the Metro Mass station I asked him to wait for me while I checked to see if I could buy a ticket to Tamale. There wasn’t a line to the Tamale booth, so I walked up to the ticket lady and asked how much a ticket to Tamale would be. “Eight cedis,” she replied. She stood up and began fiddling with the money trays in the money box. I fished eight cedis out of my bag, dropping one bill on the ground. As a frequent dropper of items, I've learned that most Ghanaians will jump to help you clean a mess you've accidentally created but won't assist you in picking up your valuables. I'm wondering if not touching another's possessions stems back to the highly competitive and untrusting nature many Ghanaians associate with their working class.

I slid the money through the open window. The ticket lady clicked the money box shut, then looked at the money and back at me.
“O!” she exclaimed and picked up her purse from the ground and moved to the booth’s exit.
“O, madam. You are leaving?” I asked.
She turned around and said, “Yes.”
“So, no more tickets can be bought for the Tamale bus today?”
“Oh, please, no,” she responded.
My heart sank. “If-only thoughts” tried invading my mind (if only I hadn't gone to the STC station, if only the van from Cape Coast hadn't taken two hours to fill, etc.), but if I gave these thoughts a swift boot out. She turned to leave again. I called after her. “When will you start selling tickets to the next Tamale bus?”
“Four a.m. tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder.

I need to be back here earlier than 4 a.m., I thought. I asked a man nearby when lines form for the 4 a.m. buses. He told me 3:30 a.m. I thanked him and walked over to my waiting taxi, knowing I should be at the station before three.

I got back inside the taxi and sounded out to the driver my last two options. I could either pay another five (ish) cedis to have him drive me to the Tamale tro-tro station, get to Tamale by nightfall, spend the night in Tamale and board the Mole bus the next afternoon, or I could overnight in Kumasi near the Metro Mass station, get a Tamale bus in the morning and try to get to Mole in one day. It was a five-hour ride to Tamale via bus, so that meant it was maybe an eight- or nine-hour drive via tro, not including a potential breakdown along the way. I figured the safer and more relaxing option would be to stay a night in Kumasi.

I asked the driver if he knew any guesthouses nearby. He did but didn’t know the names of them or how much they cost. I took out my Bradt guidebook from my bag and flipped to the Kumasi guesthouse pages. I gave him the book and asked if he knew where each of the cheaper guesthouses were. One by one, he said told me which part of Kumasi the guesthouses were located and whether it was far from the station. They were all far away. “How about you drive me to the closest guesthouse you know?” I asked. “Yes, it isn’t in the guidebook," he said. "I will take you there.”

As he drove from the Metro Mass station, I felt a powerful wave of gratefulness for his willingness to help. And I didn't even know his name! Normally I ask taxi drivers their name as soon as I get in their car, but this time I had forgotten.

"Please, what is your name?" I asked.
"I am Isaac."
"Isaac, very nice to meet you. Thank you for going out of your way to help me."

He beamed and said it was his duty to help obronis like me. Then he explained that we were in Bantama, a suburb of Kumasi, and pointed out recognizable buildings in case I wanted to walk to the station. I wouldn’t, though, because it would be in the middle of the night, but the gesture was sweet anyway. We parked in front of a tall brick building with a white gated patio. The sign on the bricks said it was a café, but the sign on the wall read “Restaurant and Guesthouse.”

The cheapest room was double the price I was looking for (22 cedis per night for a double bed with a fan), but the location was ideal for my early morning, and I had already spent money to get there anyway – asking Isaac to drive me to another guesthouse to compare prices would cost more. I took the room.

After I made the decision to stay, Isaac turned from the front desk lady to me. He looked satisfied that he had properly seen me off.

“So. Your name is?” Isaac asked.
“Michaela.” I took his hand in mine and shook it the Ghanaian way.
"Michaela," he repeated. "It sounds Ghanaian."
"Thank you," I smiled.
“Safe journey tomorrow.” He bowed his head and raised his hand to indicate "goodbye." Spinning on his heels, he walked out the door.
“Medaase.”

It was intriguing that he didn’t try to give me his number and tell me that I should call him to pick me up in the morning. Usually when the conversation between taxi driver and passenger flows well, the drivers try to give you their number and suggest that you call them for a drop taxi ride. Isaac had mentioned that he lives on the other side of town - if he had come to pick me up in the morning, it would’ve cost me more because he would have to drive farther to get to me. It was either very thoughtful of him to not push that on me, or he just didn't want to get up in the middle of the night to drive me around.

I paid for the accommodation and followed the caretaker woman to my room up the stairs and around the corner. The building was open-air - opposite my door was the kitchen. Water running, women singing, pots clanging, but at least it smelled good. I followed the caretaker into my room, set my bags down and walked to the bathroom to turn on the faucet to make sure the water was running. It was. I thanked the woman and sat down on my bed as she left the room. The mattress was a lot softer than mine at home in Cape Coast. I leaned back across the bed and closed my eyes, thinking about how the next day was going to come early and end late. In like a lion and out like a lion.

Blind Man's Music

Two more passengers was all we needed. As one of the first to board the tro-tro, I had waited two hours for it to fill. We were heading to Kumasi, four hours north of my home in Cape Coast. I was going on a long weekend trip to Mole National Park by myself. (See previous post for details.)

It was more of a van than a tro-tro, as it had almost double the number of seats (22). If you don’t like people touching you or don't do well in small spaces, public transportation in Ghana and probably in the rest of Africa is not for you.

The front had two seats next to the driver and the back looked like this:

Don’t let the divided lines fool you – they are not separated individual seats. They are benches. The bench in front of you is usually about 12 inches away from your chin, and you are thigh to thigh, hip to hip and arm to arm with the person or people next to you. Although tro-tros and vans are not the most comfortable way to get around, the forced physical closeness makes for my most interesting moments in Ghana. This morning was no exception.

An old man in a navy blue jumpsuit too big for his slight body stepped onto our van in the opening space where there was no seat. He faced us. He was blind in a rather painful-looking way. His left pupil was permanently positioned left, revealing a yellowed sclera. Near his right eye's iris was some sort of puncture wound the size of a dime. He lowered his lids halfway (I wondered whether he did this consciously) and began speaking to us in Fante, the main local language spoken in the Central and Western Regions of Ghana. I only know a handful of Fante phrases and words, but knew the gist of what he was saying.

When tro-tros are almost full, salesmen stand by the open door and duck their heads inside to give a minute-long sales pitch on energy drinks, pens with calendars inside them, body soap, religious books, how-to books – you name it. And sometimes on the vans, where there is more room to stand, eloquent gracious representatives of religious bodies (usually Christian churches) will recite a prayer and mention the importance of faith and knowing Jesus and the Lord. Then he wishes the passengers a safe and blessed journey, sings a soulful song and steps out of the van. I’ve witnessed these van prayers three times and each van reacted the same way. Whereas the passengers generally ignore the salesmen on the tros, they clap, exclaim and give money to these people of extraordinary faith.

All I could understand of the old man's prayer was “St. Francis.” He mentioned his name several times. I had no recollection of what St. Francis was known for and wondered why this man chose to speak about him rather than St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers.

He spoke softly, but his words still reached everyone in the van. His voice sounded as old as his weary eyes looked. Although his eyes didn’t seem to register anything, he moved his head slowly from one side of the van to another as he spoke. He used his hands at times, moving them with control and grace.

The man next to me leaned over my lap to pull his wallet from the back right pocket of his trousers. He took out a one cedi bill and asked the woman sitting in front of him to give it to the man. She took the cedi and placed it inside the man’s idle hand by his waist. His eyes still projected ahead, his fingers fumbled for the money, though not with desperation or greed. He stopped his speech to say, “May God bless you,” and tucked the cedi into his left breast pocket, his finger catching the rim of the pocket, jingling a few coins from the bottom.

He finished the prayer and took out two light wooden cylinder-shaped sticks and began building a rhythm. The sticks were about six inches in length and an inch in width. He hit the right one on the left, rotating the left stick in his hand each time after striking it with the right. The rhythm was simple – one, two, one, two, one, two. It was so genuine. As a devoted admirer of African music, I am convinced Africans are born with musical inclination. There were countless rhythms and combinations of rhythms he could have played with those two sticks, but he chose the simplest, purest beat there is.

In his blind eyes, in his quiet demeanor, I could not detect a trace of sadness or of desperation. He was calm and steady. It was as if his only intention was to bring us faith and hope. When he began to sing, it was too beautiful for me. Too unexpected. Too needed. I couldn’t handle it. My throat swelled and tears brimmed. I laughed quietly at myself and pulled out my wallet. Despite never giving money to those who beg due to its often pointlessness and even negative repercussions, giving money to this blind man seemed like the most natural thing to do. There was no question in my mind about it. From moments like these I've learned there is a difference between sustainable giving and kindness.

In fear of completely losing it, I didn't dare look at the old man again or anyone as I handed a one cedi bill to the man next to me. I asked if he could pass it up. He looked at me, then looked at the van’s open entrance, where girls and women stood by our door with boxes and bowls of food on their heads. “You want a meat pie?” he asked. He probably didn’t think I would give the man a cedi because there was no way I had understood his prayer. A meat pie seemed like a more obvious purchase for a foreigner.

“No, can you give it to that man?” I nodded in his direction.
The guy next to me looked from me to the singing man and then back at me. “That man?”
I nodded, feeling my throat swell again. I kept my gaze unfocused and downward; it would've been impossible to keep the tears in if I had locked eyes with another.
I could hear him smile. “God bless you!” he said, and passed my cedi forward.

I looked the other way out the window, wishing the old man would stop playing his music and stop singing. It was too beautiful.

Traveling Alone in Ghana

I was the third passenger to pay for a seat on a tro-tro from Cape Coast to Kumasi, a four-hour trek north. Nineteen more seats filled after two hours of waiting. Waiting inside the tro, mind you, away from the unforgiving sun. I say “unforgiving” because one would assume the African Sun would give us a few hours in the mornings to collect our wits before penetrating our minds and bodies, but it does not. It’s like your boss calling you before work asking you for that thing you had to do for him. Not cool.

It was pointless to wonder how much quicker that wait would’ve been on a weekend, but I wondered it anyway. Besides updating my work expense log and walking across the station to buy a hardboiled egg with pepper sauce (my favorite street snack) and a loaf of bread to nibble on throughout the weekend, I haven’t a clue how I passed the rest of the time. Probably just people-watched. I’ve become frighteningly skilled at waiting by myself for transportation to show up or to take off. Without a car in Ghana, waiting has become my replacement "zone out time" for when I used to drive from Point A to Point B with no recollection.

I was on the brink of embarking on a four-day solo adventure in the Northern Region of Ghana. Waiting for the Kumasi tro to fill and leave was the shortest wait of the entire weekend – I had 12 more hours of waiting ahead. Traveling alone in Africa is doable if you have patience and a substantial way to unwind. All that waiting by myself made me realize how nice it would’ve been to have had another foreigner to chat with about the less than enjoyable transportation conditions. Being alone forced me to internalize a lot, but it will spew out in my writing in this post and the next couple.

Occasionally, others nearby expressed their disapproval of Ghana’s transportation system by saying in exasperation loud enough for just me to hear, “Oh, Africa!” and shake their heads and sometimes laugh. But that wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to wonder aloud and freely without offending anyone. I wanted to ask someone if the people in charge of selling bus tickets were just being lazy or if they are power-crazed and enjoy watching people breathe down each other’s necks for hours in a line that bulges five people wide all the way to the end.

The only reasons I didn't mind that our line at the Metro Mass station in Kumasi was more resemblant of a concert crowd was because we were standing like that from 3 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. and I was too sleepy to care and it wasn’t hot and humid yet. In one of the lines I stood in at Tamale’s Metro Mass station – imagine being in a mosh pit for an hour at the hottest time of the day – the people at the front were waving money at the closed ticket windows but no one even acknowledged them or had the courtesy to explain why they weren’t accepting payment. Why didn’t they accept our money and give us tickets so we could sit down in the shade and wait for the bus to come? Why did the ticket sellers have to wait until the bus arrived before opening the ticket windows? If that’s “just the way it is,” why? Has anyone in a position of authority in the Metro Mass ticket sales department ever questioned the system? I can’t help but wonder if this principle circles back to Ghana’s education system, in which students are forbidden to ask questions to their teachers and professors out of the cultural expectation that they must respect their elders. Can you imagine living in a country in which you couldn’t challenge the way things are? I cannot. I am grateful, but also sad for this.

Traveling alone in Ghana made me realize I only feel comfortable questioning the way things are in Ghana with other foreigners, and I could not do that last weekend. Although many Ghanaians who engaged me in small talk voiced frustrations about the lateness aspect, I couldn’t share my previous rant with just any Ghanaian. Who knows, it could've been considered offensive. I swallowed many questions and exclamations, as I realized they would only add to the stations’ sporadic negative vibes or reinstigate them. There is nothing I can do to change the situation; I am powerless. So I remained silent. I got a taste of what it's like to not be able to challenge the system. Haven't been given much of that taste in my life. Maybe as one could predict, the most memorable occasions were when I was volunteering and working abroad in "developing nations" - Peru and Ghana.

Ranting about these issues to another foreigner wouldn't have solved anything either, so what is the point of ranting or discussing anything at all if there are no real intentions of doing anything to solve the problems? Is ranting like gossiping...people do it for something to talk about? And foreigners detecting another country's "problems" - is that acceptable? Perhaps. Depends on their sources.

My original plans were to travel alone via bus straight to Bolgatanga (the northernmost city in Ghana) which would take all day. After Couchsurfing in Bolga for a couple nights, I was going to take a bus south to Tamale and another from Tamale to Mole. I wanted the alone time to clear my mind before my work's busy season - May to August, when our NGO swells with volunteers and our staff barely has time to eat and sleep. Then some friends in Cape Coast decided they wanted to go to Mole National Park as well, and they have a van. (You could imagine my excitement.) However, the night before we were supposed to leave, one of the drivers had a family emergency and the plans crumbled. The following morning I tried getting a spot on the next Bolga or Tamale bus but by then both were full, as they only leave Cape Coast once a week and tickets are bought days in advance. I ended up going from Cape Coast to Kumasi, overnighted in Kumasi, Kumasi to Tamale, Tamale to Mole, and the same route back home except all in one day. Yeah, I know. You'll read about it later.

Although I daydreamed about my friends' van throughout the trip, and it would’ve been even more fun to have gone with them, I am grateful I had the alone time. I got to exercise my good humor and growing patience, that’s for sure. I also was able to notice more than when I travel with others, which made for an entire notebook of intriguing writing material.

In due time, readers, in due time.

Word to the Wise: Defriend Business Partners & Co-workers on April Fools' Day

Woke up this morning, got my run in, greeted the day watchman, showered, sliced a pineapple for breakfast, checked my e-mails, Facebook... wait, what is this?

Emmanuel, one of our project partners in Ghana, had written this as his Facebook status: "Omg its so cold here in Canada...will be in Ghana in two weeks time. Am sorry to all my friends whom i didnt tell i was leaving Ghana…"

What?! His NGO is getting one of our volunteers on Monday, and she will be working on his project for two weeks! He can’t leave – he is the backbone of his NGO. And I need him to submit a completed project itinerary for a university group working with him in May – I can’t continue preparing for that program until he turns it in. He wouldn't just up and leave like this. He wouldn’t do that to us…would he?

He had met Kirsty at our house yesterday afternoon to collect the remaining balance from a fund our NGO had owed his NGO – why hadn’t he mentioned his trip to her then? Or during the meeting I had had with him earlier this week?

I sent him a message, fighting back the urge to title it “Breach of Trust” and instead opted for the more even-tempered “Canada?” and said something to the effect of: “Couldn't help but notice that you are in Canada. WTF?”

My boss Kirsty and I shared a drop taxi to work because Lawrence was at the office early, and by early I mean on time (Kirsty and I were late), and he needed some help running a meeting.

After our usual morning catch-up on each other’s lives from the 12 hours we spent apart (sleeping and getting ready for work), I told Kirsty about Emmanuel gallivanting in Canada.

"He knows he needs to tell us these things," Kirsty exclaimed. "And what about his volunteer? She arrives tomorrow!”
“Exactly. And I’m wondering why he didn’t tell you yesterday when he saw you. What time did you see him?”
“About noon.”
“So that still would have given him enough time to get to Accra and board a plane! And the timing makes sense too, you know, because Canada is back in time several hours.”
“He couldn’t have gone through an American airline because of the layover time difference,” Kirsty thought aloud. “He might have gone through Lufthansa or KLM because Lufthansa’s international departing flights are in the evening and – ”
“ – I can’t believe he just left.” I gazed out the window. “He's so reliable - it just doesn't seem like him. Karen starts working with him Monday, and she’s only here two weeks. What, is he just not going to meet her at all? He knew since last month that she was coming! Plus, I need him to complete that project itinerary for the university group coming in May too – I can’t continue planning for the project without that itinerary.”

I wished this fiasco would've at least happened during our slow season when our nerves aren't running off the wall. Kirsty told me to call Ben, Emmanuel's project partner, to make sure it wasn’t a joke. (Funny that we had suspected it could have been a joke, but thought, Who posts jokes like that on their Facebook page? Clearly, both of us had forgotten it was April Fools' Day.)

When we got to the office, I plowed through two meetings and then called Ben. His phone was off. Then, doubtful I’d get an answer, I called Emmanuel. It rang, but no answer. The day went on, and Kirsty and I were talking in my office while my phone rang.

“EEEeee… ssshhh! It’s Emmanuel!” I was anxious to put this mystery at rest.

Kirsty inched closer to my desk, and Fati, a project partner and friend of Emmanuel’s who was hanging out at the office after our meeting, came around the corner into my office. Kirsty had informed Fati of Emmanuel’s great two-week escape to Canada.

“Hello, Emmanuel?”
“Yes, Michaela.” He sounded too calm. How?
For some reason I started laughing at the situation. “So, are you in Ghana or are you in Canada?”
Fati came over to me and squeezed my hand. On Emmanuel's end of the phone I heard a manic honk. My heart raced - it was definitely a Ghana car honk.
“O I am in Ghana! April Fools! April Fools! April Fools!”

After laughing with Emmanuel, Kirsty and Fati to the point of tears of relief, he told me not to say anything about it on Facebook so he could “get” some other people.

Moral of the story is... Do not be Facebook friends with business partners and coworkers; or if you must, defriend them on April Fools' Day.

Battling Corruption in Ghana

The international media and the Western education system traditionally have conveyed Africa in a poor light. We have been led to believe Africa is only filled with corrupt officials and rebels, conflict and disease. The average Anglo may go out on a limb and assume there is an abundance of "diverse culture," funny-sounding languages, voodoo and animism and strange food, but that's not what makes the headlines, does it?

Not telling the entire truth, even if the truth given to you is skewed, is considered lying, right? (Ex-boyfriend from 2008, don't answer that.)

But thanks to top scholars such as Angelina Jolie, George Clooney, Penelope Cruz, Alicia Keys, Jay-Z, Brad Pitt, Will Smith, Mariah Carey, Bono, Salma Hayek, Stevie Wonder, Elton John and Paul McCartney, our minds have been opened to the possibility that there is much joy and happiness to be felt and shared in this continent.

Earlier this month the Commission for Human Rights and Administrative Justice (CHRAJ) held a conference in the Central Region to engage the government, civil society, parliament and private sector in the development of an action plan against corruption in Ghana. CHRAJ has been conducting these consultative meetings in Ghana's 10 regions to spread awareness of the National Anti-Corruption Action Plan (NACAP) and to make contributions and edits to its draft before submitting it to the Parliament at the end of April 2011.

The event took place at Elmina Beach Resort and attracted over 100 invited representatives of the Central Region's NGOs both local and international, the University of Cape Coast, social welfare, media, religious bodies and security members from the police, prisons and the Bureau of National Investigations (similar to the FBI).

But wait! Hold the phone. Where were our friends from Immigration? Or Customs? After all, this party was unanimously called to order because of them. (Read about one of my enchanting experiences with Immigration yet?) Yet, let's give them the benefit of the doubt - they must have had more important engagements to be all, you know, corrupt, and stuff.

In the keynote address, a CHRAJ director informed us that although Ghana is en route to becoming a well-oiled (seriously) democratic nation, a rising leader in tourism throughout Africa and in economic influence in West Africa, 42% of all households in Ghana paid a bribe in 2009. That's not including tourists.

Here is the breakdown of the bribe distribution, as found by this CHRAJ survey:

• 63% to the police
• 44% to the judiciary
• 32% to obtain registration and permits
• 29% to land services
• 20% to education authorities

I have only been in Ghana for nine months and have heard stories or personally experienced corruption in each of the sectors mentioned above. Come on, Atta Mills, this has been an issue since before the beginning of your term. Let's enforce some laws, here! Incidentally, although CHRAJ had been instructed to prohibit participants from discussing the president during the conference (hmmm), that didn't stop things from getting messy. During the question-and-answer series, one of the participants asked for the microphone and raised the point that it seems unfitting for the police to be listed in the NACAP as a corruption watchdog. Everyone laughed. (Flashback to when my boss went to the Cape Coast police station to file a report for one of our volunteers and the policeman on duty laughed and said, "O my sweet, you will need a friend in the police to work on that case.") Still laughing, the MC took back the microphone, walked over to the policeman and said, "That's a great question, why don't we ask the only policeman in the room for his thoughts!" Laughter again. The policeman looked down at his hands folded on the table and mumbled into the mic, "No comment."

Later we broke into groups of about 20 at random. Each group was given a question to answer, which would be included into the NACAP if relevant and worthy. We had one hour to brainstorm and record our answer. I really enjoyed observing my group. We had the I-feel-uncomfortable-being-here policeman, an articulate different-angle-viewing woman from some board of education, a sophisticated woman who, instead of contributing germane comments to the discussion, made remarks about how Ghanaians (our group, CHRAJ, Elmina Beach Resort staff) execute tasks ineffectively, an eloquent composed young man who eventually became our recording secretary, an obnoxious devil's advocate who threw his arms violently in every direction when he spoke, a sly woman whose careless body language did not match her bold statements and a nervous wiry guy who only spoke to report how much time we had left.

Where did I fit in? In this particular group setting, I assumed the role of moving the conversation along when we fell into lulls, or quarrels, more accurately. Whenever I added something to the discussion, the group quieted and listened and did not challenge. I hope to be challenged just as much as I hope to be agreed with, and usually I am not verbally challenged by Ghanaians. At least my interaction with my group wasn't resemblant of "The White Woman Has Spoken," which perhaps was not an issue because these were some of the brightest minds of the Central Region. By "brightest minds" I mean they thought for themselves. Some of the local NGO project partners I've worked with will say "no problem" when later, either through the grapevine or in a surprise meeting (verbal attack on our organization or employees, in some cases) I will sense that there really is a problem. Then why say "no problem?" My guess is because the education system in Ghana teaches students to please their superiors and to regurgitate what the teachers say. Only a fiercely independent mind, further education or travel outside of Ghana can amend these habits. When discussing issues of development, conversation always circles back to the malfunctions of the country's education system.

Here is the question my group was given:
What should be the role of the institutions in the implementation of the action plan?
a) civil society (NGOs, media, religious bodies, trade unions)
b) traditional authorities
c) private sector and contractors
d) the individual Ghanaian

The woman who complained about the ineffectiveness of Ghanaians pointed out that none of us knew the intended purpose of the action plan, so someone fetched a CHRAJ director and asked her to read us the outline of the NACAP. She kindly reminded us that the purpose of the action plan is to prevent corruption, reform institutions, strengthen the oversight responsibilities of anti-corruption institutions, implement public awareness and education and create an enabling environment to fight corruption.

With the NACAP purpose in mind, we were able to move forward. Our answer is below:
What should be the role of the institutions in the implementation of the action plan?
a) civil society (NGOs, media, religious bodies, trade unions) - raising awareness through education, publicizing, raising funds, building capacities, serving as community watchdogs
b) traditional authorities - creating and obeying rules and regulations, implementing sanctions and rewards for acts of integrity (durbars and festivals), improving record-keeping, simplifying internal processes
c) private sector and contractors - desisting and reporting all corrupt activities, forming associations to protect citizens
d) the individual Ghanaian - adopting and encouraging a change of attitude toward corruption (it should not be commonplace), educating others (word-of-mouth), creating and partaking in anti-corruption institutions, desisting and reporting corrupt activities

When we reconvened in the conference room, our recording secretary presented our report to the rest of the participants. The CHRAJ director said our group had unearthed some details missing from the NACAP draft, and they would make sure to include those points in the edited version. Feels pretty cool to be able to contribute to Ghana's first anti-corruption action plan.

It was a collective belief among our group and the rest of the conference attendees that the biggest roadblock for the NACAP would be fear of retaliation against those who report acts of corruption. Anonymity will save reputations and maybe even lives. Apparently there is an anti-corruption hotline for this reason, but the CHRAJ director did not have the number memorized or with him. (Ha.) He promised to e-mail us after the conference the hotline phone number and the opening PowerPoint presentation.

As promised, he e-mailed the PowerPoint presentation but forgot to include the phone number. Oh well, at least the presentation is an interesting read.

Public Urination vs. Paying to Pee: I wish I had the choice

I strongly believe people should not pay to use a toilet. It’s like paying to breathe. Can you imagine? “That’s my air you’re breathing. I look after it and keep it clean, so pay up!” Especially considering the public “toilets” in Ghana are in fact not toilets at all, but a wall with a door (and occasionally a ceiling), a standing block and a hole in the ground. Perhaps my biggest sticking point about this pay-to-pee policy is that it does not suit a society that allows public urination. Public urination for Ghanaians only, that is.

A special thanks to growing up with guy friends who were practically extras in the TV show Jack Ass, enjoying the reputation of the daredevil in my group of girl friends in middle school and high school, and my rowdy freshmen and sophomore years of college, I am more than comfortable peeing in public. Though, I prefer to call it “wilderness urination.” To any cops reading this, only once have I urinated on an unnatural object, and I don’t regret it at all. (Taco Bell, once upon a time when your drive thru window was open until three a.m., customers like me took that seriously. Quarter to three is still before three. And nevermind that I had tried to order from your drive thru window by foot.)

Now that I've made it clear I’m neither shy nor reluctant to urinate in public, it should also be known that that doesn’t mean I have the skill and confidence to do it in plain sight like many Ghanaians. Some men even carry on a conversation while peeing. Some wave with one hand while guiding with the other. I’m not quite at that level yet.

The only thing holding me back from semi-public urination - ducking into an alleyway or behind a quiet building - is that I am a foreigner, a white sheep among a flock of black. I realize people from home may take offense to this backwards expression, but I've been away from the overly politically correct society for a while now and regularly converse with Ghanaians who use the terms "blacks" and "whites" instead of "locals" or "Ghanaians" and "foreigners." I'm over color sensitivity, at least until I go back to the states. Back to my point, the kids in Ghana (Cape Coast especially) practically have a heart attack every time they see an obroni – I don’t want to know what would happen to them if they saw a white female squatting with her underwear down. White male foreigners are luckier - peeing while standing up is far less conspicuous.

Why can’t I relieve myself in semi-public? Yet, the inconvenience of this double standard doesn’t bother me enough to want to try to pull it off – I am certain it wouldn’t go over well if I were caught by a Ghanaian who disapproved of public urination. Especially considering many Ghanaians think obronis are more intelligent than they are simply because we aren't from Africa. They probably think we're above peeing in public. Well, this girl isn't.

Instead, I have to "be a lady" and hold it until I find a stall and when I’m finished pay the man or woman sitting on a stool outside the stalls who seven times out of 10 – I wish I was exaggerating – try to cheat me by saying it’s 20 pesewas instead of the usual 10.

Double standards piss me off. (High fives for pun fun!)

Love At First Sight...Of Skin Color

A few months ago I read an article in The Ghanaian Times about a young Ghanaian woman, Obaa Yaa, who vowed to commit suicide if Black Stars and Sunderland striker Asamoah Gyan didn’t marry her by Christmas. This woman from Accra claimed she fell in love with Gyan “because of his footballing prowess, his rapping ability and his dancing skill.” Yaa used a local radio station as a platform for her plea: “Brother Asamoah, please I want to tell you that I want to marry you by this December. If you don’t marry me I will kill myself.” She stated, “I like his hair style, the colour of his skin make me fall in love with him. I am having sleepless nights over this so I want him to rescue me by this December.”

If only love was that simple.

But no! How horrible that would be! What a mess we’d be in if people fell in love for superficial reasons such as one’s hair or skin color or physical abilities! What if we had billions of romantically deranged people like this Accra woman running around searching for husbands and wives?

The skin color thing bothers me most. Ghanaians have told me on numerous occasions that I am beautiful. As a foreign female, I am used to it, but it literally staggers me when they say my skin color is the reason. My skin color makes me beautiful? I've heard the same thing being told to other white foreigners, so I know it's not my particular skin tone - it truly is my color that they are referring to. On top of that, a few women have told me wearing earrings makes a woman beautiful! What is going on, here?! Forget the push for self-worth/identity workshops and campaigns in America – bring them to Ghana, bring them to Africa!

To no surprise of visitors of developing nations, most Ghanaians (usually men) are appalled to learn that I am unmarried at age 24. “No husband? Why!” To which I respond, “Marriage is not on my mind right now.” When they ask why, I remind them (or possibly teach them?) that you have to be in love with someone in order to marry, and I am not in love with anyone.

“Then I will marry you!”
“But you don’t even know my name!”

When I tell them I have no children, well, it’s the most outrageous thing they’ve ever heard. When I make small talk, I usually ask if the person has a family (most tend to light up at this question). A majority of the people I've asked has children but no spouse. I’ve learned it is very important to Ghanaians to have a child to carry on their personal legacies. If a Ghanaian dies and has no children to speak of, it is viewed as an especially unfortunate death.

“I can give you child!”
“I don’t want one right now and…I don’t know who you are, but thanks?”

Not too long ago a kid less than 10 years old barefoot in torn clothes sitting on top of an abandoned bus across the street yelled at me, “HEY! WHITE LADY! I LIKE YOUR HAIR COLOR! WILL YOU MARRY ME?”

Hair color.. hm. I'll take that over skin color any day.

Assumptions About Smokers

It’s rare to see a Ghanaian smoking, as most locals regard the habit disrespectful and hazardous. I find it ironic the majority of the Ghanaian population is intolerant of smokers because they are concerned with the unhealthy side effects but either don’t know or don’t care about the environmental hazards of burning trash, littering and not recycling. How are they not also concerned with the lack of sanitation caused by those who defecate on the beaches and urinate in town gutters and do not wash their hands? Are these habits not hazardous to inhabitants’ health as well?

When a Ghanaian smokes, he is pegged as a troublemaker. Many Ghanaians cast a blind eye when foreigners jive with cultural norms; I can’t explain why I feel this is quite unfortunate. Yet, foreigners are not above this unspoken societal standard and should refrain from smoking in public.

On several occasions I’ve been “taught” by forward-thinking Ghanaians that foreigners who smoke do so to keep warm in their home countries, and the habit just sticks when they come to Ghana. A fellow expat once told me Ghanaians look down on Ghanaians who smoke because it’s understood that smoking is an expensive habit, and if Ghanaian smokers have the means to continually carry out that habit, it is assumed by their peers they must be acquiring the money inauthentically.

This particular expatriate acquaintance has a track record of assuming things about Ghanaians and their culture. Besides disagreeing with this ridiculous generalization, I disagree with the theory altogether. First, the dirt-poor citizens of any village or city in Ghana do not smoke. They are either walking along the streets or between cars at stoplights, selling anything from plantain chips to soccer balls, or they are wandering the streets barefooted and aimless, usually half-dressed in dusty dirty rags. They are far from consumed by the desire to score a cigarette off someone. Yes, the ones who smoke and can afford to smoke are in the middle and upper classes, which of course does not automatically guarantee they are buying smokes legally, but also does not mean they are stealing cigarettes or acquiring money for them in a questionable manner.

Using Cape Coast as an example, it seems there is equal representation in each social class. Let’s examine the prevailing appearance of the middle and upper class: The men’s clothes are ironed, pressed, tucked-in shirts, collars, belts, no stains and no dirt. Many have not just one but two cell phones. If you go to town or the University of Cape Coast campus or the lively suburb Abura, you will find most men clean-shaven with little head hair, some men in their 20s and 30s with ear buds or a USB stick on a lanyard hanging around their neck, leather sandals, Chuck Taylors or Keds, briefcase over shoulder, walking briskly. Some men grow out one or more nails. I've been told they do this because it's considered stylish; my guess is it also shows they don’t have to work with their hands, which signifies they have an “intelligent prestigious job.” As for the upper class women in these areas of Cape Coast? Monthly new wigs, sometimes makeup, sometimes painted nails, gold jewelry, heels, driving their own car or walking independently without their husbands escorting them.

My point is, if middle or upper class Ghanaians want to buy a pack of smokes, they can. They can do it legally. Ghana is not your commonly projected "children are starving and HIV/AIDS is everywhere" African country, especially the cities of Cape Coast, Kumasi, Takoradi and Accra. Sure, there are villages with children wearing nothing but dirty underwear and flies buzzing around their open cuts, but as a whole, Ghana is far more progressive than some foreigners give it credit for, regardless of whether they've ever set foot on its soil. Visitors and expatriates need to work on talking less loosely about cultures they do not try to understand.

Valentine's Day in Ghana: Ghanaians are Geysers

A couple weeks ago one of my best friends asked in an e-mail, “Do they celebrate Valentine’s Day in Africa? It seems like they should be above a holiday like that.”

At first I didn’t know what she meant. Even today, Valentine’s Day, I’m still pondering. I understood the “above a holiday like that” part. We all know Hallmark Day – excuse me, Valentine’s Day – is a marketing ploy for emotional saps. Shouldn’t we celebrate the magic of being in love every day? Shouldn’t we all be “above” this holiday?

But I couldn’t wrap my mind around why “they” (Africans?) should be above Valentine’s Day. To be fair, I don’t think she gave much thought to this idea. Yet it made me wonder what the American society really thinks of Africa.

That was another part of her question that threw me off. Many of my friends and family and most our volunteers make the mistake of grouping Ghana with the other 52 countries that make up Africa. Each country has a different culture, climate, religion, government, economy, languages, and social and health problems. Africa is a continent.

The NGO I work for provides community development projects for international volunteers. During the pre-program contact with the volunteers, sometimes a worried mother takes over their child’s e-mails. One of those mothers wasn’t able to reach Kirsty because she had been on holiday, so she e-mailed our marketing department asking for another way to reach her. Someone from the marketing department forwarded the mother’s e-mail to both me and Kirsty. I believe the third paragraph started with: “My daughter arrives in Africa in four weeks and I have not yet heard from…” In Africa, you say? Where exactly, may we ask, in Africa? Jesus, woman, it’s like grouping the states with Canada and Mexico.

Maybe I’m overreacting. I’ve noticed especially in recent months that I feel strongly compelled to defend Ghana’s culture to the ignorant and to the ethnocentric. Perhaps the most unnerving thing is when foreigners think they are helping the economy by giving out money. There is a time and place for charity. That’s all I’m going to say about that. Unfortunately, I butted heads with my dad on this subject frequently while he visited in November.

I’ve bit my tongue too often in the presence of expatriates who have been in Ghana for 5, 10, 15+ years yet have unthinkably foul attitudes toward Ghanaians. I feel more comfortable defending Ghana to Ghanaians - it's lighthearted and I eventually get them to agree with me. It’s not so much that these native individuals don’t like Ghana, but rather they would like to try living somewhere else. The corruption, the education system and the lateness are the three elements of Ghanaian culture that unnerve the educated locals whose beliefs reflect the “grass is greener on the other side” theory. The less educated “grass is greener on the other side” party have fittingly less reasonable acumen for wanting to live elsewhere: “Because Obama lives there!” and “I want to marry a white woman!” are my personal favorites.

Sans doubt, I’ve grown more and more intolerant of culturally insensitive people since I’ve been in Ghana.

But back to hearts and and cupids and smooching and L-O-V-E love. (Any "Friends" fans out there? Best episode there ever was.)

Valentine's Day was more apparent in Accra than in Cape Coast. I was in Accra last weekend to pick up a volunteer from the airport and had some free time so I ran some errands at the Accra shopping mall, a true step outside of Ghana no matter the occasion. However, last weekend I felt like my body had been transported back to the states. Roses, exotic plants and balloons for sale in the hallway, fiery red and devious black lingerie hanging in shop windows and baskets of candies and small teddy bears at the bookstore cashier. A little slice of home, it was.

I wasn't surprised to learn that Ghanaians do, in fact, celebrate Valentine's Day. After all, Valentine's Day is simply an excuse for everyone to devote one day of undivided attention to our love lives, which works out perfectly with a culture of men who regularly post Facebook statuses like: "my future wife should get ready !! course i want four strong kids.....lol...... where are you !! still looking to find you!!!!" (Sorry, Facebook friend, if you're reading this. To each his own.)

Ghanaians are latently and overtly sexual at the same time. What I find most beautiful, most attractive about Ghanaians is the grace with which they hold themselves; the confidence, the poise, the alluring movements. Ghanaian sexuality is perhaps most comparable to a geyser. Yes! That's it. They're all geysers - hot springs periodically erupting, emitting a forceful burst of water into the sky.

Geyers are very rare, though. I've read that three components must be present for geysers to exist: an abundant supply of water, an intense source of heat and unique plumbing. Returning to the metaphor, I'd say the three mandatory components that must be present for Ghanaians' sexuality to be conjured include: traditional music, highlife music and something that might sound like music.

Happy Valentine's Day from Ghana!

Can't Be Bothered (Morning and Afternoon Episode)

Waking in my hotel room in Accra was probably one of the few mornings in Ghana I haven’t risen to brooms sweeping, roosters crowing, dogs barking, goats “merrhhing,” drummers drumming, the sun blinding, heat invading, neighbors quarreling, colleagues knocking, radios blaring or mosques “AHHUUUUMMMMNNNNAAAA” -ing. This morning, my only waking force was my measly cell phone alarm.

A group from New York University, comprised of 13 graduate and undergraduate students and one professor, had been volunteering with a HIV/AIDS outreach project in Cape Coast through our NGO for two weeks. They were ending their trip with a tour of Accra, the capital. Tettey, a guide from a tour agency to which we outsourced, was in charge of them and I was along for the ride to make sure their transition from Accra to home went smoothly. All went well until the group’s last night in Accra. Upon return from our day tour, one of the volunteers discovered $80 had been taken from her room. (For a dramatic buildup, read my previous post.)

The volunteer group was scheduled to leave the hotel the next day at 5 a.m. for the airport, and the stolen money mystery hadn’t been resolved yet. Therefore, I offered to continue trying to get to the bottom of the case on Yvonne’s behalf. Not my mandate, but I would want someone to do the same for me. Tettey and I rode with the group in the bus to the airport. After saying goodbye to the group, I collected Yvonne’s contact information in case it was needed for the police report. I told her we would wire the money to her account if we recovered it.

The bus driver dropped Tettey and I off at Lake Botsumtwi Hotel. We had a few hours until the owner said he would come to the hotel to sort out the stolen money issue, so I went back to my room and Tettey went into a volunteer’s room and we slept. We had agreed to meet at 8:30 a.m. at the outdoor patio for breakfast. Tettey wasn't there yet so I found a table under the shade and watched the football game across the street.

"I am leaving," a voice said from behind me.

It was Gracie, the receptionist Yvonne and I had talked to for hours the previous night. She had given me a strange vibe for being immoderately loose-lipped about why she thought it was Naomi, the cleaning lady, who stole the money.

"You are finished for the day?" I asked.
"No, I work again tonight." She was standing on the other side of the patio fence.
"Ah, the morning and night shifts, I see."
"You will call me when you figure out everything? I want to know how things turn out for your friend," she said.
"Sure, I can do that." No reason not to. "What's your number?"

She gave me her number and wished me luck, then crossed the street to the nearest fruit vendor. I watched her for a few minutes, pondering the possibility of her being the one who stole Yvonne's money and how heavy her conscious would be after making friends with both Yvonne and me. Tettey interrupted my thoughts when he brushed by my shoulder and sat in the opposite chair.

When we finished eating, Tettey called his boss, an African-American woman based in Accra, to explain the situation. He hung up and shook his head and chuckled in a low tone.

“She said I should have called her last night and she would have come to the hotel with half the money and you could have gotten the other half and we both could have given it to the volunteer. That way the volunteer wouldn’t have left for the U.S. without her money.”

“But we can’t guarantee we’re getting back her money. What if we can’t get it back and we had done what your boss said? We both would’ve been giving money away when we shouldn’t have,” I said. “Not to mention that our NGO is not liable for any theft that happens to our volunteers. I’m not sure if your company would be.. or should be liable either.”

Tettey didn’t say anything. That was pretty presumptuous, I thought, of Tettey’s boss to think I would pay half of Yvonne’s stolen money, let alone to assume I even had 56 extra cedis on me. (80 USD = 112 GHC)

Finally, the owner arrived. Tettey said, “You see? He drives a nice car. He has extra money to give to us.” We can’t just ask for 112 cedis...but I think Yvonne and Tettey expect me to, I thought. I was advised by my boss and Gracie, the hotel front desk receptionist, that I should threaten to file a police report. They both believed the owner wouldn’t want to go through the humiliation of a public complaint of a police report, which would make him more willing to cough up the money. I just needed to act like I was going to ruffle his hair.

When I met Mr. Charles, the owner, I quickly learned there was no hair to ruffle. One, he is bald. And two, he was completely fine with filing a police report. More than fine, in fact.

“We will find out who did this and make them pay the consequences. Believe me, whoever did this will be locked away. They will not see the light of day again.”

Damn, really? I didn’t want anyone going to jail over this. I didn't think Yvonne wanted that either. All I was hoping for was to get the money back and whoever stole the money to never work at a hotel again.

“Mr. Charles, is there any way your hotel staff can be held responsible for this instead of the police?” I was getting frustrated with the prospect of the matter changing hands yet again. “Maybe a portion of the 112 cedis can be subtracted from the salaries of the three staff members who had access to the rooms? You could do this over a couple months until one of them confides?” I asked.

“Oh, are you now sure it was one of my staff who stole the money?” his voice boomed in the narrow and long, heavily-air-conditioned room. I looked at Tettey, sitting on the couch opposite my sofa chair, next to the manager who was working the night before. He looked vastly uncomfortable. By the manager’s furtive glances from the floor to me whenever I spoke, I gathered he didn’t want to be in the room either, although his arm draped over the back of the couch indicated differently. “Let me tell you something,” the owner continued.

It seemed he had sniffed out my indirect request for money. Several minutes dragged on as he ambushed our eardrums about how he would be out of business if he compensated each guest who complained of theft. Tettey was hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his fingers interlaced on the back of his neck. I guess he isn’t a fan of getting yelled at by a massive and violently passionate Ghanaian man either. The owner did not seem like the same man I spoke to on the phone the night before, fumbling and bumbling, "Madam, please, I apologize for the inconvience of this situation."

Tettey and I had to ask the owner to calm down several times throughout his rant. Not able to hide my surging anger about his rudeness any longer, I shouted over him, “WHY ARE YOU YELLING?” I hoped my blunt "challenge" made him realize how unprofessional it was to yell at a guest - an upset one, at that.

“You. You are American, hmm?” the owner asked me in a slightly lowered voice.

Not normally being pegged as an American upon first glance, I assumed the manager had briefed the owner, having remembered that detail about me when we first met.

“Yes,” I replied evenly.

He slammed his fist on his desk; sending Tettey and I out of our skins. “Then you know! You know a hotel is not liable to cover the stolen items of its guests! Any hotel in America is like that. You must know that. You should be ashamed of yourself for even suggesting that we would give you money just because it went missing.”

“Look,” I said plainly, putting both my hands up in defense. “I'm sorry for suggesting that your hotel give me 112 cedis. I understand you are handling this situation to the best of your ability, and I appreciate you taking time to help us out. I have worked in the hotel industry before, which gives me even more reason to have known better. You're right, in the U.S. hotels do not hand out money whenever something goes missing. However - " pausing briefly, " - many hotels do give some other form of compensation for the inconvenience. Now, I don't know what we could come up with as compensation in this case, since all the room arrangements were prepaid. But, my point is that I was simply trying. I was trying to get something back for our volunteer. Because she has already left for America, I was given the task to fight for her. So that is what I am doing." The owner's face had softened and he nodded while muttering "okay" repeatedly when I had finished.

"Yes, I know you are just doing your job," he said in a normal voice.
I decided to push my luck with his calmed state. "Also, my volunteer said she did not appreciate how the issue was handled last night."
"Last night? That means she was not happy with him," the owner said, smiling and pointing to the manager on the couch.
"That's right," I said. The owner laughed. I looked at the manager, "She said it didn't seem like you were very concerned at all."

There was nothing we could do about that now, though. I knew the manager didn't care about this complaint, I knew he wouldn't take it into consideration the next time he had to handle a guest's problem, and I knew the owner didn't care about this complaint either. To be honest, I didn't agree with Yvonne's complaint anyway. The manager did what he was supposed to - he called in the cleaning lady to testify. (In retrospect, he should have also asked the female receptionist Gracie to testify as well as the daytime boy receptionist.) The manager was required to take action; he was not required to act like he cared. Ha! Maybe I've been in Ghana too long. Regardless, this is the first and major learning component of Ghanaian management.

"Okay, you will go to the police now?" the owner asked me. "I've called in Naomi, the cleaning lady, she is in the lobby waiting to go to the police station with you."
"Just Naomi?" I asked.
"Yes. Is there someone else who could have done it?"
"Well, Gracie, your receptionist was working yesterday. I thought it was very strange that she was so willing to tell me and Yvonne such secretive things about Naomi, as if she was trying to get her into trouble."
"What things?" asked the owner, his brows furrowed.

Gracie had asked me not to mention to the owner or manager that she had spoken about Naomi. "She asked me not to say anything..." I drifted off, smiling at the owner and then Tettey out of discomfort.

"Maame," Tettey said softly.

I decided I didn't owe anything to Gracie, especially considering the possibility that she was the guilty one.

"Okay, she said Naomi has stolen from guests before and the manager, you, Kwame," I looked at his habitually bored face, "you knew about it but never did anything about it because you and Naomi are friends."

The owner and manager smirked. I paused, waiting for an actual response. I didn't hear any.

"Then she said she and the boy receptionist couldn't have possibly taken the money because as a front desk clerk, you must never leave the front desk, so how could she or he have had time to go into each room and look through everyone's bags for money?"

All three men burst out in various exclamations and readjusted their sitting positions. I looked at Tettey, who I had noticed the previous night was scanning Gracie and shaking his head whenever she made an interjection. It seemed he thought what I had said confirmed his suspicions.

"My dear, the receptionists go into every room!" said the owner, leaning forward in his chair. "It is part of their job to personally check each room that has been cleaned."

I was stunned. How did I not think of this? I knew I should have trusted my gut instinct when she gave me that bullshit excuse for why it couldn't have been the receptionist! I was annoyed at myself for not realizing the check-and-balance system ensuring clean hotel rooms could have been different at a smaller hotel.

"Kwame, tell Joseph to get Gracie on the line. Tell her to come to the hotel immediately," the owner said to the manager.

Turns out Gracie's phone was off. Had she been suspecting that her bosses would eventually realize she was equally as guilty as Naomi? The owner told the boy receptionist to keep calling Gracie until she answered. Meanwhile, Kwame, his brother who is also a manager and has an unfortunate stuttering problem in both English and Ga, scowl-faced Naomi, Tettey and I all squeezed into Kwame's car and drove a few minutes down the road to the Osu Police Station. I don't know why we didn't think to take the boy receptionist with us, but it all shook out in the end.

The entire ride I was tickled with amusement that the accuser (Yvonne via me) was wedged arm-to-arm with the accused (Naomi). Reminded me of the time when about 20 minutes into a tro-tro ride I looked to my left and noticed the guy next to me was a police officer and the guy next to him was in handcuffs. It's funny to think of all the things I see on a daily basis in Ghana that would never fly in the U.S.
 
We parked outside the station and walked inside the lobby. The male and female jail cells were about 15 feet behind the front desk! Both cells were small, maybe about a five by six yard box. The floors were cement and the bars provided a two by seven yard window to the station's lobby. The male cell was on the left, packed with seven hooting and hollering 20- to 30-somethings, the loudest only wearing white boxers adorned with red and green Christmas trees. They were all barefoot and wearing what appeared to be their own clothes. The female cell seemed to be empty. I moved to the right for a (hopefully inconspicuous) better look inside. A body was curled on the floor in the front left corner, her feet bare. Above the male cell a white sheet of regular printing paper stuck to the pale yellow wall, bearing "MALE CELL" bubble letters colored in crayon. Not a single letter was the same color. I squinted my eyes - no, that can't be - op, yep, that is definitely a pencil-traced line underneath the bubble letters. Gotta keep the letters straight.

"Yes?" asked the man in a police uniform stationed at the front desk.
"Hello, we want to file a police report and turn in a suspect."
The man whipped a paper from his desk onto the countertop. Noticing someone had written on the top already, he drew a line through it and instructed me to write the date, my name, nationality, phone number and purpose of my visit. When I finished, Tettey, who had been watching me, reminded me to indicate that it was not to me the crime had happened. I nodded and made a note, then smiled at him, appreciating he was there with me.

"Just another Monday on the job, isn't it, Tettey?"
He laughed.
"Bet you've never thought your job would take you to the police station, did you?"
"Oh ho, please, no!" he replied, still laughing and shaking his head.

"Oye! Charlie! You-who! Charlie! Over here!"
I turned from Tettey to the male cell. In Ghana, "Charlie" (pronounced Chah-lay) means "friend."
The man who had been shouting was looking at me.
"You give me five cedi for when I get out, okay? Okay, Charlie?"
I smiled. "Sorry, I don't have that much myself." It was true. I had spent all but three cedis of my personal money - I just had my organization's money to use to get home.
"Oh, Charlie!"

The man at the front desk took the paper and then asked Naomi to step behind the counter and sit on the bench against the wall, where two other accused suspects were sitting. She hadn't looked at me since the previous night; I didn't dare look at her while she could have seen me either. The guy who asked me for five cedis asked Naomi in Ga what she had done. I couldn't understand her but watched her face. She had lost her angry "this isn't fair" face and now looked sad. And scared. I kept telling myself, it wasn't you who insisted on the police report. It was the hotel owner. It wasn't you who accused her. It was Yvonne. Sort of. Ugh. I felt awful. Whatever, I am just here for Yvonne, I had nothing to do with this. So why, then, do I feel responsible for something that feels wrong? I wished Gracie, the other suspect, was there with Naomi.

Twenty minutes later, the five of us were summoned into the chief's office across from the lobby. We filed a police report with the chief, who was very old and I don't think felt comfortable speaking in English. Kwame explained the chief had instructed us to go to a woman outside, around the corner and down the hall to file some other report, but she was on her lunch break. We waited for over half an hour outside when suddenly a woman who looks like Loretta Devine approached me with a slim and modest-looking man probably in his late-20s but looked no more than 20 years old (typical of Ghanaians).

"I am here for my sister, Naomi," the woman told me flatly. Naomi must have texted her sister - she still had her phone. I envisioned her sister asking Naomi, "How will I know which lady it is?" I was, after all, the only white person at the station. Tettey, Kwame and his brother, their arms folded across each of their chests, walked over to me. It seemed that the off-duty officers roaming the outdoor hall also noticed the pot was about to be stirred. They crowded around us.

"Oh, hello. What can we do for you?" (Ugh, sorry about your sister... what else was I supposed to say?)
"How much money was stolen?" she asked.
"It was 80 U.S. dollars, which is 112 Ghana cedis," I told her. "Why?"
"One thousand twelve Ghana cedis?"
"No, 112 Ghana cedis."
"Oh!" she laughed. "I wish to pay it," she said, fishing through her purse. I stood in front of her, stunned for the second time that day.
"You...want to pay it," I sounded it out to her. To myself. "Why?"
The man spoke up softly and calmly. "Because that is our sister in there. She should not be in jail, we can't let her be in jail. It would be embarrassing to our family." His older sister nodded, pulling her wallet out of her purse.

I imagined her summoning her brother to accompany her to the bank, not knowing how much money was at stake, therefore withdrawing as much money as possible from her account, and driving to the Osu Police Station to save their younger sister. It made me miss my younger brother and sister in a deeper way than before. If I ever needed to save either of them like that, I couldn't.

My gaze drifted from the sister, in her expensive-looking outfit and pearls, nose held high and wallet clutched tight, to the brother, with his puppy dog eyes and sweet disposition. My voice came out softer than it had in what felt like months, "But why would you do this if you don't know if your sister took the money?"

She made the common sucking noise with the sides of her mouth and she and her brother started walking toward the lobby. "Oh! In Ghana, sometimes you must do things even if you don't think..."  I stopped listening. I couldn't pretend to not mind being patronized. This was too beautiful a moment - an "I believe in the good of humanity" moment that has revisited me countless times while living in Ghana. Maybe I am immune to noticing these moments back in the states, or maybe they don't happen as often as they do here. The thing is, people in Ghana see each other. Truly see each other. There's hardly ever a missed "Good morning, how are you?" or a genuine smile or energizing eye contact. Complete strangers feel more familiar than neighbors back home. They push each other to improve. They take care of each other. Ghana is a pulsating family, expanding and contracting with vigorous rhythm.