(Un)stolen Memories

The other night while I was walking on the beautiful beach in Busya, a criminal snatched my phone and ran away into the darkness. This, by far, is the biggest blow that I’ve received while being in Ghana. And in some ways I’ve been fairly lucky. I was not held at a knife point, or beaten. I was not raped, strangled, or murdered. True, I was robbed, which is not a very pleasant experience either – your possession is taken, your personal space is violated, your privacy is in jeopardy, and your communication with others is hindered. Perhaps the biggest reason I became upset was the fact that all (literally, all) pictures and videos I’ve taken while in Ghana are now gone. Yes, I’ve been telling myself to back them up on my laptop, and I haven’t. Yes, I should have finally learned how to put my data on the cloud. So, lessons learned. I will be more watchful next time. Besides, after some thinking, I realize that most of the pictures I’ve taken….were not that good. I am neither Annie Leibovitz with her elaborate celebrity portraits full of special lighting and make-up nor am I Ansel Adams with his sweeping vistas of American splendor in black and white: my photos don’t stand a chance of being featured anywhere except on my friends’ Facebook  news feed. They were taken on an impulse because the scenery (to me) looked cool or cute, or they were taken for reports (so I could remember how many people showed up to my meetings).

Most importantly, my pictures and videos may have been stolen, but my memories were not! In fact, some of the best images were not in my phone - they were (and still are) in my head J. Here are several of them:

The day when I met my home-stay family in Anyinasin: my host brother Imma took my giant orange suitcase, put it on his head like it was nothing and walked to my new home, while his sister Effia ran along. Just picture them in the distance, framed by plantain trees and glorious sunset.

One evening I was very late for a Grassroots Soccer practice: I assumed the school kids left for their homes, but then I saw several girls still waiting for me. When they noticed me, they smiled and ran to me yelling “Madame, madame, you returned!” It was like they haven’t seen me in years. Just picture being surrounded by their smiling faces.

Riding the bus full of excited singing football fans to a friendly match.

Watching the downpour from a local spot, while old men next to me poured some apeteshie to appease to weather gods.

Walking in the bush in the morning, getting ready for the day, flooded with memories, emotions and sudden urges to stay here forever.

Riding a giant but rickety bus to Tamale, getting a flat tire, skidding off to the side, waiting in the darkness for the tire to be fixed, riding again, a person next to me offering his dinner.

Right before the rain, wind picking up dandelion-like fluff from oak trees; watch it float in the dark sky, just like snow…

My courtyard floor, covered with children’s Crayola drawings.

During one soap-making session, oil in a pot caught on fire. The fire created vortex in the pot and started shooting upwards, higher and higher! It was subdued, but I was really afraid it would spread and burn down half of a village. “This is how NOT to make soap,” I told villagers. They solemnly nodded. Later, still covered in soot, we finished making soap and started singing and dancing. Ghana – the country of contrasts….

Walking somewhere far away from my village, and all of a sudden being greeted by a friendly wave and “Sister Akua! Me huuwatche! (I’ve seen you long time!)” instead of the dreaded “Obroni! Ma me sika! (Give me money!)” Oh, the sweet relief of being recognized by your name and not by the color of your skin….

Getting an encouraging text from a friend thus making my day. True, the text is gone, but its effect is still with me!

It’s all about football

Ghana is all about football (soccer)… Each village, school, neighborhood and town has a team, and during evenings people go out to local football fields to play. If there is no local game, people disappear into their homes and watch a football championship on their TVs. Stickers of such prominent teams as Chelsea, Real Madrid and Manchester United adorn taxi cabs, and every school kid dreams to be on Ghana’s national Black Stars team. As for me, even though I grew up with football all around me (my father and both brothers would watch the World Cup and would play in their spare time), I was in no way a football expert, or a fan of any particular team. I did, however, knew the famous “Ole-ole-ole” chant.

Living in rural Ghana is definitely different from living in the States. This includes socializing. For example, I purposely did not make any close acquaintance with young nubile men for various reasons: most common one is that being somebody’s “friend” may have led to various sexual innuendo, propositions and uncomfortable situations. I knew some of them through my counterpart, and I would greet them when I had a chance. On their part, they were actually polite enough not to constantly proposition me (as it usually happens every time I go to market town, tro station and any other public place). Some of them I knew through various business transactions (an electrician, a carpenter, couple of taxi drivers) but I would not purposely hang out with them in the evenings, if you catch my drift. Being a girl in Ghana is not easy-o...

But one Sunday morning I overheard that the local football team was playing an away game at a neighboring village. As I was already doing some Grassroots Soccer activities with school kids, the football bug finally let itself known: I’ve decided to go to the game and cheer for “my” team. Besides, being in another village would be a nice break from my site and a market town. After all, you only live once.

So, we piled into a Sprinter mini-bus (while designed for about 20 passengers, we’ve had about 40 people literally squeezed into it) and took off. The players and the fans were singing and chanting throughout our trip along the familiar bush road, potholes and all.

Something changed that day. I became one of the guys. It is a familiar state of mind and place for me in the US where I’ve been one of the guys for years. I admit – this type of attitude was not very helpful for me in the dating department, as I would size guys up not as potential snuggling/kissing partners but as potential running buddies, concert goers or band members. Being a Caucasian female in Ghana created an opposite effect: I could no longer approach guys easily and be friends with them, I literally had to hide from them and their constant propositions. I was no longer perceived as a potential friend who would go to a concert and then grab a beer and discuss music genres and world news; I was perceived as a potential “friend” with all the benefits (minus a concert and a beer!).

But the football team guys were not that bad. First, upon arrival, they included my name into their sport chant, and we danced small-small. Then, we walked around the rival village, and finally, we high-fived each other every time the team scored a goal. Finally, after our team’s victory, we piled up into a mini-bus where the guys continued chanting and singing. In those moments – cheering for the home team, riding the mini-bus back home - I felt a quirky emotion, which does not have a name in the English language. It is something called amae , which roughly translates from Japanese as a “a kind of oceanic joy” or a “feeling of acceptance”. It is quite evasive and fleeting (at least for me here in Ghana), but when it strikes you, you feel all warm and fuzzy inside as you realize: “Aha – I’m being accepted.” Many sports fans and church goers would recognize the amae emotion. So, it finally happened to me as I cheered for “my” team and became one of the guys.

One Year...

October 8^th marked a one-year anniversary of my staying in Ghana.

In a nutshell, it has been a whirlwind of emotions, events, traveling, cultural guffaws, friendships, sweat, tears and satchet water.

What have I accomplished so far? According to the American result-driven paradigm, not much. But on another hand….the fact that I am still in Africa is an accomplishment of its own.

What else? Here are some main milestones:

1. I’m healthy. I’ve been living in a hot tropical climate without too much exposure to air-conditioning, refrigeration and fans, and I have yet to suffer from heat exhaustion or spoiled food. I have not gotten any serious tropical diseases – whether it was a dreaded ebola or wide-spread malaria. I’ve been spared from road accidents that are rampant here. I maintained healthy weight through running (I even completed one half-marathon and one full marathon), walking on my bush road instead of taking a taxi, and alternating sparse diet of boiled plantain and stew with home-cooked meals from ingredients found in care packages, fresh fruit (nowhere else will I eat such delicious pineapples, mangoes and bananas), and occasional “fattening up” days when I would go out for a Western meal or succumb to temptation of picking my plate clean during training sessions. I drink less alcohol (a demise of many volunteers – we are constantly warned of administrative problems if we are to be found drunk or hangover), but you know what Billy Joel sang: “….it’s better than drinking alone.” I admit, I do go out for beers when I meet my colleagues after not seeing them for a month or so, but, as ever a responsible first –born goody two-shoes, I have not gone on crazy drinking rage (maybe there was no legitimate reason for it yet?). In other word, I am a somewhat boring drinking buddy. But give me a guitar or take me to a karaoke, and that’s when the real fun can begin J).

2. I’m doing what I want. It sounds a bit selfish, but, on another hand, it puts my previous structured career path into a new prospective. While in the US, I had to adhere to certain physical constrains and schedule, here I can design my day in any fashion that works for me and others. If I traveled all day on a dilapidated tro, the next day I can relax, do my laundry and recuperate. If I schedule a training session, and everyone is late for it – oh, well, I can always read more books while waiting or do some errands. My office can be my courtyard, or a drinking spot at a market town, or a cocoa tree in the bush. Without constant rushing that I’ve experienced in the States I’m also less stressed (as we all know, stress contributes to a cause of 90% of diseases). I’m also VERY happy that I do not have to sit in a cubicle in an Office Space-esque setting and listen to colleagues complain about traffic, long line at Starbucks and other first-world problems. True, I miss the absence of fresh brewed coffee and bagel Fridays, but you cannot have it all. Besides, here I can always eat a bofrut (a semi-sweet donut).

Here I’m learning to create my own schedule and stay motivated. I’ve learned how to make batik and soap, as well as HIV-prevention training designed to be fun and non-preachy, and so I feel like a consultant from a summer camp sent to Ghana to teach kids and adults various fun camp activities. Yes, if you think about it, I’m a glorified camp counselor. Which makes total sense because back when I was a kid, I breathed pioneer camp stuff, and later in the US, worked at a girlscout camp and, of course, Kazakh Aul. Maybe it is my destiny – being an ever-chipper girlscout leader? We’ll see when I get back.

As I mentioned in my previous posts, African way of life is very relaxed. People do not rush, they take their time with greeting everyone they know on their way to work, they do not show up on time for appointments, and everyone seems ok with that. For time-conscious Americans, it can be torturous. But with time, Western people learn to ease themselves in into some type of worry-free state of mind. Tro broke down and stranded  in the middle of nowhere? Oh, well. People are an hour late for a meeting? Whatever. On another hand, this state of mind can also create a complete state of idleness, which plagues volunteers from another side of spectrum: being too lazy to do anything at-all. I admit, there were some days when all I wanted to do was to watch movies on a laptop, drink tea and be left alone. But some kind of inner engine has yet to give up on humming into my conscience: do something. And so I do. According to my abilities.

3. I’m still here! As of now, about one third of our original training group has gone home for various reasons. One person left during training, several others – during the first three months of site restriction. More would be gone closer to the one-year  anniversary. Sometimes I feel like we are all on this elaborate Survivor game: one must outlive and outlast other volunteers. Yet at the same time it is understandable when someone misses their family so much they cannot stand being away from them, or has to go home for other reasons – whether personal or professional. I’m not saying that I have absolutely no bouts of homesickness or thoughts on “what if…” should I have gone to America right now. I, like many others, struggle with loneliness, boredom, frustrations, lack of infrastructure and first-world amenities that make our lives so much easier. I wrote about these frustrations before, so I will not bore you with the same laundry list. But I will say that I see more clearly that Peace Corps is not for everybody; Africa is not for everybody; living in the bush without a fridge is not for everybody. It makes me wonder if upon returning to the States I will continue with a low-budget low-maintenance travelling-hippie lifestyle, or if I would want to surround myself with creature comforts after two years of deprivation. My guess is both: I am used to simplified life, but will embrace all necessary fruits of civilization that will help along the way. For example, I see myself buying a nice new car and driving across the States. At the same time, I would be fine sleeping in that car if I were not able to find a place to stay for the night. I see myself getting a new pair of nice jeans (it’s been a year since I wore jeans, unbelievable!), but I would not shop till I drop at TJ Maxx and buy 20 other garments. Or would I? Time will tell.

And finally, I can carry things on my head! I am not as graceful as Ghanaians, but I am able to carry a huge tub of water from the well to my house. When I first moved to my village, I could only carry a small bucket, so there is definitely some progress.

Overall, a year in Africa will be one of the most memorable years of my life. On to another year! It is already ticking away.

On Roads, Cars and God's Will

It rained quite heavily the night before, and in the morning, on the way to the market town, we saw a huge truck in the ditch – it looked like while it was trying to avoid a fallen tree on the left, it swerved too hard on a dangerous curve. There were no police cars, no flashing lights warning other drivers to be cautious, no ambulances (the only purpose of ambulances here is to transport a dead body from a mortuary to a funeral). When I asked my counterpart if we should tell the police at the barrier about the accident, he just sighed: “They will not do anything.”

While in Bibiani, I saw a big orange truck going the other direction without thinking too much of it. But then couple hours ago when we were going back home, and were on that very dangerous curve, I saw that very orange truck twisted deep into the muddy trench! I became angry and upset. Why wasn’t police there? What was the driver thinking, driving so fast on this curve? Later we found out that the orange truck was trying to pass a motorcyclist thus killing him on the spot…

That day, I became upset at the way Ghanaians accept their fate without a proper fight.

Ghana seduced me with its relaxed way of shrugging things off when they would not go according to the plan: “Oh, well,” the collective conscience here seems to say “life goes on.” Tro breaks down, yam chips are “finished,” electricity is shut down – TIA (“This Is Africa” as I say now all the time)…

At the same time, Ghanaians struck me as very caring people: someone would always help me find my tro-tro stop, or a person I would be looking for; people would always tug my clothes or clean dirt off my face so I would look presentable. The support network in villages is amazing – since everyone is related to each other, people always help each other with chores, businesses or private affairs. Every time I would pass somebody while carrying a heavy bag or a bucket of water on my head, people always tried to help me. And when something was not going according to a plan, people would just shrug and say: “Oh, it is nature,” or “It’s God’s will.” And I would surrender to it too – why waste your nerve cells, as my mom would say?

But this time, this lack of regard for human life and well-being of others unnerved me. Yes, I understand why it is useless to complain to local police – it seems all they want is taking illegal fees from passing cars and being left alone. I imagined how this scene would play out in the US – and immediate 911 response, flashing lights or flares, alerts to other drivers, road signs saying “Slow,” “Caution,” “Keep Right,” accident victims airlifted to the nearby hospital and treated for their injuries. None of this happens here….

Traveling here is generally a pretty traumatic affair. As Peace Corps volunteers, we are not allowed to drive on our own or to ride motorcycles. The only modes of transportation that we are allowed to take are buses, tro-tros and taxis – all of which are in various stage of dilapidation. Lack of spare auto parts, bad roads and constant overloading of cars make them look like they’ve gone through a nuclear blast (plus, the fact that these cars come to Ghana already used doesn’t help). And overloading is no joke -  just imagine squeezing eight people into a sedan which usually holds five, or fitting 30 people, a couple of goats and tons of boxes and bags of plantains into a Suburban van.

Also, most roads are just… bad. There is no other way to say it. They are either dirt roads that make every trip to market feel like a safari (without any exotic animals). Or they are just narrow, two-lane county-like roads – but it doesn’t stop cars from going full speed and passing incoming traffic, sometimes dangerously close. During several trips to Kumasi, Accra and Tamale, I realized why people here pray so much: that is the only way calm yourself down and trust your life into hands of God while a driver tailgates huge trucks or goes around them on  a dangerous curve.

Bad cell phone connection, lack of warning system and a simple indifference of police doesn’t help the situation either. One time I was taking a bus from Tamale. Suddenly we slowed down pretty rapidly, and I soon discovered why. The left side of the highway was full (literally!) of overturned tractor trailers. And it seemed that all they were carrying were tons of cans of tomato paste and tomatoes. Just imagine  boxes and boxes of tomatoes – oh, the massacre…  Did our driver know about this accident? Of course not: he simply drove at full speed until he saw something suspicious on the road. The other time a tire on a bus I was riding blew up, and we skidded dangerously close to the ditch.

What am I trying to say? That Ghana is a dangerous place? That the infrastructure here is falling apart? That people believe that a prayer will save their tro from colliding with a tractor trailer? I myself lived in a country where aggressive driving, roads full of pot-holes and shoddily fixed cars caused numerous deaths. Yes, I did – and I did not like it. So now I have to accept the fact that anything can happen on the road… But I wish my fellow Ghanaians would be more willing and able to change the infrastructure, the police response and driving style instead of surrendering themselves to God’s will every time they go to their market town.

How I Ran a Marathon in Africa

It finally happened... I ran a marathon in Africa. And I survived!

The 9th annual International Accra Marathon (AIM) on September 27, 2015 was my slowest marathon (4 hours and 35 minutes), but it was my most rewarding one: I finished 9^th overall and placed 3^rd among women! If I did another marathon in America, I would have been one of hundreds finishers. But here in Ghana, where running community is still fairly small, it was simultaneously easy and hard to run among so few athletes. On one hand, the race did not look like a race but a long and uncomfortable urban run among exhaust-spewing tros, drinking spots, gaping locals and occasional police officers. But on another hand, it was a race, all right: you could see a string of runners ahead of you thinking – could you reach one of them? And how many are right behind me now?

But let me start from the beginning. Two days before the race, me and several other volunteers had a nice pasta dinner at my friend’s Michael’s house. It felt like a dinner party in America – we were sitting in a nice dinning room, eating from porcelain plates with real metal forks and knives. There was cheese, wine, salads, real coffee and dessert. What can I say – Peace Corps changes the way you look at food. Food (especially Western food) becomes an obsession. It can be a blessing and a curse: in this case it was both, because we really enjoyed every bite, but the next day our stomachs were reminding us that we were still in Africa, and consuming copious amount of food that you haven’t eaten in a while could cost you more than one trip to the bathroom. Good thing we did it two days before the race, eh?

On the big day (or, better say, night), we woke up at 2:30am and took a taxi to Labadi Beach Hotel – a posh resort where a finish line was. From there, we took to the start – Prampram neighborhood, in front of the road to Central University College. In the pre-dawn darkness, we counted our opponents – couple dozen expats from England,  Japan, France, one tourist from Poland (who specifically has flown to Accra to run the marathon), and only several Ghanaians (one of them was Kwabena, who works at the Salvation Army Hostel). The organizers were setting up drums and snapping pictures of us. The runners were sizing each other up and dashing into bushes for a last-minute pee break. I put on my flashing mini-lights that I used during relays and adjusted my tu-tu (which I brought from US specifically for the race!). One of my colleagues gave me a GU gel (which later helped a lot). The sky changed from black to gray. Dawn was approaching. Somebody yelled “Go!” and we were off.

In retrospect, running one marathon in Africa equals three marathons in the US. Simply put, it’s hard! The roads are not blocked from traffic, there are no Gatorade or granola bars at water stops, there are no encouraging supporters with whistles, posters and flags. Thankfully, the organizers had a team of cyclists who kept close to us and waved the incoming traffic away. They also gave us water and motivated us in their own way (my biker’s way to give me a boost was this phrase: “Your speed is looow.”).

With the exception of the finish line at the resort and a final stretch along the beach, the race took us through parts of Accra that are not mentioned in tourist guide books on purpose: there was simply nothing there. We ran through industrial yards of Tema, scary roundabouts of Prampram, and past typical container stores, tro stations and food vendors’  shacks of Beach Road. The most exciting part for me was running through a college campus – which at that early hour was empty. But at least it was traffic-free and had nice tall trees for a change.

I still remember that during my first marathon in Pittsburgh I never hit a wall. This time, however, I started hitting wall after wall, and the finish was still 18 km away! It’s hard to admit it, but I had to stop and walk (which haven’t happened since Moscow marathon, which was also not an easy race).

As locals would say, the race was not easy-o. The course was stretched mostly along busy streets where runners had to constantly dodge traffic. The air was full of car exhaust, dust and various smells from gutters; the heat was rising with every hour. Even though there were water stops, some of them were out of water by the time I reached them. The course was also not marked correctly: after the last sign that said “5 km left” I felt like I ran five miles! My knee was literally killing me, and my overall energy level was loooow. It was simply brutal. I was getting upset and kept asking my biker; “How much longer? Where is Labadi?” Instead of showing me some sort of visual sign, he kept saying: “Oh, it’s close.” (one of typical responses of locals who never want to say the exact distance so you wouldn’t get discouraged). Despite all of these obstacles, I managed to pass my colleague Jeff (who was well ahead of me at the beginning).

When I crossed the finish line I was wet, sore, cranky and exhausted. Moreover, I’ve had bloody blisters on my feet (it never happened before!). But I accomplished two goals that I set to myself – I finished a marathon in Africa, and I did not shit my pants (pardon my French). Because – guess what? There were no port-a-potties at the course at-all! During our shuttle journey we were looking out for gas stations just in case the call of nature would be too much to handle.  

Jeff wobbled right after me and then several more volunteers finished the race. We were done! We slowly made our way towards the post-race fest where there was food (rice, chicken, coconuts), goody bags and medals. It turned out that I placed third among women! When they announced my name, I was trying to get my meal ticket, which was blown away by the wind right from my hand (as you know, your reaction slows down after constantly running for 4.5 hours). I kept hearing my name, but I couldn’t come right away: I had to get my meal ticket! Finally I screamed: “I’m coming! I’m coming!” and sprinted towards the announcer. My feet and brain did not believe I could still run after 26.2 miles – that’s how excited I was about getting a medal. I was also happy for my colleagues, Katja and Cyrus, who placed 2^nd in women’s and men’s category.

After some rest, I managed to hobble to “my” biker and gave him a hug – I was grateful that he stuck around despite my frustrations and “loooow” speed. His presence gave me a boost.

But the best thing in any marathon (including this one) was to have a nice shower and go out to eat with your fellow athletes. We celebrated our athletic feat by going to a local Italian restaurant where each of us got pizza (eating pizza in Africa is very special!). The icing on the cake was getting a free piece of teramisu (split eight ways) and lemoncello shots from the restaurant’s owner. Bravissimo!

So, this is how I completed a marathon in Africa.

Meg and I: a Peace Corps Legacy

I wrote this story for our diversity newsletter, and it received some attention from our PC training director who wants to publicize it. Unfortunately, I was not able to upload pictures of Meg without having them being sideways. Maybe someday they'll find their place here.

My name is Anastasia, and I am a 1^st –year Agriculture volunteer. I’m stationed in Western Region, in a little village surrounded by cocoa groves. I am a naturalized American citizen, and what makes me unique is that a Peace Corps volunteer played a prominent role in my education, back when I still lived in my native country, Kazakhstan.

Me circa 1995

Peace Corps Kazakhstan started its mission in 1993, and volunteers participated in such programs as Community Development, Education, Health and HIV/AIDS and Youth Development not only in small towns and villages, but also in big cities like mine, Almaty. Many moons ago, right after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Peace Corps English teachers started to frequent my high school – an austere concrete building with rusty monkey bars sticking out in a deserted playground.

I remember one volunteer very clearly. Her name was Meg, and she was from Chicago (later on I had to find it on the world map, which was wall-papered in my room). During lessons, she used old issues of Rolling Stone and SPIN and snapshots of her friends to teach us such important and exotic-sounding words and expressions as “awesome,” “mashed potatoes,” and “cool stuff.” She had curly hair, bright smile and clear voice. To us, teenage “lost generation” of the 90s, she was very cool. She was also very brave. Coming to a crumbling post-Soviet republic half the world away to live in an old apartment, take a rickety exhaust-spewing bus around the city to teach a bunch of gloomy teenagers in a gloomy unheated classroom took a lot of bravery, sense of humor, and determination.

Looking back, I realize how lucky I was to have Meg as a teacher. Not only did I have an awesome* opportunity to speak English with “a real American” (as many of us would proudly tell our families), she also showed us her own version of America, which differed from Hollywood movies, music videos and commercials that flooded our ascetic media channels. Meg’s lessons helped me to improve my English and gave me enough confidence to apply for a coveted foreign exchange program, as well as college and, later on, graduate school.

Thanks to those Rolling Stone magazines read in our unheated classroom, I am a Peace Corps volunteer myself… My experience is very different from Meg’s: instead of living in a big post-Soviet city surrounded by mountains, I live in the African bush surrounded by cocoa farms. On a typical day I fetch water from the well, go to the farm with a cutlass, hand-wash my clothes, take a nap in the shade, greet neighbors and let local kids draw on my courtyard walls with crayons. However, based from our correspondence (we still keep in touch), both Meg and I have similar emotional ups and downs, little victories, frustrations and epiphanies. Back in Kazakhstan, Meg also felt different (even though her shade of skin was the same as ours). She also craved American foods (which is why she sends me care packages now). Moreover, she didn’t think that her presence at our school made any difference in our lives (it did!). And even though I’ve only been serving for less than a year, I am hoping that my presence in the community will also make a small-small impact – even if it is teaching a local kid to draw or speak a little English (other than the sing-songy “I am fine, how are you?” chant).

We are also a family now – a Peace Corps family. I am honored to be part of this great legacy, and passionate about its mission which, for me, started about 20 years ago when one sunny but cold winter day Meg came to our classroom, smiled and started talking to us in American English with her clear voice. 

  

____________________________________________

*Thanks, Meg.

Coming and going

So, I went to the US in July for two weeks. What a trip it was.

Generally, it was great to come back to good old New England, walk in my favorite Boston  neighborhoods, see friends, eat cheese (aaah, cheese!), and feel generally ignored (as in not being stared at and being called “Obroni!”everywhere I went ). However, I didn’t feel like I missed America all that much. It was just….there. And I was just…..a visitor who politely dropped by on her neighbor to check on things. As my plane was descending at Logan I did not feel any butterflies or urges to cry as I saw familiar buildings of the downtontown. I felt like I was cryogenically frozen for nine months and then woke up one fine day and started walking around Boston. In short, not too much changed in the Beantown while I was in Africa. And yet something was different. It was my perception of Boston and the US in general. For one thing, I was overwhelmed by choices in my life. If in my market town there were only a couple of types of canned sardines, several brands of crackers, and only one type of margarine (Blue Band, baby), Harvard Square was this overwhelming jumble of shops, eateries, brands, sales, coffee houses and ice-cream shops that all screamed: “Buy, buy! Spend, spend! Eat me! We know you want it!”

Many volunteers go back to the States to visit families, attend weddings, eat their favorite food, drink their favorite beer and shop till they drop. I heard some volunteers had hard time coming back to Africa. Some had trouble while they were already in America – there were too many meetings, too many events, too much time driving around and seeing too many people. Many wanted to simply sit and people-watch for hours like they did back in the African bush. I even heard how one volunteer stayed in London on the way back to Ghana – she simply decided not finishing her Peace Corps service.

As for me, I did not have trouble adjusting and re-adjusting myself between my lives in America and Africa. True, there were some comical moments during my visit: at one party, while sitting in the kitchen, I picked all plates clean because  - come on! – it was a crime to leave all this salsa and hummus uneaten. I also put cream cheese on almost everything – cookies, bread, fruit, pasta (how can you NOT put cream cheese on everything? It’s so good!). Ok, so most comical things involved food. I admit, I did miss American food in the bush, and I was happy to be reunited with as many dairy products as I could lay my eyes on. I was also glad to spend my first week in rural New Hampshire – that made my transition from African laid-back way of life to American hustle and bustle easier. I swam in the lake, hiked in the woods and enjoyed a simple camp food (pizza! Mac and cheese! Salad bar! Ok, I’m stopping now….).

When it was time to go back, I did not go to the airport kicking and screaming – I was simply excited to return to Ghana. With two suitcases stuffed with snacks from Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods, that is. They will keep me sustained until my next visit. Cheer up, America – I’m still your #1 fan. But I still want to roam around in the African bush and learn a thing or two about its people and myself.

Small-small victories

At this point of my service, small victories are still very important. If you picture me building an entire school for a community with my bear hands, or digging wells with just a shovel, think again. Because my main purpose here is to build people's capacity instead of deciding what they need and then do it all by myself (which is a common mistake of a lot of development workers). As our program director once said during our training: "You are here not to bring things. You are here to bring knowledge."

So, the most important success story (or a small-small victory) so far is that I continue to live in my village, get to know local people, live like them and at the same time, explore Western Region and Ghana on a shoe-string budget and rely on self-sufficiency, kindness of strangers, divine providence and good weather.

So, some highlights of my current life in Ghana include:

Carrying plywood on my head through the jungle for 1.5km one way for a church’s roof.

Visiting local women and learn how to make groundnut paste, toffie (candy) and sobolo.

Planting pepe (pepper), plantains and rice with fellow farmers. And running through the bush to take cover from unexpected downpour!

Managing to change tros at Kejetia Station without getting lost (Kejetia is perhaps the most vast and confusing market and bus terminal in Kumasi and probably in Ghana).

Walking from my village to the junction (instead of taking a bush taxi). This simple routine of mine often prompts many conversations about why I do that. Sometimes I refer to exercise, saving money for ice-cream, enjoying the outdoors, and saving time by walking instead waiting for a taxi to fill to the brim (a common practice here).

Foraging in the forest for palm oil mushrooms, pears (avocados) and oranges. Instead of going to giant grocery stores, I simply take a walk outside my cottage and see what I can find (for free!).

Ghana Life in Pictures

 Tractors rock! Our little Ag group had recently attended a No-Till Conservation Agriculture Center training run by Dr. Koffi Boa - a rocking farmer (and a Cornhusker fan - "Go Big Red!"). Unfortunately, thousand of acres of farm-able land is slashed and burnt which puts the soil quality in danger. So, we came, we saw, we weeded. And rode a tractor small-small. Now it's time to share our knowledge in our villages and spread the word about no slashing-burning techniques!

 An oak tree. There are a lot of big trees in Western Region where I live. They are beautiful! They also get cut illegally...

 A typical market town. You can buy your groceries, meet other volunteers, drink sobolo (a hibiscus ginger drink), fend off marriage proposals and browse "dead obroni piles" - second-hand clothing and shoes.

 Koffi the beekeeper visits me and my new cat, Jasper (I'm happy to report he is still alive). Jasper, that is. Koffi is doing well too :).

 During my short vacation, I went to Lake Bosomtwe in Ashanti Region. It is made by a meteorite, and has clean swimmable water!

Pounding the infamous fou-fou. Basically, it is mashed boiled cassava, plantains and yams. It's made into a ball and served with soup.

The Irony of Fate

The longer I live in Ghana, the more often I see numerous connections between this little hot African county and my home-land, the big and cold  former USSR. How so, you may ask? Well, here are just a few examples:

·         Children roam free! When I was growing up on Sakhalin Island, the entire town was like a big playground for me, my brother and our friends. We visited each others’ wooden cabins, played in abandoned jeeps strewn around the local airfield, dug giant snow tunnels and picked cloudberries in the swamp, just off the rickety boardwalk. Our adult neighbors would watch over us, of course - especially when our parents wanted to sneak out for a movie at a local “culture club.” By watching I mean cracking a window open to listen if we made any distressing noises while we slept.

Well, Ghanaian kids roam free too. They invent their own games, make their own toys from rubbish, watch over one another and go from house to house to get some food and keep themselves entertained. They’re super-independent and tough; nothing around here is baby- or child-proof; they always play with fire or sharp objects that would cause a lengthy lawsuit in America. What am I trying to say? Well, when I was growing up, I was also playing with sharp objects (there was plenty of broken glass in those abandoned jeeps), but somehow I stayed alive and didn’t maim myself or my friends. Yes, I’ve got some injuries - like a scar on my foot from when I fell off my bike, or a giant bruise on my butt when I fell from a metal swing (metal and wood were the only materials from which all playgrounds were constructed back home), but scars build character. And they have stories to tell. I guess I’m kind of glad I didn’t grow up in a cushioned and baby-proof America…

·         Sharply defined gender roles. In Ghana, men clear land for farming, women fetch water and cook. If a man is seen helping his wife carry groceries at the market, he will be made fun of. Women take care of children; men take care of building a house for their families. Yet both men and women pound fou-fou with equal zeal.

Russian culture also has these roles spelled out since the early childhood. I was always to help my mom with housework like doing dishes and cleaning rooms, while my brothers melted plastic toy soldiers in the yard. Just kidding – I was there with them J. But in any case, I was doing more housework than my brothers because I was a girl.

Russian influence. I’ve met numerous Ghanaian and other African nationals who studies in Russia or Ukraine and could converse with me in my native tongue. It’s wonderful! This is why my friend Abdullai is so dear to me – he can even quote some Russian movies. There are also a lot of my former compatriots – the other day I met a lovely pediatrician from Rostov who has been living here for over 20 years, and is fluent in Twi, Russian and Ghanaian English.

Speaking of movies... My lil’ village life continues to amaze me. I went to a local barber Koffi (he is also a beekeeper, but that’s another story), who has a TV in his shop, which plays movies for kids. So, here I am waiting for my turn, minding my own business, and all of a sudden I noticed that the city in the movie looked painfully familiar. When I looked closer I realized that it was…Moscow. Yes, Koffi was showing a Russian movie – it was called “Black Lightning”, and it was about a flying car (“Volga” to be precise).  That was the most nostalgic haircut I’ve gotten so far! It’s a small world after all. 

The Unpublished Sun Magazine Article

I am a fan of The Sun Magazine - it's beautiful, thought provoking and deep. It has a great section called "Readers Write" where readers can submit their own stories based on a certain theme (in the past they included "Love," "Family Vacations," "Saying 'No'", and "Coffee"). A couple of weeks ago I mailed my own story based on the "Noises" theme where I described my experience at the home stay family during our training. But I don't think my story made it to the US in time, so I'm posting it here.

READERS WRITE - NOISES

Last October, after working for a corporate America for almost a decade, I was heading for my next adventure -  Africa! I've joined Peace Corps, and was going to Ghana. After one week in Accra where our group of trainees did necessary paperwork, learned each other’s names and got a little used to the heat and humidity, we were transported to a small town hidden in the hilltops of Ghana’s Eastern Region. For the next two months, we were to live with local families where we were to learn a local language, get used to Ghanaian cuisine, and do household chores.

We arrived in the local Presbyterian church – a large unfinished concrete building with lizards scattering on its beams. Our new families, dressed in their Sunday best, were already waiting for us, sitting on flimsy plastic chairs. By a stroke of fate, my name was called first, and here was Madame Aduewa, my Ghanaian mom, talking to me in an accented English and telling about her family. She brought her nephew and niece with her, and they helped me to carry my giant suitcases on their heads.

Madame Aguewa’s house was right next to the church. Once at my new home, exhausted and sweaty, I took my first bucket bath. Then I hung a mosquito net above my bed and started watching my Ghanaian mom cook my dinner on a coal-stove: fried fish and rice. I ate my dinner on the porch while my new family sat around me, watching. Then I crawled under the mosquito net and fell deeply asleep.

A crowing of a rooster woke me up at around 4 am. Oh, well – I could get used to that, after all, I was in the village. But after a short slumber, I was woken up yet again: a short-wave radio in my mom’s room started playing religious marches and hymns. Really loudly. Shortly after, my “grand-mom” started singing along with the radio, and my “mom” called her nephew: “Imma! Imma!” so he would get up and start the fire going for the stove. I kept lying on my bed, no longer sleepy, listening to the noises outside of my room: the roosters, the radio, the calls, the off-key singing. Later that morning other trainees were complaining of being woken up really early by typical (as we later found out) noises of a Ghanaian village: goats were bleating, babies were crying, and people were praying. We were not “in Kansas anymore”. We were in Africa!

Two months later, after the successful training, I became a volunteer, and moved to a village in Western Region. I am now used to village noises around me: the squealing of kids, the chattering of neighbors, the preaching from neighboring churches (amplified by giant loudspeakers), the pounding of cassava.

At the same time, I still vaguely remember the noises back in the US that I could hear from my apartment’s window on Commonwealth Avenue  - the humming of morning traffic, the ringing of a T tram’s bell, the breathing of lovemaking neighbors, the moaning of firefighters’ sirens, the hooting of sports fans after a successful game. I wonder how I would react to them when I’m back...

Welcome to KSO!

Yee-hah! My site restriction is over, and now it is time for cool projects with other volunteers!

This video was created at our Kumasi Sub Office (aka KSO) where we introduce its amenities and have some fun along the way. I shot a couple of scenes (including the very last one) and also had several seconds of fame. But the real heroes are Matt (the main star), Jimmy (the editor) and Tabatha (the voice-over).

Ayekoo (well done)!

PS: My idea for another video-audio project is to collect songs from various parts of Ghana.

Social Life Post

As a fan of urban life-style with its never-ending socialization during after-work drinks, festivals, concerts, birthday parties and pub crawls, it can be somewhat shocking to live in a small village in West Africa (although I was born in a small island town in Russia and studied in the Pennsylvanian boonies). But, upon closer look, rural living can still provide some social opportunities.

So far the most popular social event around here is…a funeral. While in the US, Russia and Kazakhstan it is a fairly private family affair (with an exception of an obituary published in a local newspaper announcing the memorial service for friends and close relatives), Ghanaians see a funeral as a chance to socialize with relatives from other villages, meet local chiefs and raise funds for further arrangements.

Overall, a typical funeral or a memorial service looks like this: a canopy is put up on a village football field, where hundreds of plastic chairs are placed. There is an MC who plays pop music and makes announcements through giant speakers. In the middle of the field there is either 1) a tent with a coffin where a deceased is laid to rest), or 2) a big photograph of the deceased festooned with black and red ribbons and plastic flowers. People, dressed up in their funereal best (either black-and-red dresses and shirts, or black-and-white robes, depending on the type of funeral and the age of the deceased), walk around the field from right to left, wave at other guests and pay respect to the deceased. They also give money to the funeral committee that would cover various expenses – the biggest one being a fee to a mortuary where a body is stored, sometimes for months. Here in the region of cocoa, where there is some extra money after the harvest, a lot of funerals are held in February and March.

Despite the somewhat morbid occasion, people regarding these events as great opportunity for socializing, dancing, eating and drinking. Many times they pay an MC a little extra to request a certain song for their village or a certain person (one time a song was requested for me, “an American woman”, where I had t stand up and dance a bit).

A family of the deceased is usually responsible for feeding the guests, but as far as drinking goes, many simply go to local spots and have shots of apeteshi or beer. I did not see too much crying and mourning – Ghanaians hardly express their grief in public. However, based on the family’s church affiliations, there is some room for mourning through dancing and singing. One funeral, organized by the Divine Faith Church, had women criers around the coffin.

 If a departed was an old and well-respected community member, their funeral is attended by local chiefs who make quite an entrance with their interpreters, bodyguards and umbrella-twirlers. They display their chieftaincy through big golden rings, head bands, bracelets and tribal marks. It is quite a sight.

From an outsider’s point of view, it seems like a mortality rate is pretty high – my fellow villagers go to funerals every weekend. But one must take in the fact that it is a more social occasion here than in the US. The mood is usually festive, and the entire event looks like a combination of a festival, a diplomatic visit, an auction and a discotheque. MCs make announcements of each delegation from every village, vendors walk around to sell groundnuts and bofrut (a Ghanaian donut) women chat and occasionally stand up and dance in the middle of the field. People dress in their best attire: both men and women order new dresses and shirts; women weave their braids and buy new kerchiefs.

I was told that another good way to socialize is at a wedding if a couple decides to organize one (as usually the ceremony of a husband taking a wife is done privately, only in the presence of their families). So far there were no weddings around here, but I will let you know what they are like once I’m invited.

Here are some pics  (and a video!) from the festivities:

 Women from my village and their beautiful outfits.

Dancing! And honoring the chief.

The essential plastic chair for all your community needs (I have one in my court-yard, and during training we broke a whole bunch of them :)).

A Day in Life of a PCV in Ghana

Some of you were wondering what is it I do every day in Ghana: Soaking up the sun? Wondering in the bush with a cutlass pretending to be an explorer? Hiding  from the heat? Fending off marriage proposals?.... Well, although every day has its unique moments, right now, during my first three months of an integration period, I’ve been mainly staying in my little village with an exception of going to my market town for some provisions and visiting volunteers who live nearby. So, as of now, I have a certain daily routine going, which I provide below. Note – this can change in April, as I’ll be off my site restriction, and will be able to travel more for more training, grant work and friendly visits to other regions. [Note: by the time this blog entry got finally posted, my site restriction officially ended. Yay!]

6.30-7 – wake up, go for a run in the bush (if I’m not too lazy). Sometimes after that, I walk to the main street of the village and greet people on their way to farms.

7.30-8 – breakfast (coffee, fried eggs, fried bread, or bofrut, which I buy in the “downtown”), reading, listening to some tunes, watering my little garden. I’ve got some cabbage, basil, aloe and carrots planted in various containers (including new coffee mugs that I already managed to chip and break). Some of them I inherited from previous volunteers who served several years before.

8-12 – going to a farm with one of the farmers (once a week – going to a local school to teach a couple of integrated science classes). So far I helped with weeding (with my cutlass!), harvesting cocoa and planting tomatoes. With a rainy season coming up, there will be a lot of cocoa planting, so I want to help with that too. Since I live right next to the school (and since my mother is a teacher) I felt compelled to do something at the school as well.

12-2 – lunch (usually stew, or fruit, or gari with groundnuts) and an afternoon nap. Sometimes farmers feed me bread, apesi (boiled plantains and yams with a fish or tomato stew), or a pear (this is how they call avocado). It’s getting hotter around here, so an afternoon siesta is a requirement, not an option J. I’m more lucky than other volunteers, though – it does not get 100F in the shade around here, and there is a fairly pleasant breeze.

4.30 - 6 – a visit from neighboring kids to help me fetch water or sweep a courtyard in exchange for fruit, or a game or a craft. So far we played frisbee, sang songs and learned how to make a skipping rope from used water satchets.

Sometimes I wonder around and greet people as they prepare their dinners and prepare for bed. Greetings are very important in the Ghanaian culture, plus there may be a possibility that somebody may feed me. I also walk to the big tree where men play board games – usually dam, which is just like our checkers.

6-7 – dinner (red-red, pasta, stew, sardines, or salad), or whatever I’m being fed.

7.30 – 9.30 – watching a movie or reading a book, writing in a journal, writing letters, trying to write new blog entries.

9.30-10 – lights out (I’ve already experience the official “dum-sor”, or “switch on-swtich off” of the national electrical system where the entire districts lose power for up to several days.

On certain days the routine changes a bit. For example, on Fridays I go to the district capital’s market to stock up on some food staples (tomatoes, onions, sardines, cabbage, mushrooms etc.). I also visit my friend Abdulae, who, despite being from Burkina Faso, is fluent in Russian. We cook lunch, drink box wine and talk about life in Ghana, Russia, Ukraine, Canada and other countries both of us managed to live in. I also go to the internet center where I post my blogs. Finally, I get my sweet fix – FanIce ice-cream, which is not sold in my village, take a bush taxi and head back.

On Saturdays I go to church (I sing in a Seventh Adbentists’ Church choir), and on Sundays I usually do chores (laundry, sweeping, cleaning), and also run our soap-making group’s meetings. We already made moringa soap, moringa ointment and key soap. We learn as we go – as people say around here, small-small.

That’s pretty much it….No traffic jams, no rushing to work, no open mics, no late-night drinks with colleagues. Technically I work everywhere I go because even talking to someone fulfills a purpose of being a Peace Corps Volunteer. Which I don’t mind doing.

Groundhog Day - Ghana-style

Almost right after my nostalgic thoughts about urban life and good food, came one of my favorite days of the year – Groundhog Day (February 2^nd). As many of you know, it was brought to the US by German immigrants, where a groundhog can “predict” whether or not spring would come early. But main reason I love this day is because it gives me a legitimate reason to watch one of my favorite movie with fantastic Bill Murray as Phil Connors, the embittered weather man, who has to re-live Groundhog Day in Punxsutawney over and over again. His reactions to this jinx are priceless: there is shock, anger, denial, recklessness, indulgence, depression, enlightenment, grief, and finally, acceptance and enjoyment of the same day over and over again by helping others, learning new skills (piano, ice sculpting, car repair etc.) and accepting life as it is.

As I was watching this movie for the N-th time in my little cottage, I thought that my current situation is not unlike Phil’s: I am in a tiny village with a slow pace of life, where everybody knows each other. I tend to go through the same motions day after day: waking up, greeting people, going to farm, working on my garden, cooking dinner, reading a book, going to bed. But then, as in the movie, this sameness and feeling of being stuck can be, as Rita (Phil’s love interest) put “not a curse – it depends how you look at it.” It’s true: I’ve got two years to take a deep breath, look around and learn more about others and myself. I can read good books and learn a new trade. I can continue training so I could complete the Accra Marathon in September. I can ponder on my next steps in life – will I want to finally settle in and have a family, or will I continue to roam? Will I go to grad school or work for Peace Corps or another international development organization? Will I live in a humming city or a quiet town? As of now, I can take it all in and re-live the same day over and over again without feeling stuck or useless. Thanks, Phil.

The Nostalgic Post

Well, what can I say? Things are quiet, but things are happening. In the past several weeks, I put together a soap-making making group, joined a church choir (and already participated in a singing competition!). I also met the area business development reps, did a speech on the importance of clean environment, and visited several local towns. On a regular basis, I monitor my container gardens, make pineapple jam, grind egg-shells for calcium intake, cook red-red and play “Oshiva-Oppale” with kids.

And yet, and yet….

I feel like I’m not doing anything. Worse, I’m getting a bit moapy…

I’m starting to miss things from home (both from US and KZ). Some things are not even something I expected to miss or crave: for example, I really want Oreos, even though I did not care for them too much. I do miss winter and snow (and yes, I should be happy being in a warm Africa now while Northeast is snowed in, but I do miss this season with its skiing trips, snow days, borcht, hot toddies and pub crawls with hashers). I miss walking in the city and stopping by at any cafe where I can order a cup of coffee, sit on a sofa and listen to whatever barista is playing at that moment on her Pandora station. Or, going to Burren to have a pint of Shipyard and chat with Irish bartenders with their awesome accents. I miss general feeling of being in a city and being left alone in the crowd. Here, I’m not able to blend in – everybody knows me, everybody wants to greet me, everyone knows where I live.

Yeah – the anonymity of a big city (and its abundance of good eateries!) – is something I clearly miss at the moment. I know that it is natural, that it is part of the adaptation process; I realize that missing something from home will always be around during my service, so I’m not shocked or upset by it. It’s like missing your old love, but not the actual person – it’s missing the feeling of contentment and excitement, and reminiscing good ol’ days without focusing on any negative aspects of the relationship. And this is how my urban nostalgia is currently functioning: I long for my favorite places in Boston, Cambridge and Philly with their snowy streets, twinkly lights and other winter delights, but I do not miss winter traffic and curses of commuters; I do not miss being stuck in the office, or constant bombardment of ads on T trains; I do not miss city loneliness (which is different from the anonymity that cities give you). Also, I know that even if I could take off to US just so I could satisfy my cravings for Yuengling lager or scones from Flour, it is not enough of a reason for me to come back to the US, even for a little while. In fact, it will be pretty ridiculous. So, in times like these, a Skype call from a friend and a bottle of Club at a local spot would do a trick. Besides, it is pretty warm where I am, and I do not have to shovel any snow. Sorry-o.