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.