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.