Finding My Rhythm

Prelude: before I start my blog post this time, there is a little comment I want to make about some misunderstandings of a previous post. As I was writing my post on poverty, I thought I was being clear that the little argument between Eliya and I about the fanmilk man on the bus was an anecdote I was using to inspire my own thoughtfulness in reacting to poverty, charity, and exchange here in Ghana. It seems as though some saw the post as a debate between Eliya’s stance on poverty and my own, and its my fault that I never explicitly said this was not so. So just so we’re all on the same page – I hope most of us were there to start with – that post was not discussing Eliya’s entire stance of poverty (that might take a thesis to argue with, not a few paragraphs), but Eliya’s one point on poverty in that short 15 minutes on the bus. I was interested in seeing what would happen if we generalize that point, apply it in every instance rather than just once, in hope that universalizing it would help me react to it intelligibly. Actually, Eliya and I agree on many, many things here – at least when I calm down from rapping Mac Miller songs enough to have a semi-intelligent conversation – and the main difference between us in this one instance was whether getting cheated out of 10 pesawas by this fanmilk man attacks the principle of the matter or isn’t even worth much of a thought at that moment. Anyway, hope we’re all crystal… crystal clear, that is J!

What I really want to talk about today is something I’ve also had some people ask me (wow, looks like I’m reacting to people’s comments a lot lately, so post comments and talk to me!!) – what exactly do you do every day there in Ghana, what does your daily life there look and feel like? For the longest time, this was an impossible question to answer because things were literally changing from day-to-day too drastically: from orientation to registering for classes to exploring Accra. Finally though, after a 5 weeks or so of being here, I think I’ve begun settling into somewhat of a rhythm and hopefully I can fill you all in on what my daily life here is actually like this semester.

         The first thing you have to know is some basic information about what exactly I’m doing here, who I spend time with, how many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsy-pop, etc. I am here studying at the University of Ghana, one of the most prestigious universities in West Africa (and making real strides to become internationally recognized in the near future), which resides in Legon (a northern neighborhood of Greater Accra) here on the Southern coast of Ghana. I am taking several classes here including: Ghana Society and Culture (mandatory Orientation class), Ghanaian Drumming (hoping to bring a kpanlogo drum back to the states :D), Political and Economic Reform of Post-Colonial African States, Wildlife Management (pretty much the only reason I’m taking this class is because all the students get to go on a fieldtrip to Mole, the largest National Park in Ghana), and Introduction to Economic Anthropology. I am also conducting research here, under Professor Gavua who co-teaches my Economic Anthropology course, about changing business culture in the Medina Marketplace… maybe I’ll have a whole post about my research when I actually feel like I’m getting somewhere with it :P.

I’m living on the fourth floor of  Legon Hall Annex B, an all-male Ghanaian dormitory right on campus (maybe a 10-15 minute walk to most classes… the campus is maybe double the size of UC Berkeley). The only international students in the whole dorm are me and my three friends here, living in two rooms right next to each other at the end of the fourth floor hall: Devin (the supa chilled-out UC Santa Cruzian on his second semester in Ghana) and Theo (my roommate during orientation, just happens to be the new star on the University of Ghana basketball team *cough* no biggie *cough*, also from Berkeley, and is apparently the certified hunk of the group) in one room, and Carlin (the sweet, artistic, crazy event-planning hopeless romantic of a roommate from UC San Diego) and I in the last room. We’re pretty much inseparable, except for Carlin who’s at Dance class most of the day. We’re pretty great! The others I spend most of my time with include the Volta girls (who are mostly women from our orientation that decided to live in Volta Hall with Ghanaian students rather than the International Student Hostel) and the local friends we’ve made so far. There are 10 Volta girls: Eliya (who’s my bestie from back home), Anneke (the half-dutch cutie and fellow co-oper, from Cloyne, at UC Berkeley), Mallory (our ray of sunshine from UC Santa Cruz), Carmen (the oh-so serene hippy and fellow co-oper, from Lothlorien, at Berkeley), Zoe (the laid back girl from Humboldt sleeping in our room right now because she had “a little” too much to drink last night), Kassy (the sassy big momma of the group from UC Riverside), Aesha (who has the best laugh ever and just celebrated her 21^st birthday here yesterday), Jessica (who’s our favorite quiet little mouse), Ariel (who has a sparkling smile and gorgeous Hebrew tattoo - even though she’s not Jewish, this is her second semester here), and Heidi (who is a ball of fun, always interested in talking with me about Israel, and is also on her 2^nd semester here). My good local friends here so far include Daniel (who must have a new girl around him every time I talk with him), Jamal (“smash it and quit it and leave it and forget it”), Alvin (the serene, religious, intellectual), Viviana (a gold-medalist in West African track who made ramen with us this week), Abdul (the high-achiever who runs the Planned Parenthood program on campus, serves as a Chief on the Student Traditional Council, and cooks a mean groundnut soup), and Gyimah (who was one of our student-guides on our orientation and is just such a the funniest, most thoughtful, well-to-do guy I’ve met here). Mmmmm, ok we’ll stop there for now, but that seems like a good start!

          Alriiight, so now that you all have some sort of semblance of what exactly is around me every day, I’ll try to give you an idea of the rhythm I’ve been getting into. Pretty much my weeks are broken up into three categories: weekdays except for Tuesday, Tuesday, and weekends (includes Friday). Here we go! Most weekdays, except for Tuesday, pretty much feel the same. I wake up in the morning at the way-too-darn-early time of 8:30am or so, immediately jump up and grab my shower caddy (otherwise I’ll fall right back to sleep), and take a cold shower to wake myself up if we have running water. On the couple days a week that we don’t have running water, I’ll take a bucket shower if “the tap” on our floor is working (its connected to a big tank on our roof that fills up as a back-up when the water is running) and have so far refused to shower when the tap is out and I’d have to walk up and down four floors with a heavy water bucket (the longest I’ve gone is 2 days without showering, so not so bad, and deodorant fixes all that anyway, right :P?). I end up going to class usually starting at 9:30am, grabbing a large hunk of bread with groundnut paste (what Ghanaians call peanut butter) from the lady selling porridge outside of our building on my way, and am usually the only one taking notes on my laptop (not that others don’t have one, I’m not sure why they don’t take notes with it) during class. After class, I usually head over to IPO (the International Programs Office) where I can get my fix of free-wifi in for the day, use the bathroom if the bathrooms in Legon are way too gross (which is usually the way they are, especially when the water runs out… don’t even get me started), and see some other friends that are passing through. Eventually, I begin to starve and have to wretch from the computer and hobble out of IPO to go grab some food at BushK (or Bush Canteen… why they use a “K” for the shortcut is beyond me). I usually call a friend to join me - or run into some people I know because we all pretty much eat there - and enjoy some red-red (red bean stew with Avocado if they have it), fufu (mashed cassava, with texture somewhere between jello and mashed potatoes, in “light” or chicken soup that’s nothing like our chicken soup), or indomie (literally Ramen, out of the same-looking boxes we have, just with a different brand name). I usually end up making my way home after that, hanging around the room (maybe doing laundry, writing, or reading) and eventually grab Theo and Devin to play some basketball… only to pass out on my bed with the fan cranked up to uber-high 2-3 hours later attempting to recuperate. Dinner is usually the same every day with all the guys playing “nose-goes” for who has to run downstairs to grab us some delicious egg-and-sausage sandwiches (to which we always add some laughing cow cheese, the only kind of cheese they readily have here, some tomatoes, and some tapatio we snagged from home). The evenings vary, depending on how much energy we have or whether there’s something going on that night, but could be anything ranging from: hanging out with our floormates, watching some It’s Always Sunny (or other hilarious American sitcom), or making our way to Volta to spend time with the girls (and catch some free wifi that they are lucky to have in their rooms).

          Tuesdays are different because I have no class that day so it has become designated “research day.” That means I wake up at 5:30am – a little piece of me dies every time I have to wake up that early – so I can shower and get to Medina Market by 6:30am to help some of the friends/contacts I’ve already made set up their shops. I spend the morning in Medina and head back to campus in the early afternoon, where I grab a quick bite to eat, and end up typing up the fieldnotes for the ethnography that day. Then, I usually do some supplementary anthropological reading, relax, and end up working on my thesis (from back home, which I’m still not done with) at night. Or at least… that’s the plan J. Weekends are always different, which is what makes them so exciting, but I think I’ve settled on traveling every other weekend (like last weekend when I went to Ada). Those weekends will always be filled with random, crazy adventures hopefully – so not much rhythm to fill you in on there. Otherwise, I’m sleeping in back home, reading, working on my thesis, hanging out, learning how to cook Ghanaian dishes with friends, and always finding random, interesting, fun things to do at night. Last night, for example, we ended up turning down an offer to go to a local concert on campus to have a Karoake Night with all the girls at Volta and took off around midnight for a Saturday night boxing match with Devin, Theo, Andrew, and Eric in downtown Accra. The night before was spent in Osu, the main night-life district in Accra, with all our friends feeding Aesha drinks at a bar (and watching her dance a little too raunchily with some strangers thereafter) for her 21^st birthday. Both of those nights were awesome and typical of my weekend shenanigans when I’m not traveling!

        Hope you all now gained a little bit of insight into my daily life here in Ghana, I’m having a wonderful lazy Sunday as I write this blog post at the moment, so hope you all are having a wonderful weekend as well and I’ll write to you again soon!

Chronicles of Adventure: Episode 1

          Hello! I realized that usually when I write I forget that people are actually reading my blog posts, and apparently more people than I imagined, so I should probably say hi every once in awhile to start a post. Oh, and please comment on my posts so I know you’re here!

Ok, now that greetings are over and done with, let’s get down to business (queue Mulan theme song)! Usually I would begin with a cute, little anecdote that might casually – even slyly - lead into some sort of personal and/or intellectual reflections on my life here in Ghana… but this time is going to be different. This time I’m just going to tell you a story – the story of my first independent travel experience (that is, not organized through our orientation). Warning: This Post May Be Longer Than Originally Intended.

          Let me paint the scene. Roi. All alone. Obscenely-large-backpack-filled-with-every-possible-gadget-he-might-ever-need-in-any-situation extending awkwardly behind him. Destination: Ada (East Coast of Ghana). How to get there? Not a goshdarn clue. *Mission Impossible theme comes on* Roi boards a tro-tro right at the song’s climax. The screen fades to black. Ready, set, go.

          I can’t even explain how awesome it was to travel alone for the first day. Let’s just say that I made upwards of six new friends within the first 15 minutes of my travels to Ada. I had a very vague idea of how to get there (try to get to Tema and then there should be a tro-tro there to Ada). Luckily, just by taking that first risk and asking those around me, I was embraced, guided, and befriended. I made one friend named McDon – also a student at University of Ghana – who happened to be traveling to Tema and showed me where the tro-tro station leading there would be. I told him I was going to Ada - he immediately gave me two numbers of people to call when I get there and had me call them to say hello before I arrived. Next I met a woman sitting next to me who was starting her second year of Peace Corps duty in Ghana. After some shared laughs, we soon traded numbers as she told me that wherever I traveled (except Ada apparently) there are Peace Corps volunteers open to giving me a place to stay for free. From Tema to Ada, I met an older couple that literally held my hand from one station to the other (I would have gotten so lost otherwise) – the lady ended up giving me her card, “if you ever find yourself in Keta (an hour past Ada), call me and I’ll show you around.” Remember her. She makes an important appearance later.

          As I get to Ada Foah, the part of the city closest to the ocean, I realize that the best place to start was the beach (Eliya was telling me that the guidebook had talked about a beach “resort”). I was told by the tro-tro driver that the road would soon become too narrow for the car, and he pointed at the gang of Ghanaians eagerly looking at me from their motorcycles. Hell yes! After driving a hard bargain with the first driver (pardon the pun), I got on the back of the “moto” and he gunned it, scattering some stray goats as we made our way down some very windy dirt roads. He ended up dropping me off in what seemed to me to be the middle of nowhere: behind me, an abandoned hotel, and in front of me a small village with wooden huts leading to a beach with hardly a soul in sight. It was truly a Malinowskian moment (for those Anthropologists among us, you understand the reference). Suddenly, I was overcome with how alone I was – on a beautiful barren beach, nobody I knew for miles and miles, paving my path forward solely of my own volition. I began walking, and after chatting up a local fisherman for a few minutes about the village I just walked by, he guided me to the place Eliya told me about: “see those coconut trees in the distance? Yeah, right past them.” And so I went, eventually arriving at the Maranatha Beach Club. I have to try and recreate this image for you. Imagine the most beautiful strip of sandy beach you’ve ever seen snuggled between two gorgeous, but very different, bodies of water: a 10 foot walk in one direction leaves you at the mouth of the volta river while a 20 meter walk in the opposite direction leads you to the Guinea coast (that’s the ocean for you geographically uninspired types). On this beach is an array of palm trees, scattered reed huts that serve as guestrooms, a bonfire, and a mix of local staff and (mostly) Obruni travelers (for some reason, mostly Dutch). If a coconut fell on my head, leaving me with a mild form of retrograde amnesia (unable to recall where I was), I wouldn’t have flinched at the suggestion that I was in Tahiti. For 20 cedi (that’s 14 dollars!!!!), I received a reed hut to myself equipped with a double bed (I ended up sleeping with Theo on it the next night so feel free to do the math on the cost) and a floor that is nothing more than the beach itself. I called one of the numbers McDon gave me and ended up talking to a man named Emanuel, who quickly rushed over on his motorcycle to greet me. The rest of the night was filled with talk of hopes for the future, drunken bonfires, and learning crude phrases in Dutch – who could’ve asked for more?

          The next morning struck me swiftly as I walked out of my hut only to inhale a deep breath of refreshing sea mist. If I could, I’d wake up to that feeling every day. After a stroll down to the estuary (where the Volta river empties into the ocean) and through the local villages (where fisherman were preparing their boats for the day) with my new Finnish friend Timo, six others showed up in town to join me and until tomorrow (that’s Theo, Mallory, Eliya, Anneke, Carmen, and Zoe). Emanuel showed us a great place to eat for cheap, we indulged, and the rest of the day was spent sightseeing and relaxing. There really are too many stories to tell, so I’ll focus on the one that’s most prominent in my mind – the thunderstorm. On the canoe ride back from an island with a village operating its own rum distillery, a little buzzed from the samples of rum promised to give me “man power” (I can only guess what that means), we noticed that the sky appeared an extra shade of grey today. “Maybe a storm is coming in,” someone murmured. Those that are literarily inclined might recognize that as foreshadowing. Fast forward past some beer, bonfire, dancing, and drumming and we (that’s Theo and I) end the night tucking ourselves into bed – all warm and cozy under our mosquito net. Or so we thought (dun DUN DUN)! Splitter. Splatter. Splashitty splish splash. “Wha-“ I mutter as I lurch up in horror, realizing suddenly that water has been dripping down on my face from above. Awww, the roof is leaking! Wait, what? I turn to Theo and he wakes up, confused. *thunder crashes in the distance* We look at each other: “THIS IS EPIC!” I feel like we both must have said that at the same time, but I’m not sure. We scramble out of the bed and slam the door open – only to be faced with the most insane sight I have ever seen. I have never seen rain like that before – never quite so unceasingly powerful – with lightning slashing the night every few seconds in the distance. Yet it wasn’t cold at all. Case in point: I was in nothing but my boxers and without a shiver in sight. We knew what we had to do; it was time for a raid. We grabbed the closest thing we could find to an umbrella (the cotton sheet we rejected as a blanket in this heat) and ran through the storm and toward the girl’s hut. With every roar of thunder – some so strong that we literally felt the vibrations – we shrieked as we sprinted through the rain. Anneke opened the door to two frantically knocking, utterly soaked, human beings. They laughed. We laughed. And we all cuddled our way to a good night’s sleep.

          Ok, I could end the story right there but I’m not a fan of Disney endings, so I have to tell you about the day after – I’ll be brief, I promise! As the others headed home, I decided bravely that I was going to stick it out. I had school starting late on Monday afternoon so I was going to spend another night traveling on my own, this time trekking to Keta (an hour past Ada). Ok sure, I had an amazing experience right out of a movie meeting Emanuel’s family, having his son climb a 40-foot coconut tree with his bare hands to grab us a snack, and waving goodbye to the community as Emanuel and I rode off on his motorcycle. But right after that, things started going downhill. I’m not sure what did it. Maybe it was the unnecessarily arduous tro-tro ride, probably taking 2 or 3 times as long as I was told it would. Maybe it was the fact that I had invented a new term for what I was experiencing: “projectile diarrhea.” Maybe it was the fact that I was involved in some sick cycle of consumption with the Keta mosquitos: they were eating me alive as I did the same (I still can’t understand why so many of them would fly into my food like that). Maybe it was the fact that in attempting to open one of the coconuts Emanuel gave me to eat along my trip, I ended up slicing my finger open and bleeding all over the place. Whatever it was – I definitely broke down a little. I was tired, broken, and somewhat beaten. I just wanted to sleep – and I did – at 9:00pm. That’s early even by Ghanaian standards. I woke up the next morning with an attitude determined to make the day better… Keta snickered and slapped me in the face. Turns out that after paying for last night’s mosquito-filled feast and the room for the night, I was left with 6 cedi in my wallet. That’s just not enough to travel home with. Anxiety builds. I waited in line outside the local bank for an hour or so, although I’m not sure why there was a line if everyone was just going to become a rabid mob when the doors opened and push their way to the front by any means possible. The manager assured me that there was nothing he can do to help – the closest ATM was on the border with Togo, another hour in the opposite direction from home. Anxiety erupts. I wasn’t quite thinking straight, but Eliya calmed me down enough for me to remember the card the woman gave me on the tro-tro to Ada just a couple days prior: “If you ever find yourself in Keta, call me and I’ll show you around.” I called, I explained what had happened, and in her very calm, matter-of-fact voice she guided me to meet her. On her card was written, Assemblywoman’s Office, but it turned out that she was no official but the cook for the Assemblywoman’s canteen next door. She smiled and without hesitation pulled out 10 cedi from her purse and handed it to me. “I can’t take this,” I stuttered. Who knows what that 10 cedi meant to her – she was a cook for heaven’s sake! She didn’t flinch, “take it,” she said. And I did – demanding she call me next time she was in Accra so I could pay her back. I walked away feeling a little shaken – how can she have been so generous? This woman I had just met briefly on a tro-tro, it couldn’t have been for more than half an hour, literally saved me from some very serious misfortune and I could not have been more thankful.

          And that is where the story ends!

Poverty and Me

(sorry for the longer post this time, but I think the topic merited me writing more than usual!)

       On the bus ride home from our excursion to the Volta region, something very ordinary happened that inspired this blog post. As I wrote about in my traffic blog post, whenever cars stop in traffic, all sorts of sellers run up to the windows in an attempt to get you to buy snacks, phone credit, and other random goods (we ran into people selling things as ridiculous as the monopoly board game, electric tummy shavers, and even two little puppies). Today though, there was nothing out of the ordinary, as a man with a little white cart and hand-held horn came up to the window selling fanmilk (kind of like ice cream: there’s chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry yogurt flavors). As a few of my friends next to me bought some fanchoco, I realized that they were being overcharged – typical. Fanmilk everywhere is exactly the same price, it’s usually even shown as a sticker on the front of the seller’s cart (which is also identical everywhere)… it should be 60 pesawas (40 cents) each but he was charging 70! I told him that as I bought my fanyogo (strawberry), and he smiled shyly knowing that he had just been caught, and gave me my fanyogo for the right price. Proud of myself for knowing and demanding the real price given to everyone except for oblivious foreigners, I happily began enjoying my ice cream. This is when the ordinary turned inspirational as those of us on the bus began processing what had just happened.

It was all initiated by Eliya (technically the other author on this blog – hopefully this will motivate her to share some of her journal writings on here), when she turned to me as we drove off and said, “it’s ok to have paid him the 70 pesawas, you know?” Essentially, she was pointing out the fact that we are very fortunate to have a lot of money and power as “rich Americans” – while the man selling the fanmilk had close to nothing and was probably struggling to make a living – why not make his day that much better by letting him have the extra 10 pesawas? Was I so cruel that I had to skimp out on less than a dime (which meant less than nothing to me and probably something to him)? This really bothered me at the time, I didn’t see it her way (as an act of charity) at all, but rather as a sign of disrespect toward me that only reinforced the stereotype of the white foreigner disconnected and alien from the reality on the ground. Before I make my argument, however, let me try to deconstruct Eliya’s into its essential elements so we can all engage with it more aptly (she can feel free and correct me if I misrepresented her in a future blog post :P). Essentially, if we break down Eliya’s argument, it is constructed upon premises that lead to a logical conclusion. The premises are as follows: (1) we are powerful Americans (most blatantly via our economic wealth), (2) the fanmilk man is powerless in relation to us - struggling to make a living, and (3) we care about the plight of the less powerful and seek to alleviate that suffering and inequality. Based on these premises, we can therefore logically deduce that because 10 pesawas is considerably more meaningful to the fanmilk man when compared to those of us on the bus – and since we care about alleviating the suffering and inequality – it would be only logical (and we would probably be happy) to pay 70 pesawas for the fanchoco.

My response to Eliya, and pretty much most of the other people near me on the bus (except Theo who agreed with me, interestingly, somehow there was a gender divide here), was not quite as coherent as I am going to present it here but the main points were pretty much the same. It got a little heated, so I think I owe both Eliya and myself an understandable explanation for the both of us. In the last paragraph, I broke down Eliya’s argument for paying the fanmilk man the extra 10 pesawas into 3 premises and a logical deduction. My response, then, will begin with an argument of my own called the reductio ad absurdum, where I propose that if we follow Eliya’s logic fully we arrive at absurd results. Therefore, the problem might not be with the logic itself, but with the premises. But why would Eliya’s conclusion be absurd? First of all, it is probably obvious (but I will say it anyway) that this situation – that of bargaining and the possibility for charity in negotiation (or lack of it) – is one that everyone enters into here on an hourly basis. Unless you’re buying from a store with a price tag (which is rare), nearly every commercial interaction – whether its buying an egg sandwich for breakfast, a taxi ride to Accra, or buying flip-flops for showering – presents us with this same dilemma. If we were to take Eliya’s conclusion seriously, her premises seem to hold for every one of these cases, and therefore leave us arriving at the same conclusion. This means that we would be dishing out charitable “donations” (even though we know that we are being overcharged) multiple times throughout the day, every day, for the entire semester. The only difference is most of these differences aren’t over 10 pesawas, but reach into the realm of cedis (Ghanaian dollars). I specifically remember Eliya and others, just days before, brashly negotiating with a taxi driver who felt he could raise the price mid-way through the ride because we were foreigners. And when we were offered a taxi for 20 cedis, we rejected it, because we knew the taxi driver would not dare give that price to a local (and his smirk showed he knew it). We waited until we found a taxi for 10 cedis and then proceeded to cram 7 of us into it to maximize value (rather than get 2 taxis). Why not uphold the same principle then? And why not back home when we pass by people that are homeless every day from our homes to the Berkeley campus? Because we know that it is impractical, absurd even, to be charitable at every opportunity because the opportunities are endless – soon we will end up in the same boat they are in.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not arguing against charity. I am arguing for a charity based on judgment, on a widening of perspective, and another (perhaps more critical look) at the premises presented. I no longer give money to people that are homeless on the way to campus, but I do buy them food sometimes because I know the money is being used well. And when I do find myself giving money, it usually has much more to do with how I’m feeling and want to feel (generous, benevolent, moral) than it does with changing the reality of the person in front of me.

When we find that the implications of a logical argument don’t quite make sense, the next step is to re-evaluate the premises. On the third count, seeking to alleviate the less-privileged’s suffering and inequality, I am with Eliya. Some of you might not be with us here, and that is your prerogative, but that is a disagreement for another blog post to handle. That leaves the first two premises about the rich, powerful American consumer and the poor, powerless fanmilk seller. See, I think the way we are talking about power here is a little bit pedestrian in the sense that sociocultural theorists who discuss power would probably find our use of the term disjointed. Anthropologically speaking, power is generally not theorized as something that people either have or do not have - it is not a substance. Rather, power is a field of social relations in which every social interaction is an encounter in power dynamics. When those in Israel (or in the US or everywhere in the world for that matter) protest against their inability to live sustainable and affordably within the current economic status quo, they might be “less powerful” if we understand power in the way the premises depict it, but the social reality of that protest is that they are suddenly exerting power in reaction to a more consistent form of power that is exerted against them (which they term oppressive, hegemonic, etc.).  We don’t have to get into all of that at all; the point is that power is a social relation and not a social possession. Therefore, I find Eliya’s first two premises - (1) we are powerful Americans and (2) the fanmilk man is powerless in relation to us – false because of what I see as a misunderstanding of power.

So what is actually happening, as I understand it? Well, I see it as a choice between social relations: the first is Eliya’s, the second mine. The first one constructs a power relation where Eliya pays the price the fanmilk man asks for, regardless of the fact that he is raising the price only because we are (mostly) white obrunis. She now has interacted with him in a way that reinforces the current local imagination of white foreigners as alien, disconnected from the social and economic realities on the ground, with full pockets that are loosely ready to give away money. The second social relation, mine, constructs a relation that is – in that moment – as close as it can get to that between two locals. Of course, I can never change my skin color, and of course I have far more avenues available to me than the fanmilk man does and might every have, but I believe it is more important to exert pressure against the depiction of obrunis and reassert my connectedness with the local culture, economy, and lifeways by bargaining and demanding a fair price as every local does rather than give charity as a rich, white man from afar. Mallory and Anneke, two other girls on the program, reminded me that they heard Eliya make a parallel argument that even if I choose not to pay the extra money, I should not be insulted by his attempt at raising the prices because it was the man’s business venture and therefore it was economically logical and viable to ask for a higher price than realistic for his product. But I’m confused - it was obvious to all of us (especially the local Ghanaian students we were with) that the only reason he raised the price on us was in an attempt to take advantage of us as white, rich, oblivious foreigners. I think I have a right to feel insulted, wouldn’t you?

I can already hear the echoes, “but the fanmilk man has such a hard life – how could you?!” Well, my question goes back to how I feel about giving money to people that are homeless: do you want to feel good about yourself or do you want to create more justice – do you want to change their reality? If you want to feel good about yourself, throwing in 10 pesawas (or a few cedis) with every purchase might do the trick. But does it change the system? We have a real opportunity here to make substantial change - we are very privileged. In fact, some international students in the past have worked with government ministers, bureaucrats, think tanks, professors, CEO’s, and others who have the potential to really give a voice to the voiceless. So if you’re so concerned, follow that route, but don’t kid yourself into thinking that you’ll make change with your few coins (especially considering what it reinforces here). “But even if their system won’t change, don’t you just want to make their day a little brighter once in awhile?” Sure, sometimes I do, but it depends on the circumstances - I give money here and there as long as I don’t feel as if I’m being cheated. Right after the conversation between Eliya and I, I got off the bus to walk off the heat and ran into a lady selling oranges. Most oranges are 20 pesawas on campus, but since this was off the street in the middle of nowhere, she was selling them for 15 pesawas. She couldn’t quite find the last 5 pesawa coin for change, and to be honest I didn’t care if she couldn’t find a little more, she was being fair to me and treating me with respect. And I returned that respect by telling her that it would by accepting her lack of change. We both smiled. The same happened with an extra cedi just the day before when I was buying a piece of woodcraft at the village leading to some waterfalls. At the end of the day though, this is just what I think about every time I encounter poverty here. Everyone has a different way of dealing with it and I totally respect Eliya for doing it her way. I hope she’ll write a blog post soon and challenge much of what I just wrote – I’m kind of excited for it, actually J.

I’m sure this will not be the last blog post about my encounter with poverty here. I feel like I run into it all the time, but I also realize I’m very sheltered at the University of Ghana campus and near Accra (which is where most of international funds for development go). I hear the poverty in the north of Ghana is far more heart-wrenching… I’ll keep you in the loop when that time comes.

All Smiles

             Everyone gets advice before they start a new stage in their lives. Before marriage, someone might advise that you make sure to learn to compromise… and get all that teenage sexual angst out beforehand. Before going to college, someone might advise that you can only find time for two of the three S’s – so be ready to make your choice: school, a social life, or sleep? I actually rejected that one and chose all three, plus more. Before coming to Ghana, I was given a mountain of advice - some incredible, a few terrible, and most somewhere in between. Find a cute African girl. Make sure to leave all your baggage at home, don’t bring any vestiges of home with you and you’ll be free to explore. Take your earrings out before going, someone might think they’re worth some money and take off your ear for them. Wear a condom. All different bits and pieces of advice I had flowing in my head on my flight away from San Francisco. But as of now, I can honestly say that the best piece of advice I have gotten so far is… greet everyone you encounter: the doorman, the passerby, the shopowner, whoever – it’ll open up a whole new world.

          And that’s exactly what it has done so far: open up a whole new world. People here are interesting. They’re incredibly friendly, but you wouldn’t know it if you walked down the street without heeding this advice. Yeah, you’ll get tons of attention, a bunch of obrunis thrown at you, and what we like to call “professional friends” (or people who are friendly to you only because they want something from you). You run into professional friends all the time; today, when we were walking off the beach, one of the men managing one of the many lounging areas started yelling at me for not ending up hanging out at (and paying him for) his lounge chairs. “I thought you were my friend,” he chastised. I laughed out loud and replied, “friend? Charle (replace with ‘dude’ or ‘homie’ for American slang), we just met.” If you act like this is the United States, without greeting everyone you meet, you’ll probably  end up with a lot of professional friends and a bad taste in your mouth that has you feeling like Ghanaians are only nice to you for your money.

That’s simply not true – most Ghanaians will hardly pay much attention to you, drudging through their daily work routines with faces void of expression. But the difference when you greet people, and ask how they are, is night and day. We are told that the older generation of Ghanaians can spend an inordinate amount of time just greeting each other: “How are you? And your parents? And children? And your brother? And his wife? And his wife’s sister?” You get the point. Anthropologically, meeting someone was not an encounter of individuals, but an exchange of families – with an opportunity for partnerships, alliances, or much worse if the meeting did not go well. Let’s just say that greetings become important within that context – and it still carries on today. All of a sudden, with a simple “ente sen? (how are you?)” a smile flowers on the previously somewhat disgruntled face. Their eyes begin to glow. And for showing them some humanity, you’ll get a lot in return paid in kindness. You know all of those bureaucratic forms that might have taken you hours to fill out? Just a technicality anyway, go right ahead! Oh, you want to have guests sleep over even though its against the dorm rules? But you’re such a nice guy, I’m sure you wont cause any problems! You want your hair braided? Well, usually that’ll be 15 sidi ($10), but we’re friends so I just cant accept your money!

Some might ask, “well, you’re the guest in their country, why don’t they greet you first? Do they not understand hospitality?” Kind of an obtuse question if you ask me – obviously the person isn’t much of a traveler (and has no idea about the reputation Americans have abroad). Ghanaian hospitality is superb, but my relationship with most can never be quite equal… I came here on a flight that is valued at more than a thousand dollars, an amount of money that is unimaginable to the majority of Ghanaians working for $2 or so per day (yeah, do a double take, that’s per day not per hour). Equality comes a little closer on the college campus, just because these are the Ghanaian elite, but locals (who have not had a peachy experience with foreign incursion in the past *cough* colonialism *cough*) still aren’t sure whether you are bringing along your American arrogance or a seasoned cultural sensitivity spiked with a healthy dose of respect.

For me, I think situations like these are about leadership. This might sound completely unrelated, but give me the benefit of the doubt for a sec. Some people have internalized the image of a leader that is too often passed on to us – the person always first to speak, always above the rest, always at the head of the group. That seems a little presumptuous, does it not? For me, leadership is about knowing when to take hold and when to let go - and is best enacted by humbly being in tune with the group and its needs. When everyone is being a little shy and silence takes over, I might not feel the most comfortable with being the center of attention but I just might do something quirky so the giggles will break the ice. But many times, there’s no need for me to assert myself everywhere (in fact, it becomes overbearing and counterproductive), and I am much better off letting others have the spotlight as I enjoy myself from behind-the-scenes. This is exactly why when I noticed most of the Ghanaians on my floor (the hall where I live) being a little timid when it came to connecting with Theo and I, the new folk on the block, I decided to take the initiative and greet them. I made some flyers inviting them to a “games night” in our room and placed it under their doors! That was last night, and after an hour or two of playing mafia and receiving dance and drumming lessons, I could already tell that the tension was easing. Yes, I had to make the first move, but some of them might later invite me to come visit their homes on a trip to the north of the country – an honor I would be so grateful for. I tuned in, decided to take the initiative, and in return was given the key to a world I might never have found otherwise.

Anyway, as I write this I’m on the road to the Volta Region now (Eastern part of the country) to a monkey sanctuary. First, I’d like to say that I despise the inventor of speed bumps. For some reasons, Ghanaian road planners became enamored with the concept and decided to put them EVERYWHERE. It makes me want to scream (and made writing this take WAY longer than necessary). More importantly though, be ready for a picture of the baby monkey I’m hopefully about to buy and bring back to campus – ohhh yeahhhh!

Never Quite Local

          As I spoke with the tailor at Volta Hall (the most prestigious women’s dormitory on campus… and where some of my best friends from the UC system live), I gave her the cloth I bought at Makola Market and explained that I wanted some clothes that make me look more like a local and less like a silly foreigner. She giggled. Theo turned to me and smiled, “there’s one problem with that… and it has less to do with your clothes and more to do with the color of your skin.” I chuckled – sometimes things are so obvious that they become easy to forget.

          I just got back from a short excursion to Cape Coast, the previous capital of the Gold Coast (what Ghana was called before it was Ghana) before Accra and the site of initial European (Portuguese) interaction with the locals in the late 1400’s. We were able to see both the Cape Coast Castle (British) and Elmina Castle (Portuguese then Dutch), which were used as defendable outposts to trade goods between the locals and the foreigners. In the 1500’s, however, these goods became predominantly human and where my footsteps treaded today… some six million Africans were held captive and shuttled across the ocean as slaves (that, of course, did not count those that did not make the trip from the hinterlands to the castle nor those that passed away before boarding the ships). As we walked through the dungeons, the feeling that came over me was nearly identical to the one I felt when walking through Dachau (the first Nazi concentration camp) more than a year ago when I visited Germany. The pain, the human atrocities, in both locations were so apparent and so vast. So I did here what I did there… cloak myself in a demeanor that is quiet, stern, and somewhat numb… I guess that’s just how I deal with it. I was hoping though, that using today as an inspiration, I could begin the never-ending conversation about my encounter with race relations living in Ghana.

          As Ghana went on to win a very close game against Tunisia in overtime today, I celebrated along with everyone at a local bar on campus named Time Out. In the midst of all the cheering, one Ghanaian - whom I’ve never met before - came up and high-fived me, only to follow it up with, “you look like them.” At first, I just smiled and nodded like I always do when I have no idea what people are saying to me… but then it hit me. Oh, themmmmm! I look like the Tunisian soccer players: the ones who got non-stop booed the whole game, and who started playing rough and almost got into a fist fight with one of Ghana’s star players near the end of the game. Honestly, I’m not nearly tan enough to look Tunisian… but its true that they look much more Middle Eastern (maybe close to Turkish) than Ghanaian black. Well, what exactly am I supposed to say to that? The guy walked past me and was gone, so not much left to say, but what was I supposed to think? 

          Here in Ghana, one of the first words we learned in Asante Twi (the lingua franca here and the native tongue of nearly half of the population) was Obruni. Obruni essentially means “white person,” and has been leveled at me from every direction as I walk in downtown Accra (rarely on campus). Yeah, Ghanaians aren’t ones for political correctness (neither is much of the world, definitely not Israel for example). Before coming, we were told that Obruni just meant foreigner, and there is some truth to that because even if you weren’t white (as in your descent heralds from Latin America, Asia, or even Africa) you were considered Obruni if you weren’t a local. On the other hand, this isn’t the whole picture either. Our Education Abroad Program director, Auntie Rose, lived most of her life as an African-American in the United States but after nearly a decade here in Ghana… nobody would dare call her Obruni (even though her accent is totally American). Aisha, one of the African-American students on the trip, was confronted by a taxi driver for not speaking the local language – she was black, and therefore a local, so it bewildered the driver how she could call herself Obruni. I can never truly be a local here because even though Obruni might not mean “white man,” even though I’ve been referred to as such in English to my face in attempt to coax me toward a street stand’s product, it does seem to mean non-African (and this is usually judged through immediate social relations by skin color, so therefore non-black, even though I know “blackness” is judged differently depending on cultural context around the world).

          But this is why I came here. I wanted to seek to understand what it means to be a marked minority (marked because I couldn’t hide it even if I wanted to, unlike being Jewish… my skin is the mark that gives it away). On the other hand, I also realize that its quite different to be treated as an outsider when one actually is one – hey, I’m just visiting for a semester after all, right? It’s quite different to be treated as an outsider when one is a citizen of a nation, when one has lived for years in an area, when one’s life has been intermeshed with the locale in a way that cries out for respect. This I cannot quite grasp here, but I’m taking new steps toward it every day and that’s good enough for me. Yes, although I forget it at times, sometimes I really feel out of place here, alien even, like I don’t belong in the room I’m in for example. I hope to think more about that feeling and connect it to relatable circumstances back home. I also wonder how that will change when I am more in tune with the local culture, the norms, and especially the language… will I be able to demand the respect of a local or will I still remain Obruni? What is the difference in race relations in the urban city (like Accra) and the rural village (which I have yet to visit)? All these questions, and more (feel free to ask some of your own for me to reflect on), are hopefully going to make their way into upcoming blog posts… so stay tuned!

The Art of Wandering

          You’ve felt it. I know you have. The creeping feeling of a deep anxiety washing away what could have been serenity like water roaring out of a broken dam attacking the peaceful river below.  You feel it, but you aren’t sure why you’re feeling anxious… “I should be doing something,” the feeling tells you. And if I was still studying at Berkeley, that feeling might be quite helpful: a reality check meant to slap me awake from whatever escapades I’m involved in strike me with awareness of the fact that I have a paper due tomorrow, an event to plan, some emails to send out, and two midterm exams next week to study for. But I’m not in California – I’m in Africa. I don’t lead an organization here, the academic responsibility here is minor compared to back home, and most of my time here is not scheduled but free.

        Even so, I still can’t help feeling this anxiety. I remember it coming on as me and my three new friends (Theo, Devin, and Andrew) indulged in some American nostalgia at 2-for-1 burger night at Rhapsody’s bar on the way back from the gigantic Makola Market in the heart of Accra. Suddenly, right as I finished my mushroom burger (ha, most of you probably knew I was going to order that, didn’t you?), I felt the anxiety smother me and mentioned it aloud. Andrew replied by stating the obvious – interestingly obvious in my mind but not so to my emotional state at the time, “but there’s nothing to be anxious about. You can decide what tomorrow looks like, you have nothing due, and so is the next day. And the day after that.” On our walk home, the sky becoming dark as the conversation slowed, I found myself asking everyone, “so what’s our plan for the night? And tomorrow?” Devin, had already been here for a semester looked a little dumbfounded, “whatever, man.” Ha, you might not believe it, but for me these were wise words. 

I’m so used to planning things back home – what my plans are for the evening, what my plans are for tomorrow. I don’t have to stick to the plan, I just kind of feel more comfortable knowing what might be ahead of me. And to be fair, I’m much more go-with-the-flow than many others back home; I distinctly remember Nitzan being so frustrated when I refused to make exact plans with her ahead of time, I always wanted to keep my planning flexible. This was a skill I learned in my youth group in high school, in Dr. Seuss AZA, to feel comfortable in flexibility because reality was only going to snicker at your plans. But this wasn’t about concrete planning vs. flexible planning – the challenge I am faced with here is the art of not planning at all. The art of wandering.

The wanderer is a figure that has a mythical quality – swaying where the wind takes him, finding journeys and adventures that might be right under others’ noses, and being ever-connected to the present in a profoundly unique way. It’s kind of like letting go completely when you’re on vacation, but that’s only part of it. As I borrow from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance yet again, it’s about creating a quality of life that comes from being in tune with the world around you. There is no longer as much of a separation between the subject and the object, between me and the world: there is no need to think about what an activity will do for me (like if someone asks me to go explore the nearby city of Elmina one weekend) because that is a question of utility. The wanderer is not interested in utility because the wanderer is not separate from his surroundings – he is one with them.

But I want to go one step further. I want to not only become the wanderer, but master wandering as a way of being. I don’t want to be consumed by the wanderer – helplessly unable to return to the busy planner I used to be - I just want him in my bag of tricks so he can be turned on and off depending on my circumstance. I want to be able to be in the present moment or contemplating about the past or strategizing for the future when it suits me. And if I can do that at the bend of a whim, that would be mastery. I’ll keep you updated on how that goes J.