This link is to a blog entry from a PCV currently serving in Ethiopia. The accuracy of his words has caused this document to travel the entirety of the PC world. Only four months in, it made me laugh out loud and tear up at times. I'm grateful that someone was able to sum up the Peace Corps experience so well.

The incident that truly solidifies my decision to never have children is as follows.

I had spent the day with my friend Damata at a wedding. Afterwards, we went back to her house so she could feed me. She loves feeding me. I adore this woman to pieces but days spent with Damata typically render me exhausted or borderline comatose. Damata technically lives in another community called Nyong-Sampayili. Since I live on the border of the two villages, I've made a few acquaintances but, because my assignment is to Nyong-Gumah, my visits to Nyong-Sampayili are essentially limited to Damata's compound. While the food was cooking we set out to greet some of her closest neighbors. Some of the women I recognized from the wedding and from the women's shea-processing group.

The second house we visited portrayed the typical evening family scene around here. One wife is preparing dinner, the children are playing, and dad is unwinding after returning from the farm. After greeting everyone in the middle of the compound, we remove our shoes, as custom, before entering into one of the individual rooms (mud hut).

The first thing I notice is a nearly white baby. I was shocked at how fair its skin was, until my eyes caught the recently clipped umbilical cord. From there I took in the midwife holding the baby as she washed him, the bloody bath-water in the bucket under the baby, and another bucket containing much darker contents of what I feared and suspect was the afterbirth. I was so shocked that I nearly didn't notice the heap of a person on the ground beside me until she sat up to greet us. The mother looked un-phased. Without the bloody evidence before me, I would have never guessed that she had just given birth while laying on a thin rubber mat, no thicker than my yoga mat, atop a concrete floor. Did I mention I was shocked? It was one of those moments where I was so overcome with emotion that I was laughing and somewhat tearing up at the same time, but I still managed to congratulate the woman in Dagbani. At leat I think I did. I don't think I've even seen chicken eggs as fresh as that baby, and I have three chickens living in my compound, each of which has at least four chicks.

Damata managed to usher me out of the room. Again we greeted the father, now settling into a cigarette, and congratulated him on his new son. I had half a mind to ask him for a drag of his cigarette so I could calm my anxiety, but I figured he probably wanted and deserved it more.

Adoption has never seemed like a better option. I apologize to any mother who reads this. Fathers, too. Childbirth is a beautiful and natural thing. I'm forever grateful to my parents for bringing me into the world, but I'm still young and selfish and childbirth/rearing just not appealing, in the least, at this point in my life.One last take-away on this experience is a my deepened admiration for the women of these rural villages. My respect for their endurance is already immense. Everyday, I watch them fetch water and wood, maybe traveling as far as three miles into the bush for the latter. I watch them cook for hours on end, preparing meals for not only their children but the children of their husband's additional wives. They wash clothes for the same number of mouths they feed. And they do it all with a baby strapped to their back and four more duckings trailing behind, demanding her attention in four separate directions. And each of the ducklings she has brought into the world on her own. There is no husband at her side holding her hand telling her to push or tell her what a great job she's doing. The midwife certainly doesn't conduct weekly lamaze classes for those expecting. Aside from the week long naming ceremony immediately following each birth, there is no excessive pampering as practiced in America. Gifts, mostly in small monetary quantities, will be given by close friends and family during this week, but then it's back to business as usual.

The rawness of it all that really gets me. They come into the world surrounded by the minimum. We come into the world decked out in pink or blue, surrounded by fluff, and continue to demand more of it. I know motherhood is oftentimes a thankless job. I know there are a plethora of occasions that warranted thanks to my mother when it wasn't given. I guess the rawness of it all here has manifested the thanklessness in a new light. I know the men certainly never come home and say "Hey honey, you sure have done a great job raising our (FIB - double digit) children." Did I mention the Koran allows for a man to take as many as four wives and father up to thirty children. THIRTY.

Sorry for rambling. I'll stop while I'm ahead.

My first few months at site have been filled with challenges, as expected. I'd say the top three challenges I face on a daily basis are:

1. Gender roles - I live in an entirely Muslim community where males are the dominant life form.

2. Financial stereotype - I'm white so naturally I have all the money in the world. I understand how it has evolved, but that doesn't make coping with it much easier.

3. Children - I thought this age demographic would be the easiest to win over, but my assumption turned out to be grossly wrong.

I'll start with the third and easiest challenge to describe and will touch on the others in separate entries.

It was made crystal clear at my site visit in early November that most of the children in my village had never seen a white person before and were completely and utterly terrified of me. They would burst into tears just upon seeing me. I'm talking horrifying sobs. I wish I was joking. The adults found it hilarious, and still do. It's funnier to me two months in but, I have to admit, it was a pretty crushing realization at first. Unfortunately, two months in, the fear hasn't quite yet lifted. The 5+ year crowd has now taken to me quite a bit now that school has resumed and they see me on a daily basis, coming and going from my compound on the edge of the school yard. I have a handful that will sit with me, talk to me, and love to hold my hand, but they're all the children of my closest adult friends in the community. I'd say the majority of the 5+ year group love greeting me, but from a significant distance. Everywhere I go I hear "Mother Mary" or "Ma Miryama" being screamed from a distance. Sometimes it takes me a few seconds to find the source because they'll duck behind a tree or building. When they see I've spotted them, they emerge and give me their standard wave: arm fully extended, elbows locked, hand moving frantically back and forth. It almost reminds me of the Forrest Gump wave, with one hand on the hip, the other arm straight up over the head, elbow locked, palm flat. I must say, it's a great way to be greeted.

The 4 & under crowd still has qualms with my intrusion into their world. I still receive a lot of tears. Parents and older siblings love picking up the kids and holding them my direction, intentionally making the kids cry. I'm not a proponent of this game, but it's essentially beyond my control. I think in the next few months things will get better. I got turned around the other day while trying to find my friends house. All of the mud huts tend to look the same and some are situated fairly close together making my village feel like a maze at times. Anyways, I turned a corner to find a cluster of kids squatted in a huddle around some tin cars (coon toy: cars made out of old aluminum cans). I clearly caught them off guard, causing a few to scatter. All of them recovered from the initial shock began greeted me with "Mother Mary" and the standard wave. The youngest one, however, had burst into tears upon seeing me, and scattered with the rest. Once she saw the other kids had given the 'all-clear' on my presence she followed suit in waving but, try as she might, she could not recover. She just stood their sobbing and waving at me, with an occasional glance back to the ring-leaders to confirm it was still okay to be waving. It was pretty hilarious.

There are only a handful of adults who had never seen a white person until my arrival. I met most of them at my site visit. I think my counterpart found it best to break the ice sooner rather than later. Their reactions weren't nearly as traumatic as that if the children. They were all old; I mean ancient-looking, sun worn, with weathered and leather-like skin. This actually happens to be my favorite age demographic in my village. In the past few years I've discovered I really love adults, but especially old people. I think there's much to be admired and learned from their generation. Anywyas, I can't seem to muster the right words to describe their reaction. Each one was similar. It was a cross between awe and an "I never thought the day would come..." kind of expression. They were almost bashful, too. Each one immediately drew their hand to their mouth and gave of a lot of "ohhhhhhh" type expressions. Each kept me in their periphery but wouldn't look at me directly. Each meeting took place in that person's mud hut where he or she (I met one man and two women total) sat all day, everyday and resided as the patriarch and matriarchs of the family. Aside from these initial meetings, I have only met one other elder female who had never laid eyes on a white person before. She happened to be visiting from another village for a funeral.

I sort of strayed from the original topic. While things have definitely improved over the past two months, it's a daily struggle. Since I live in one set of teachers' quarters, the children tend to view me as an authority figure even though I'm not a teacher. I'm trying to break that notion and let them know I'm here to be a friend. I'm hoping I can do so by starting some sort of environmental club at the primary school once my three month settling-in period lifts and I can start projects.

Traveling in Ghana is a chore. I woke up at 3:15 at the KSO (Kumasi Sub-Office) got to the bus station by 4 AM and waited in line for three hours on a ticket. In order to purchase a ticket it advance, I would have had to arrive a day earlier. Ghanaians can't form a line to save their lives so purchasing tickets is always a huge clusterfuck. Excuse my language, but there is no better word to describe the scene. The ticket lady actually went on strike and refused to sell tickets because no one would form a proper line. Actually, the men can’t form a proper line. The men always carry about their business and then cut in front of all of the women at their own leisure. She came outside and tried selling tickets to those of us, all women and older men, who were cooperating and being patient. However, she accidentally brought out tickets bound for the wrong destination…

I was crushed.

I made some friends with two German girls while waiting in line. They were fresh out if high school and were traveling through Ghana for a month. I was impressed at their seemingly mature state. The world would have eaten alive had we made such an attempt at that age. The three of us formed an alliance and fought the mob. Success came three hours and many elbows to the ribs (given and received) later. We celebrated over some egg sandwiches while we waited a fourth hour for the bus to load. The girls were going to Moli National Park/Reserve, probably Ghana's most popular tourist attraction.

I tried giving the girls advice on travel caution even though I was a novice, too. The least I could do was write down some Dagbani phrases since they were in Dagomba territory. When they exited the bus about 3/4 into our trip, everyone on the bus started yelling at me to get off too. They were afraid my sisters were leaving me. They questioned “are you sure” when I told everyone they were not my sisters and we were not traveling together. It was like they thought I'd lost my mind and forgotten where I was going. Since neither of the Germans spoke any Dagbani they weren't much help in defending me. Even when I finally arrived in Tamale, I had a man from the bus try to usher me to another bus going to Moli since I had forgotten to get off the bus with my sisters…

One misconception I’ve seen arise on more than one occasion is that Ghanaians tend to think that all white folks, regardless of country origin, know one another.

Once in Tamale, I wandered around playing Marco polo with my counterpart, Alhaji, for about an hour only for him to tell me once we finally found one another that the last lorry to our village had left two hours prior. Why he opted not to mention that small detail in the five or so phone conversations we had during our 45 minute game of Marco Polo is beyond me.

Sometimes Ghanaians are really confusing.

I finally arrive at site on Thursday. Alhaji, now suffering from malaria, insisted that he escort me to greet all of the powers that be. I felt terrible for him. We finally cut our visits short because he was shivering from fever so badly. Baba, Alhaji’s childhood best friend, offered to accompany me back to Tamale the following day to stock up on some basic necessities. I only had a bed frame and mattress (a few inches of foam) and needed help bargaining on items such as a fan and a gas tank.

I knew Chelsea FC was playing a game the next day. Baba had mentioned that he was a fanatic, so I suggested he stay in Nyong so he could watch the game at the chief’s compound in the next village over. He insisted that the game would be playing on TV’s all over Tamale and that he wasn’t worried about missing it.

We board the early bus the next morning and both promptly pass out. I’ve quickly adapted to the Ghanaian custom of sleeping on the tro tros. When we wake up, Baba begins inquiring about my knowledge and love of futbol.

I should have seen it coming.

Baba’s phone dies…sign two. I left him at the lorry station to go do grocery shopping with a fellow PCV. We were to meet up an hour later to tackle the larger items, where Baba would come in as our defense. Two hours later, Baba is nowhere to be found. He hasn’t gone to borrow his friend’s phone charger as he promised; I’m already loaded down with more stuff than I can carry. My friend gives up and heads to the bank. I head to the TSO to pick up a package my parents sent.

Then, Baba graces me with a call.

He’s back in Nyong. He got hungry and didn’t have any money so he decided to go home. When I asked him why he didn’t call me he said he didn’t have my number. Yet, he was calling me from a friend’s phone and he had gotten my number by calling Alhaji. Why he couldn’t do this before he decided to ditch me in a city I hardly know, who knows.

I go about my business. Get the package. Get a taxi back to the bus station, getting ripped off on fares the entire time. On the way back to the station I figured I’d make the best of getting ripped off by practicing my Dagbani with my taxi driver. While at a stoplight, out of nowhere, our taxi is sideswiped by a man on a moto. It only scared me because he hit my passenger’s side where the window was down; however, the motorist came up limping. Of course a heated debate ensued between my taxi driver and the motorist. The latter had done some damage to the taxi, including taking off the side-view mirror. I couldn’t leave the taxi because of on-coming traffic. Not to mention the taxi driver would have been pissed if I didn’t pay him. I couldn’t afford to leave. I’d already spent a ton of my settling in allowance and needed someone to help me tote my things to the lorry station.

In the end, I missed my the last lorry back to site and had to spend the night at the TSO. On the way to my village the next morning I had the luxury of sharing a four person bench with ten people. Actually, they were all kids. I got demoted to the back of the bus with the little folks. We were five girls deep, each with a baby or toddler on our laps. I was the biggest and oldest girl, so I got to hold the biggest child. We were all asleep in no time, per usual. My legs were numb by the time we reached the turn-off from the paved road to the dirt road, the longest stretch of the journey. I woke up at one point and had both girls on either side of me asleep against each shoulder. Each of the kids in our laps were asleep with their heads against the seat-back in front of us. At one point we hit a bump and the little boy on my lap flew up, hit his head on the roof (which is very, very low…you can rarely see out of the lorry unless you scrunch down), landed back in my lap, and stayed asleep.

Once I relayed the entire story to Alhaji, all he could do was laugh. Apparently that is Baba’s M.O. He’s the flaky friend and the screw-up, but the comic relief who is loved by all. There will be many more stories to come on this new friend.

The most recent addition to my life is an itty bitty wisp of a kitten named Pollux. I recently finished reading The Odyssey which includes Castor and Pollux, the twin brothers of Helen of Troy. A friend of mine also sparked my interest in astrology & astronomy a few months ago. I've since learned that Castor and Pollux are the names of the stars comprising the Gemini constellation. In my daily walk-a-bouts, I came across a man dying smocks (traditional tunic-like garment worn by men). When I took interest in the two kittens romping around him, he offered me one. When I asked about the mother he said she was gone. Not sure if that means dead, living elsewhere, or if he simply did not know. I felt bad splitting up the siblings, but my community is small enough that daily visits between the kittens can, and have been, easily carried out. When I told the man I'd bring Pollux back for visits, he laughed and said that they animals don't mind being split apart. At least I'm pretty sure that's what he said. I'm at the stage where I can understand a lot more Dagbani than I can speak; although, I'm pretty proud of the praise I've been receiving from my village on my progress over the past two months. I tried telling the man that animals do, in fact, mind being separated, especially at such a young age but my Dagbani only allowed me to say that the brother and sister cat love each other very much and that we would be back to visit every day. Actually, as far as I know, there is no word for "love" in Dagbani, which is becoming increasingly bothersome to me. The root word, "bora", means to want, to need, to like, and to love. Distinguishing among them can be difficult. If I say it once, I'll say it a million times; everything is contextual in this language.

So, Pollux has moved in. She's very much a baby. Curious about everything, scared easily, clings to me, gets underfoot, the usual. She only drinks milk which I get from the Fulani women. Biking to the Fulani communities to track down milk before returning home to boil the milk and let it cool before giving it to Pollux has intruded into my morning routine more than I care to admit. A few times I've had to sit and wait on the cow to be milked. Always an awkward situation since the Fulani speak very little Dagbani, the women are shy, and their children are terrified of me. But, they're the keeper of cattle, thus of milk, making it my only option. I'll discuss the Fulani people in a separate blog entry.

Pollux wouldn't drink anything the first day so I had put milk in a plastic bag and cut the corner tip to get her to eat. That only lasted about two days. I know her original owner didn't spoon feed the kittens; I think she was just initially scared of being in a new place and away from her sibling. Her favorite place is my bed, which is fine for now, but could become an issue once she gets bigger. She's as cute as can be, and everyone in the compound enjoys her. He probably didn't realize it but when Afa Kadre asking if Pollux could be "our" cat, I was elated. It made me feel more at home and like I belong to their family. Anyways, as cute as she is, I'm already longing for the day that she can roam freely around our compound without experiencing sheer panic and getting under foot. She's already had a few near death experiences by getting under foot when the power is out at night. If a kitten is this much trouble, I can’t imagine what a baby is like.

Swatting at the rooster's tail feathers. This comprises a large portion of her daily routine.

Greetings family and friends. My deepest apologies for totally falling off the radar these past several months. Happy 2012! Hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year.

Quick catch up: Training saw a lot of ups and downs, but our home stay families and Ghanaian language trainers did a great job of exposing us to the culture we would soon be a part of. We spent the entire month of November traveling all over the country for technical training, learning about bee-keeping, moringa and shea processing, rabbit rearing, and dry season farming and gardening, among other things. Travel was a bit strenuous and we had a handful of illnesses along the way. That's actually an understatement. We dropped like flies once we hit the road. Most of us, myself included, fell victim to diarrhea, the most common ailment experienced by a PCV. Fortunately, we were still being toted around by PC staff so none of us were faced with having to beg a Ghanaian bus driver to make an emergency stop, lest he want his bus to be soiled.

Our road trip ended with a visit to a crocodile farm in Bolgatanga, Upper East Region, on Thanksgiving morning and a spectacular Ghanaian-American meal in the evening. Peace Corps kindly obliged our request to cook our own Thanksgiving meal since we were unable to attend the U.S. Ambassador hosted event at the embassy in Accra. Two fearless leaders in our training group tackled the Bolga market to gather all of our ingredients. They gathered enough for us to have apple pie, apple crisp, biscuits, sweet potato pie, mashed potatoes, salad, fruit salad, and last but not least, a turkey! They surprised us by arriving to pick us up from training with a live turkey loaded on our bus, Ghanaian style.

We divided up the tasks. Put a few boys on turkey killing duty - I think I have some pictures to come - and a few others on decoration duty. They made lovely turkey hands out of paper. The local priest happened to have an oven and was kind enough to let us use it. Trying to truck food for thirty people between to distant kitchens was chaotic but, we managed to muster an amazing American spread just before the power in the entire village went out. Most likely our fault, but eating a much anticipated American meal by candlelight could not have been more perfect. Before feasting, we did our best to explain to our four Ghanaian guests (2 technical trainers & 2 bus drivers) why we celebrate Thanksgiving. Then we went around the room and shared what each of us was thankful for. Majority rule: our families and friends at home supporting our latest endeavors; our new found Peace Corps family, and the intensely missed/desired food in front of us. It was the best meal of my life. After dinner we all decided that had we shared what we were thankful for after eating the meal, the order would have been reversed. Oh, we also dressed up as pilgrims and Indians for the occasion. Turkey feathers came in handy for the Indian headdresses.

Our final two weeks were spent prepping for the language and technical exams. We also had daily afternoon drumming and dancing lessons. One day was spent cooking with our language teachers. They said we could cook whatever we wanted so long as we used Ghanaian ingredients. Our group teamed up with another to make a Kenyan stew (recipe found in our Dawn of Cooking book - accumulation of recipes compiled by PCVs over the years), fruit salad, and fried okra. Fried okra was my demand. Okra is everywhere in this country and they only use it in a few soups. They fry a ton of food here so it'll keep longer without refrigeration, yet they don't fry okra. Why, is beyond me. The stew was amazing thanks to one of our older trainees who we've dubbed "Mother Goose." The okra could have been better. I'm not so sure our Ghanaian teachers were impressed, but I have two years to work on it, right?

We were sworn in December 15th as the second PC-Ghana 50th anniversary group. All of our families were late to the ceremony, per custom. I told my mom the ceremony started an hour before it really did. I even left two hours early to make it more believable. She was still an hour and a half late. But she looked great in her Sunday best.

The next day we set of to our respective sites.

Our Dagbani class: Linda, Josh, Mutala, me, Diana, & Megan. With Britney & Dawn in our new Ghanaian dresses.

Tuesday we started our official language and technical training. Prior training was more safety & security measures, historical & economic overviews of Ghana, I can't even remember all of them. All were necessary, but they got to be monotonous. As I said, I'll be speaking Dagbani once I start my two-year service. Dagbani is definitely going to be a challenge, mostly because there is no opportunity to practice except among the 4 of us in my class. The trainees assigned to regions where Twi is the dominant language have the opportunity to practice with their home stay families everyday. We are all hard pressed, for good reason, by our community members to become fluent in Twi, but after 7 hours of Dagbani class and 2 hours of technical training, practicing Twi is typically the last thing I want to do. Anita understand but most most community members, Mama Dorris included, can be less forgiving. I've learned to tell people in Twi things such as "I'm sorry my Twi is poor, please slow down/repeat what you just said." I've also learned to tell people that I'm currently learning Dagbani because I'll be moving to the Northern region in December, but that just opens up a whole new can of worms. Apparently, there's a significant stigma from southern Ghana against northern Ghana. What I can tell from Mutala, my Dagbani instructor, is that the upper part of Ghana is underdeveloped and poor, and that the people are uneducated. Northerners are simply "bush people," or hicks. Even the media is biased against the north. If something bad or controversial happens in the North, it's talked about for weeks. I have since learned from Mutala that all of the major media networks are southern owned. I've also discovered that such bias doesn't when speaking to anyone who has been to the north. However, many southerners have not strayed north. So trying to defend my poor Twi speaking ability with the fact that I'm learning Dagbani can oftentimes be a lose-lose battle.

15 October 2011

One interesting aspect of Ghanaian culture is funerals. They begin on Friday and last through Sunday evening. Ghanaians spend more of the dead than the living. Families of the deceased literally go into debt when paying for a funeral. This weekend there were 3 funerals in my village of Anyinasin, one of which was for the grandmother of my host mom. Anita and Momma Dorris spent all day Friday and Saturday cooking for the funeral. Sunday morning Anita woke me up at 5 o'clock to go see Momma Dorris at the house of the deceased family member. Apparently Momma Dorris was upset that I hadn't gone to visit her or expressed any concern when she didn't come home the previous day. I was groggy and didn't really understand what I had done wrong, but obliged my mother and got dressed. On the way to the house Anita asked me if I wanted to see the dead body. The offer wasn't particularly appealing but, in Ghanaian culture, I've learned that when our mothers ask us a question, it's actually a demand. So, her question really translated to "I'm going to show you the dead body whether you want to see it or not." Another interesting fact about Ghanaian funerals is that the body of the deceased takes one month to prepare for burial. So, great grandma has been lounging around in a freezer for a month before we officially met. Upon arriving at the house, I immediately noticed a huge banner, probably 15 ft tall, hanging outside with a picture of the woman, the family name, and her age: 110 years old! When I walked in to see the body, it was almost hard to discern. She was dressed in a massive white gown with huge puffy sleeves, bows, beads, the works. It resembled something of a terrible 80's wedding dress. After all of that, Mama Dorris wasn't even at the house. We were told she had gone back to our house to change and see me. Oh well.

Later that morning, the 12 PCT's in my village went to meet the chief. He's just about the cutest 84 year old man I've ever seen. He looks about 10 years older as a result of the stroke he had last year. His eyes were so magnified that I couldn't help but laugh as we went up one by one to greet him. Good thing laughter and excessive smiling is a cultural norm here. I swear his glasses must have been an inch thick. He was flanked by 4 of his 6 elders, 2 of whom are host fathers of trainees. There was small welcome ceremony that included our offering of two bottles of schnapps, one of which the chief opened for all of us to share.

The trainees in the other village, Masse, were unable to meet their chief due to some dispute as to who is next in line. The host father of one of our trainees is the original heir but refused the position. In Masse, a deceased chief cannot be buried until the new chief has been selected so, the former chief has been in limbo at the morgue for almost 4 years now.

Two last notes on Ghanaian funerals. (1) Because families of the deceased pay for the funeral, including food and drinks, everyone drinks excessively. I asked my mom if the funerals were treated as a time for mourning or more as a celebration of life. She said the former, but that's not exactly what we trainees observed over the weekend. I think the mourning takes place in the individual homes of the deceased but, in town, everyone else - 25 to 85 years old - is getting drunk and dancing. The girl trainees received numerous marriage proposals from older men, but PC forewarned us that joking about marriage is extremely common here. One trainee, Caitlin, has started keeping a list of names of men who have proposed to her so, whenever she receives a proposal, she pulls out the list and tells the man he'll have to consult with all of those who proceeded his proposal. (2) Coffins are custom made into various shapes. I didn't see any of the coffins this weekend, but I saw some being made outside of Accra. Some are shaped like crosses, palm leaves, beer bottles, cars, you name it.

I'm having massive indecision as to what I post from my journal. I have some really funny stories but their long and I don't have time to type them all. I'm also terrible at being concise.

I'm jumping ahead to site assignments because it's SO EXCITING!

Saturday we went of PACA (Participatory Analysis for Community Development). Then we had our second Fireside Chat with the Country Director (CD). We have several of these with the CD throughout our training. The CD is a former PCV and has been CD in two countries, including Ghana. After lunch we were given our site assignments! The trainers drew a huge map of Ghana in the chalk on the floor of the pavilion while we had been eating lunch. Two trainers played drums as Nico, the NRM project coordinator, announced our assignments. He'd start by saying the region and describing the project and then announce the trainee's name. My description doesn't adequately depict how dramatic and exciting of an event this was but, take my word, we were all squirming like kids on Christmas Day.

SOOO, I have been assigned to the Northern Region in a village called Nyong-Gumah. The literature I was provided states the following:

"The capital of the district is Karage, which is 60 km from Nyong-Gumah. There are about 1,600 inhabitants in the community. The majority of the people are Dagombas and therefore Dagbani is the common local language. Islam is the dominant religion even though some inhabitants are Christians and traditionalists. The Damba, Yam, and Fire are festivals celebrated by the people. The main economic activity is farming."

The community has electricity but that doesn't mean my residence will have it. I won't know until I get there in December. There is no pipe borne water so the community relies on boreholes. There is a clinic and a market within my community, but the closest post office, bank, and police station are 60 km away. I will live in a bungalow (mud hut, I'm assuming) and I will have a toilet...after I've finally gotten used to squatting over my 30 foot pit! I think they gave me a toilet as a consolation for receiving the most isolated site withing my training group. I will be 60 km from two volunteers, one being the 55 year old former PCV, Linda. I'm so grateful that we'll bee close to one another! She's a wealth of knowledge and a hilarious story-teller. The other is a female volunteer who is 1 year into service. There are several other volunteers surrounding Linda's village, she just happens to be the closest. My bike and I are going to be best friends with these distances.

I will be the first Peace Corps Volunteer posted in my community, but there have been other PCVs working within my same district, as well as some NGOs...I think. All volunteers are assigned a Ghanaian counterpart who lives in our community and serves as our "go to" person throughout our service. We will be meeting and getting to know our counterparts when we begin technical training in November. My primary project is to facilitate the establishment of tree nurseries and woodlots, and to assist in environmental education within my community. The only educational facilities in the community are the Nyong-Gumah Primary and Nursery Schools so I'll have ample opportunity to work with children. Other activities I'll have an opportunity to understand are beekeeping (woooo!) and sanitation & waste disposal education.

The next two weeks will be intensive language training. There are 5 other volunteers learning the same language as me. We will be on the road for technical training the entire month of November. We'll be traveling to various regions of Ghana to learn about agroforestry, beekeeping, rabbit rearing, etc. We'll return to Kukurantumi for two weeks in December to complete our training and have our swearing in ceremony!

Hi all! Sorry it has taken so long to get a post up. Access to internet has been and will be more scarce than I originally thought during these first 3 months of training. It's difficult to cover & capture everything that is going on, but I'll do my best. Enjoy!

6 October 2011

For Better or Worse

I arrived in Philadelphia to find my staging roommate had already arrived. Low and behold she's a former Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV)! She served in Guatemala when she was 40 and has decided to go again at 55 years old. Staging was intended for us to meet our co-trainees, review PC objectives, and complete a final slew of paperwork. We will not become full time volunteers until we make it through the 3 months of training, and pass our technical and language exams. The majority of trainees are from the western US: California (6), Oregon (4), Arizona, Washington, and Colorado. The 25 of us range from 22 to 68 years old. After a full day of ice breakers and "what if" scenarios, most of us headed to dinner for our last sit down meal in America. Later that evening, a stranger approached a few of us at a bar to ask what our large group was celebrating that evening. He asked the usual get-to-know you questions, when led to us trying to explain the Peace Corps and our purpose. At home, I had my usual routine of telling people where I'd be going and what I though I could/might be doing. Clearly everyone else had done the same. As we tried to explain the things we thought we knew, it became very apparent that none of us knew exactly what we had signed up to do. We departed the next day, still strangers, for better or for worse for the next 27 months.

11 October 2011

Today we arrived in Kukurantumi and met our training staff for the remainder of Pre-Service Training (PST). Sight interviews will take place Wednesday through Friday, and Saturday we receive our sight assignments. Sight assignments do not necessarily occur this early in PST. Due to the large number of languages spoken in Ghana, our training must be catered to the languages dominant in the various villages and regions to which we will be assigned. Our first day in Kukurantumi was spent going over what to anticipate in our home stay life. All 25 trainees will be split up between two villages. We visited both villages and met a few of our potential homestay families. Moving in with a Ghanaian family of our own will be a significant benchmark for the majority of us. As some of you know, the application process, from application submission to official mail invitation, ranged from roughly 5 to 14 months. By the time we boarded the plane in Philadelphia, it didn't really hit many of us that we were actually departing for Ghana. Compared to the excitement that came in the nomination and the invitation, our actual arrival in Ghana seemed somewhat underwhelming. Even as I watched the airplane TV track our entry into Africa, I didn't feel much. It was odd and kind of disappointing. The first week in Ghana we were living at Valley View University outside of Accra, the capital, but we were living among 25 Americans.

12 October 2011

Bucket baths have commenced.

If there was any doubt that we are living in Ghana, it ceased today. After a few hours of Twi lessons and in introduction to the different languages of Ghana, we waited for our host families to arrive at the PC office.

I am currently living with a family of 6: Mama Dorris (60), Papa Ega (70), Sister Anita (28), and her three sons, Dennis (12), Prince (6), and Bright (5). Anita is who serves as my mother so I'll refer to her as "my mom" from here on out. My mom and Mama Dorris are traders and Papa is a farmer about 10 miles away from our village. We live in a compound of three small buildings. I share the larger building with Mama and Papa. We have 9 chickens, 1 rooster, 5 goats, and 2 pigs. There are also half a dozen ducks that wander through the compound on a regular basis.

There is a structure in the yard that is divided by a wall. One side is a 30 foot pit that is our toilet (I'm getting really good at squatting) and the other is our bath. My bath water comes from a rain barrel. Every morning I fill my tin bucket with water from my rain barrel and go take my bath. Towels in Ghana are called two-yards, simply 2 yards of fabric.

Staging took place in Philadelphia, we loaded into a bus and headed to JFK Wednesday around 9 PM and arrived in Accra, Ghana around 10 PM Thursday evening. We were immediately greeted by Peace Corps staff leaders and the PC Ghana Country Director. Between the airport traffic and darkness, getting to our designated bus was a bit chaotic. After loading our bags into the back of a large, unmarked moving truck, we managed to squeeze all 26 trainees into the PC bus. An hour later we arrived at Valley View University, a Seventh Day one of the top private universities in the country.

Official Name: Republic of GhanaPopulation: 24.3 millionArea: 92,098 sq milesCapital: AccraBorders: Burkina Faso (North), Cote d'Ivoire (East), Togo (West)

Current President: John Evans Atta MillsMajor Ethnic Groups: Akan (44%), Ga (8%), Ewe (13%), Moshi-Dagomba (6%)Major Religions: indigenous beliefs (38%), Islam (30%), Christianity (24%)Major Languages: Akan, Ga, Ewe, EnglishEthnologic Map of GhanaCurrency: CediMajor Exports: gold, cocoa, timber, tuna, bauxite, aluminium, manganese ore, diamonds