rachelplukas

Sometimes things don’t live up to your expectations. You had an image in your mind that was slightly embellished. Like a picture that has been photo-shopped so much that when you see the real thing, it’s a big disappointment. You don’t complain about it or anything because its still pretty good, just not as good as you thought. Actually, in my experience, pretty much EVERYTHING fails to live up to my expectations, the curse of being optimistic I suppose. Because of this, it’s best to try to keep ones perceptions in check. However, if you are ever planning on going to Zanzibar, let your imaginations run wild!
This place is awesome, and I mean that in the original sense of the word, not the modern butchering-of-the-English-language, “dude,-that-shirt-is-Awesome”, sense of the word. Zanzibar is awesome… full of awe. There can be no overstating the beauty and mystery which defines this island. The pictures and write-ups only get close, at best, at representing their subject. Unfortunately, Zanzibar is not the worlds most accessible place, the flight alone is probably over a thousand bucks. Its better that way though, the beaches and towns would be ruined by crowds of tourists. But the lucky few who do get to visit Zanzibar know immediately that they are in a special place. Actually, it starts BEFORE you arrive.

I was not in a good mood. Steph and I had just spent a difficult 12 hours in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania’s’ largest city. Its huge, dirty, and dangerous. We arrived in the late afternoon, and had to fight off the dozens of hustlers trying to get a commission off of you. We took a dalla-dalla to “Posta”, near the harbor to get our tickets for the ferry the next day. Seems easy I know, but there was another huge group of guys trying to sell us ferry tickets, the majority of them being fraudulent. Luckily, we managed to get to an office and buy tickets without being ripped off or getting arrested for assaulting a hustler. We found a hostel for cheep enough, but were welcomed by messages posted by guests on a wall reading,
“There are thieves in front of the post office who will slice the bottom of your purse or bag. This happened to me today! Be aware of who is bumping into you and why!” “Exactly the same thing happened to me on 29th Sept.! They cut my bag, wallet, and even clothes with a razor blade while following me at Posta and pushing me from behind. Be careful!”
Welcome to Dar Es Salaam! This was definitely the dominant vibe of the neighborhood we were staying in, and you can imagine how that might effect someone’s attitude, especially in 100 degree weather. So, at 12 pm, sitting on the “flying horse” ferry, hungry, tired and hot, I was (again), not in a good mood. I was almost so flustered that I almost failed to appreciate the fact that I was on a boat on the Indian Ocean, going to Zanzibar…almost. We left the harbor and started passing picturesque palm-lined sand banks and fishing boats (dhows). I appreciated the beauty surrounding me, but I still wasn’t in the most cheerful of moods. This mood lasted for an hour or two, until I took a walk to the bow of the ferry. We were out on the open water, and you could see Zanzibar faintly in the distance. It was pretty wonderful, and I stood there for a long time, leaning up against the right side of the boat, looking out at the water.
I caught something out of the corner of my eye, something moving in the water. When I looked over, I saw that it was a pod of dolphins, about 50 yards in front to the boat. First, I could just see their dorsal fins, slowly cresting the surface of the water. Then, they must have seen the boat and decided to play, because in a matter of seconds, 4 of them were swimming along the right side of the boat, twisting and ducking just below the surface. Its almost like the sneaky little buggers knew exactly where the moody white girl was standing because they chose to swim directly beneath me…fantastic. Wild dolphins, right there! There were 3 local kids standing with me watching, but I’ll never know if they were more entertained by the dolphins of the crazy “mzungu” shouting and jumping up and down with excitement. How could I stay fussy with such a great sight? I knew it was an omen of a good vacation, and as the week went by, I cheerfully attributed any lucky circumstances to “the dolphins”.
Once this little episode was concluded, I looked up and remembered that I was on my way to an ancient, tropical island. Zanzibar was becoming clearer in the distance, and the realization of this dream-vacation snapped into focus. I wondered what circumstances had brought me to this point. Not too long ago, if you had asked me if I thought I would ever be in a place like this, I would have laughed. And suddenly, I was there...how? Did I even deserve this? How many people do I know that would give a small fortune to be where I was? But pshaw! What kind of thinking is that? Hadn’t I just done a TON of work for a difficult research study, in a country where I don’t speak the language? For that matter, hadn’t I just spent 18 months of blood sweat and tears on that exact same study? Hadn’t I worked my ass off to even be able to DO said study? Yes, this trip was an appropriate reward, and wondering if I was worthy of it was a waste of energy. Anyhow, the “trust-fund-baby, supermodel-honeymooners” that typified the make-up of 90% of the visitors to the island eventually put to rest any feelings of “unworthiness”.
Back on the ferry, we were docking in Stonetown harbor. The locals were shuffling around, getting their stuff together while Steph, me, and the few other tourists on the boat sized up the town. This is where that “things living up to their expectations” idea came from. I was shocked by the “realness” of Stonetown. It looked exactly like I thought it would. Exactly like they SAID it would, which, (like I said), never happens. The water really was that greenish blue that you see on postcards. There really were dhows dotting the coastline. The place reeked of the past and people were just wandering through it, like they didn’t know they were a part of an idyllic picture. But Zanzibar isn’t just the past, it’s that and everything that has ever happened there, all at once. Clothes hung out to dry from two hundred year old windows. Mopeds buzzed past buildings that once served as Arab merchants’ palaces. And the dhows that define the Zanzibar “look” were dwarfed in comparison to the surrounding oil tankers and passenger ferries. “I‘m going to like it here”, I thought, as I got my bag, hustled to the door, and stepped onto the dock.
…to be continued.

Some things here are strange to me. I’m going to try listing a few of them.

How quickly clothing dries out on the line.

The dead dogs and cows on the side of the road (drought).

People in Moshi who go about their lives as if Kilimanjaro isn’t right behind them.

Kids who walk for hours to school every day. (I’m going to stop complaining about walking up Beacon Hill to class.)

“Tucking yourself in at night” doesn’t mean the sheets, it means the bug net.

Dust when its dry, mud when its wet…lots of it… everywhere.

The sunset. It seems painted on.

The big BIG bugs. Esp. the gigantic spider that I found crawling on my neck at 2am.

Driving on the other side of the road. Steph thinks I’m going to get hit by car cause I always look the wrong way before crossing the street.

How excited I get when I see a white person/ how judgmental I get when I see a white person.

How easy it is to get into the UN International Criminal Tribunal For Rwanda. (I’ve observed two separate trials. They’re STILL persecuting leaders of the 1994 genocide. Its very very creepy.)

How people can live with dial-up internet (or none at all).

Sitting on the bus next to a guy holding a live chicken.

A giraffe hanging out by the side of the road.

People who think its okay to grab your arm or shoulder and talk to you/ try to sell stuff to you.

There is no delivery pizza! I want delivery pizza, I’d even take dominoes that’s how desperate I am.

How creative kids are with materials. They make dolls out of scrap fabric and thread, soccer balls out of plastic bags, toy phones out of paper, bows and arrows out of a twig, yarn, and an old pen, and a host other neat things.

It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon in Monduli. Steph and I are taking the day to do some project work/blog writing. Our bodies are almost fully recovered from the mountain climb. Meru was a bit of a beast. Our guides were saying that even though it’s a good 1000 meters shorter than Kilimanjaro, Meru is actually harder to climb because of the steep paths. They could have just been trying to boost our ego’s but I’m inclined to believe them, Meru was very very steep. The weather wasn’t on our side either. There was fierce wind and rain pounding against us as we tried to climb up huge rock faces, in the dark…we got up at 2 am to climb. Every step I took felt like my last. My legs had turned into cooked spaghetti. I used all my energy and concentration on keeping them from slipping out from underneath me.

The cool thing is though, when you’re struggling that much, every step is a huge accomplishment. To others, there might be an “all or nothing” kind of mentality. The “reach the top or die” people. That’s the person who takes a step, looks up at the incredibly steep path ahead, forgets all the work that as gone into getting to that humble point, and gives up.

As I was climbing, I was different people at different points. I was angry at the mountain for being so tall and steep, proud of the distance I’d already gone, scared that my body might not support my ambitions, too stubborn to face the reality of what was in front of me, and forgetful of the step I had just left behind.

It’s hard to stay positive when you’re climbing a mountain. Sure, all that philosophical mumbo jumbo about appreciating every step, and looking at the big picture sounds nice now that I’m sitting on a couch with a full water bottle in my hand, but when you’re DOING it, you really don’t have time or energy to fuss over that kind of silly stuff. Plus the air is thinner up there and all that thinking will most likely just give you a headache. Instead, you are victim to whatever thoughts choose to present themselves. Sometimes, they are encouraging and hopeful, and sometimes they are cynical and defeatist. I don’t really know what it is that keeps you going during the tough times. Whatever it is, I’m not sure that it’s entirely healthy, it defies logic.

Logic would tell you to stop. Logic would say “it’s just a mountain. Why keep going, there is really no reasonable justification to continue. Your body is suffering and you’re putting yourself in danger for what? To walk up a mound of dirt?”. Logic thinks it’s a stupid decision. But there’s something else that trumps logic. Maybe it’s different things for different people. For me it was AFTER suffering and trudging on that I realized the value of the climb. It was the defiance of that logic that proved rewarding in the end. It’s ignoring you’re inner pessimist and then conquering it. I don’t think there is anything more satisfying than proving yourself wrong! It turns out, if you just tell yourself to shut up, stop being such a baby, and take one more step, you can do a lot more than logic leads you to believe. And realizing that is extremely freeing and empowering. A mountain today, tomorrow…?

Sorry, too busy for a blog lately. But I'm wondering if it's good to feel "forced" to write. What am I doing this for anyway? WHO am I doing this for anyway? I would hope that I'm mostly doing it for myself.
But you don't post a journal on the internet for the whole world to see if it's "just for you". A blog can be a lot of things. But when I try to write, I just get frustrated, and that's NOT what a blog is for. I get frustrated because I want to be able to express what I'm seeing and doing so that when I come back to read this in the future, I remember exactly what I'm talking about. This is impossible of course.
There are so many things that I can't write about. Words can only do so much, and they certainly can't encapsulate a country. Which is what maybe I'm getting frustrated about. It's silly to think that I could make a perfect account of Tanzania. Nobody can make a perfect account of ANYTHING can they? I've been trying to make something that doesn't exist. There are as many Tanzania's as there are people who have seen it.
My mistake has been in thinking that there is a right and a wrong; a "true" and an "untrue". But as long as it's true for me, it is valid. A persons perceptions of something are just as valuable (if not more so) than what something "actually" is. If such a thing even exists. So I'm gonna stop worrying and start writing, but not till next week cause I'm climbing Mt. Meru tomorrow and I'm far to busy to be bothered by this philosophical bologna. THE END!

Thanks everyone for the comments, I might not respond (internet is expensive), but I definitely read and appreciate them. They help me feel connected to the States and to my “real life”. I encourage you to post something here on my blog, or write me at plu10912@suffolk.edu.

I’ve reached that point where you don’t really feel like a guest anymore. Monduli is home now. There is a saying here; “when you have a guest, on the first day, give them your best food. On the second day, feed them the food that you enjoy most. And on the tenth day, send them out into the field to get YOU food for dinner. I’ve been here twelve or thirteen days now. While I haven’t done any farming yet (and I don’t plan to) I don’t feel too much like a guest. And this is when things stop being a vacation or a visit and become a…well, for lack of a better word, a lifestyle.
I wake up in the morning and go down for breakfast and I know what will be waiting for me on the table, bread, “Blue Band” (margarine), peanut butter, coffee, and “chungwa”s (oranges). Steph and I sit in the same seats, and we joke about whatever happens to be amusing at that moment. We go back up the house and get ready for whatever we’ve got planned for the day. We might be going into Arusha (the closest city) to get whatever random stuff we cant find in Monduli. Another essential stop in Arusha is an ice cream place…love it. But more likely, we’re getting ready for a day in Monduli, the most beautiful place in the world.
I’m still in the process of integrating myself into the primary schools. This is by far the hardest part of my project, getting the kids to behave normally in my presence. Eventually, they’ll get bored with me and go about their games of football and fights over pencil ownership. For now though, I’m all they’re interested in. They crowd around me and watch me take notes, which is fine because they don’t know English. They try to talk to me and ask me questions, even though I say “sisemi Kiswahili”, (I don’t speak Swahili). They stick their hands in my face and ask “pen-e, pen-e”. They want me to give them my pens, they went in my bag and saw six or seven pens in there. Now I have to fend off the few dozen kids begging for my spare school supplies, which isn’t easy because looking at these students, you can tell that they could really use a new writing implement. One kid comes up and shows me the dried up ink tube of a bic pen and says in English “this.is.my.pen.”. I can’t do much though because there are way more kids than there are pens in my bag. So I settle for handing out pieces of paper from my notebook.
After the crowd thins out, having giving up, a girl walks up to me with a small rainbow-brite doll which has been given a hair weave and a leopard print toga. She puts it on my lap and says “you, Rasta-dolly”, pointing to the doll. Then she points to herself and says “pen-e”. She wants to trade. I cant resist, the doll is hysterical and who am I to refuse a fair trade? I give her a pen, she says “yes, THANK.YOU.” and runs away. A while later a young boy comes up to me and hands me another doll (apparently word has gotten out that the white girl will trade pens for dolls). This doll is quite something. It is a little person made completely out of discarded red fabric which has been tied and wrapped with meticulous precision. “For me?” I ask. He smiles and says “pen-e, pen-e”. So now I have these two homemade dolls, which obviously took some serious time and effort to make, all for a few cheap pens, which I would have given them anyway once I could bring enough down for everybody.
I justify my selfishness easily. This is a good lesson in supply and demand, I tell myself…economics 101. Once I take a few more notes and make the obligatory rounds to the teachers, I leave and head home. I can’t wait to show Steph my new toys, I can even use them for my project! At home, the familiar daily ritual begins again. Steph and I hang out in our house, working on the computer, writing in our journals, and if it’s a special day, taking a shower. At around 7:30, we head down for dinner. This is probably my favorite time of day, the whole family is together, eating and chatting. We talk about everything, but my favorite is when mama tells stories, she’s got that rare quality where she can talk about paint drying and make it sound interesting.
Once diner is over, we may or may not hang around a bit longer for the nightly Bible verse and prayer. If Steph and I are feeling particularly energetic we might stay up talking or writing in our journals. However, having extra energy is a rare occurrence here in Monduli so sleep is our normal preference. After all, this is all happening again tomorrow.

These IF adventures definitely have a way of getting to me. I believe my research, (really it’s the Interfuture program in general), is designed to specifically facilitate this. It has the ability to break down any barriers that you might have so that you are able to fully experience a new culture. What brought on these thoughts? Like most things in my life, it was something insignificant and seemingly pointless.
I woke up one morning to a tapping sound. I traced it to the bathroom, opened the curtain, and saw a bird outside, pecking at the window. It was bright yellow, the kind of yellow you don’t see on a bird anywhere…except in Africa. It had a large, slightly hooked beak that it was tapping vigorously against the glass. I was on inside, watching. For a good two or three minutes, the bird attacked the window in front of me. I was pretty confused, trying to figure out why this bird was going so crazy at my window. Why did it stay at the window, even with me standing so close?
So in this little analogy, the bird represents Tanzania. It is bright, energetic, foreign, and begging to come in. The window is the barrier I have put between myself and what I observe. The window is deceiving because it gives a false sense of understanding. It is completely transparent, so you think you’re seeing everything. Well…in reality, you ARE seeing everything, but that’s not enough if you ask me. If you put a protective pane of glass between yourself and the world outside, you still see what’s in front of you. You might see it very clearly, forgetting that the glass is even there maybe. But it IS there, and if you were to try to go beyond the glass, or if something (like a bright yellow bird) were to try to come in, it would be abruptly stopped.
This barrier might even keep you from seeing the one important part of the puzzle that you are missing. In the story of the bird for example, if I had gone outside I would have found the answer to my question of the birds motive for the pecking. I would have seen that the bird was pecking at its reflection. As a territorial animal, it was protecting its turf from a perceived invader, and I would have known that if I had come out from behind my glass and taken a closer look. I am taking this experience as a message from the universe to change my attitude, to come out from behind the pane of glass.

First, some housekeeping. It has come to my attention that this blog is being publicized quite widely, thanks mom and dad *snicker*. In order to keep y’all from checking in all the time, I’ll be posting once a week (Thursday). You can log on then and keep up to date on my Tanzanian adventures!

Things in Tanzania are pretty cool.
Can that be my entire post? No? Not enough? Humm well lets see what I can whip up for you. Right now, I’m sitting in the house where Steph and I are staying. We’ve got our own place! Complete with bathroom, living room, and two bedrooms. It’s behind the Msinjilis’ main house which sits up on a hill above the “main town” of Monduli.
Outside our door, there is a stone path leading past a Polytank (water tank), a chicken coup, and clotheslines, and towards the back door of the main house.
Right outside the door, I can usually count on seeing two things. One is Bibi (grandma) sitting on her stool and looking vacantly at the mountains in the distance. I give her the proper Swahili greeting “Shikamu”, to which she may or may not reply “Marahaba”, depending on weather or not she wants to waste her energy on me.
The other is “Rasta”, the Msinjilis’ 14 year old dog who Mama tells us to stay away from “he is not nice, he bites”. I go over and pat him on the head for a few seconds, I’m determined to make friends with him (he doesn‘t bite me).
Depending on the time of day, I might run into different people inside the house. There is “Mama Vik”, the woman who comes and takes care of the house and cooks during the day. She speaks almost no English but tries her best……

oh my gosh I hate this. I really don’t want to write right now. Honestly, I haven’t wanted to write much at all yet, but I don’t really feel like I have a choice. Why? I think its because I feel a need to get all this stuff out of my brain and make it into something “real”, this blog I guess. But that is just leading to this frustration that I’m feeling right now because I am trying to describe the indescribable. Frantically rushing to get all my thoughts out will never work; it will never be completely satisfying because my thoughts are MY thoughts. They will never be more “real” than they are in my jumbled, disorganized brain. I suppose I don’t trust myself to keep everything stored neatly in my mind until In need to recall it. Which is not going to happen no matter what I do, the mind is an extremely fickle thing. So I try to write everything down, but find myself coming up short.
How do you describe how it felt walking through the huge cloud of smoke from a morning fire into the sounds of the local mosque in the midst of a rhythmic prayer? Or trying desperately to swallow that last bite of Ugali (look it up) while the ever-apathetic grandma stares daggers at you? Or the moment of dread when you see a wall or reddish-brown dust heading straight for you? You don’t. You remember these thoughts randomly and fondly when they happen upon you.
But this doesn’t really solve the whole problem. There is the slight issue of describing your experience with other people. After all, what good are experiences if you can’t share them? I suppose the most I can do is try my best and realize that even though I can’t share EVERYTHING with folks, something is better than nothing.
There, I feel better now. My fingers hurt though so you’ll have to wait for more details.

I find myself thinking in very broad terms today. Traveling halfway across the world might have something to do with it. My physical scope is widening, and my mental scope is following. Perfect time to blog and make a big ass of myself.
Despite the huge geographic and cultural differences, I can’t help but feel like I’m “going back” to Africa. My last locale is thousands of miles from my new one and probably different in more ways than I can imagine. Still, I feel like in many ways, I’m going back. I’ve been fighting this feeling, feigning understanding of the immense and sensitive cultural differences across Africa. But now, I think its time to embrace the idea.

A huge part of my education up to this point has been differentiating between my locales and understanding what makes them completely unique. I have focused on what makes Ghana and Tanzania (West and East) unique and “African” in its own sense. I think a lot of this has to do with fear of my own prejudices. When I started thinking about and studying Africa, I put on this righteous and entitled air that nobody appreciates how diverse Africa is and everybody just thinks it’s the lion king and AIDS. I thought I was learning so much by proving that Africa is about more than what we see in the West. But now I think a lot of this came from my own ideas about Africa and the attempt to ignore what I thought were unfair, uneducated views. Unfair and educated they may be, but they were MY views. I’m starting to come to terms with the fact that maybe I’M the one who sees Africa as “Hakunna Matatta” and HIV. Maybe, even though I am trying to learn and become “multicultural”, that is where my initial understanding of the continent comes from. Maybe I thought that by covering those prejudices with facts, experiences, and knowledge, they would go away. Now, as I prepare for my second trip, I realize that they haven’t gone away. They are just supplemented with my facts, experiences, and knowledge. As if focusing on the minute, local differences proved that in fact, Africa has more going for it than the sick, dirty, HIV positive kids you see on ads from the Christian children’s fund.

I think part of me just wanted to learn as much about Africa as I could so I could say “see!, It‘s not true that these people are so different than us.” It’s true, Africa does have more going for it, and we are very similar, but it is also true that differences exist. Kids get malaria and die every day. There are crazy zoo animals everywhere. It’s hot as hell. The fact that the west takes something and makes it a generalization for an entire culture doesn’t make it untrue, it just makes it incomplete.

So bringing this idea back to the whole “feel-like-I’m-going-to-Africa-rather-than-going-to-two-different-countries-which-just-happen-to-be-on-the-same-continent” thing, I believe that I’ve been trying to prove that Ghana and Tanzania are different because I am afraid that if they are the same, it will prove all the narrow-minded, western ideas about Africa. I’m now realizing that that is not the case, and something being similar doesn’t make it simpler or less valuable.

Totally unique things are cool and special, they identify a society. But they could be anything from a coincidence to a mistake. It turns out that the completely unique things are in fact the least special and most simple. Things that span the continent are remarkable because it means they are that much stronger and more important. Something that only happens in Ghana is interesting, but something that happens in Ghana AND Tanzania in spite of cultural differences is fascinating.

Time to fly!

I have a confession to make. There were times in Ghana when I was bored. Completely and totally “I want to press fast forward on my life“ bored. Until recently I was almost afraid to admit that I was bored in Ghana. But the truth is, I was bored, sometimes very bored in Ghana. I remember being bored on my very first day. I had just taken a nap on a stairwell and I was sitting in a classroom watching the children. They were doing some worksheet and I was just sitting there, watching. Many of the children were staring at me. The braver ones were walking up to me cautiously and running away as if I were a zoo animal or something. I was shocked in this moment to find myself bored, wanting the day to pass so Edward would come and pick me and the kids up. I was extremely disappointed in myself. How could I possibly be bored in a moment like this? Everything was still new to me, I should be delighting in soaking up my new surroundings, I should be wishing that the clock would stop so I could do more things and meet more people. There were l these new things happening around me but what I was feeling inside was anything but new. I was bored with the bland classroom, bored with the kids treating me the same way, bored with the sounds of traffic on the street. I felt too lazy to talk to the teacher, too lazy to go for a walk around the school grounds, too lazy to think about my research. I couldn’t believe what was going on! And this was certainly not the last time I felt this way. Sitting in church for three hours listening to a guy preach in Twi…that was definitely a time when I felt bored. And that happened every Sunday! Saturdays when Edward had to work and there was nothing to do and I just sat in the living room on the computer while the kids watched Free Willie and Power Ranger movies. Driving in the car on the same route for the hundredth time. There were times pretty much every single day that I thought to myself “why wont something EXCITING happen?”

When I left Ghana, I lied to myself a little bit. I told myself that I had been completely absorbed in my Ghanaian life at all times. I missed Ghana so much that it was incomprehensible to me that I would have wasted a single second of my time there. Now, I would trade anything for just one minute in Ghana, it didn’t seem possible that I didn’t appreciate every moment there. But that is part of what makes the experience real. If my trip had been a vacation or something, I would have been busy with my itinerary all the time. I would have spent every day sun up to sun down trying to get all I could out of my time in Ghana. And that is fine. But by being that way, you are missing a part of the experience.

I am a person who tends to be bored a lot, why should that be any different in Ghana? Maybe a part of me naively believed that traveling would cure this boredom. That by being away from “home” I would magically find purpose and excitement in absolutely everything I did. But now I know that sometimes there ISN’T purpose and excitement in the things that you do. I realized that for me at least, part of life is being bored. It’s just the way it is sometimes, why wouldn’t it be the same in Ghana? Does being abroad automatically mean that you will be completely engaged all the time? The answer is obviously no, but as a young, first time traveler, I was certainly surprised to learn this. However, I have recently been surprised once more by my boredom.

What I once found boring now serve as some of my happiest memories. I remember sitting in church in 100 degree weather watching the congregants stand and dance while I was miserable and I laugh to myself. I remember the times I sat alone for hours waiting to get picked up from school and realize that many of my favorite memories come from those times. Little things like staring up at the huge palm trees, watching the old men play checkers, marriage proposals, watching the clouds pass, listening to the distinct double clap of Ampe, or swatting mosquitoes while trying to read a book. Although I WAS bored…doing nothing in those times, those were the times that I was actually PART of Ghana and Ghana was part of me. Those were the times So in many ways, the times when I was bored and doing nothing were the best times I had in Ghana.
Just because you don’t feel like you’re living a particularly exciting, memorable, or important moment in your life, you never know the value that it might hold in the future.

There is a teleportation device in Roxbury, Massachusetts. It has the capability of picking up a person and transporting them across the Atlantic in a split second. It is the international aisle at “tropical foods”, a grocery store in Dudley Square. I found myself there today in a desperate attempt to find something, anything that reminded me of Ghana. “Tropical Foods” is mostly Latin American in style and I didn’t have very high expectations. But, I turned down this one aisle and my heart jumped. It was like a little Ghana section, stocked just for me. There was Milo, chewing sticks and chalk, even glass bottles of Fanta imported from Ghana! For a few minutes, I pretended to actually be shopping for something, there is a guy stocking the shelf next to me and I don’t want to seem like some freak just standing in a grocery store aisle. There are boxes of powdered fufu on the top shelf and I take a few down and look them over. I absolutely hate fufu, when forced to eat it in Ghana, I took each bite like a kid taking cough medicine. But now, I looking at the box and making plans to make fufu for diner. Its not that I suddenly like the stuff, but eating it would remind me of being in Ghana and that’s totally worth exciting my gag reflex. There are some seasonings and bouillon cubes made by “Maggi”, which I think is a Nigerian company. They catch my attention because the big building that housed Kaneshie market (the first place that I went on my own) was painted all over with the “Maggi” logo. There are various other Ghanaian imports clustered in this little spot, and I’m loving every second of being there. Its been about 10 minutes now and the guy stoking the shelves is beginning to stare at me suspiciously. But he can keep staring for all I care because I have just discovered something amazing. To my left are shrink wrapped packs of fish brought over from Ghana. There really is no way of describing the nastiness of these fish but I found a picture online to help illustrate, (http://blogs.mirror.co.uk/captain-greybeard/Takoradi.04.jpg). I hate fish, even fresh, clean ones, and in Ghana, these little buggers made me sick. The smell has this sharp, nostril-closing kind of effect which I have never before experienced and their wrinkly metallic bodies make them extra unappetizing. But here I am standing in a grocery store holding a three-pack of “tilapia” (as Ghanaians like to call it) up to my nose and taking deep whiffs. I close my eyes and its just like I’m walking through the narrow spaces between the shacks in the beach community. I’m looking down trying to avoid the trash covered, bumpy path. There is a small group of children tagging along behind me asking for money. I am walking past women squatting over pots of fish cooking over fires. I pass the chop shop where there is a TV set up and folks are watching a Chelsea football match, rooting for Michael Essien, a native son.
I open my eyes and laugh out loud…now there are two guys staring at me, I’m smiling wide and still laughing at the situation…they don’t seem to know what to do with me. I have been standing in this aisle for at least twenty minutes now so I guess its time to go. I contemplate buying some of the fishes, just for the smell, but I consider my roommates, and my cat.
For the first time since returning, I am completely happy. Until this, I felt like my arm had been cut off and thrown into the ocean. But being in “tropical foods” made it seem like I had re grown my limb. Well, not quite, its more like I got a prosthetic or something.
I have found some comfort in this unusual place, and I am so grateful.
Things have difficult for me since I left. I don’t find much comfort in anything these days even though I’ve returned to Boston, to a loving and wonderful family, loyal and entertaining friends, and the city which I love so much. My love for these things hasn’t diminished, but it has changed. I am the first person in my family to travel, anywhere, so I find it hard to relate. My friends are the same people I left in January, but I feel like a caterpillar who has morphed into a butterfly. And the city I love so much seems to be missing something. In fact, every aspect of my life seems to be “missing something”. And worst of all, I don’t know what that something is. Because of the “foreignness” of Ghana, I am having a really hard time relating to people. I want to talk to people, to make them understand but whenever I talk about Ghana, the best I can do is make general statements like “it was amazing, I miss it very much, I had the most wonderful time”, or “it all went by so fast”. I cant manage to say what I really feel. And that’s what worries me, that Ill never be able to explain it. I’m not the kind of person who refuses on principal to have regrets, who say “oh you should never regret anything, its in the past”. These people are either dumb, or they’ve never made a big mistake. My big mistake is that I didn’t sit down every night and writing it down, writing it ALL down. Who knows how much I have already forgotten?
So much of Ghana is fading away from me. Its happening physically too. My caramel skin is getting lighter every day, my mosquito bites don’t itch, and the scars acquired through playing, walking, or whatever are healing. Freakishly, I don’t want them to heal. I want the cuts and bruises to stay forever, they are my favorite souvenirs. I don’t trust my brain to retain all this stuff, but you cant forget something you see every day. I cant forget the sore spot on my head where it smacked against the window of a tro tro as long as it still hurts. The blister on the side of my foot from walking, the rough patch of skin on my hand where I scrubbed my laundry to hard, even the little specks of dirt under my fingernails are welcome. I have changed so much mentally that I wish there were a way to express that physically. But that is impossible, and that’s what frightens me. As I watch Ghana disappear from my body, I can’t help but worry that the same thing is happening in my mind.

Before coming to Ghana I was warned multiple times, by multiple people that I would be faced with an overwhelming amount of attention from Ghanaians. I was told that people would stop me left and right to say hello, ask me what I was doing, and ask to be my friend. All the time that people were telling me this I was thinking “wait…how will that be frustrating, it will be nice to be the most popular person on the block. I actually looked forward to it…everyone knowing my name, complimenting me on my clothing, wanting to touch my hair, I thought that sounded pretty good. And it was…for a while. Starting on the very first day, people did everything that I was told about. I met a guy in an internet café and gave him my e-mail address, the next day I had a message saying “I miss you, cant wait to see you again, I love you”. I just laughed at this and went along my business. Children at the school asked if they could touch my hair to see if it was real. I was more than happy to oblige, just another funny African anecdote I thought. On the street, every single empty cab (and there are a bunch of them) slowed down and honked to see if I needed a ride. I considered it a good thing…when I actually WANTED a cab, I thought, I would have no trouble getting one. The day after I arrived, I got multiple complements on my shoes….black $2.50 Old Navy flip flops. “Your dress is very nice”, I was told about my jumpstart tee shirt and kaki shorts. I viewed this as an example of just how nice and welcoming Ghanaians are. But I was about to make a 180 in my attitude.
While it might seem flattering to be proposed to on a regular basis.. It very quickly loses its charm. Here are a few examples.
I walk down the street and a woman walks up to me and says “I carried my son in my stomach for nine months for you, so you could marry him”….seriously, someone actually said that.
Seconds after sitting in a cab, the driver says “are you from Germany?”
“No, the States”
“Ahhh, you will bring me back with you and we will have a family”
“ummmm, what’s your name?”
They constantly say that they think I am beautiful…but have also heard multiple people say “white people, they all look the same” (hooray for reverse stereotypes!). So that kinda makes me wonder if these guys see beauty as literally “skin-deep”.

When I once thought that cabs honking at me was convenient, I now saw it as insulting. Things now going through my mind were,
“you only want to take me so you can ask for some ridiculous amount of money.
You think that because I’m white, I MUST have hundreds of cedi to just throw away. In fact, when I’m bored, I probably just get a match and light 20 cedi notes, for fun!” Actually, I have 1 cedi on me, I can’t AFFORD a cab to begin with, let along the 500-600% increase you’re going to ask for.
I ride the tro-tro just like everyone else, skin color does not indicate wealth.

I never…ever thought that kids could piss me off, after all, they’re just kids. But there have been times that I have bit my lip to keep from screaming. One time, I got a small cut and was bleeding a bit…the kids crowded around and were surprised to see that my blood was red, just like theirs! A few times, children have (without asking) walked up to me and pulled my hair only to go back to their friend saying “I told you its real…give me the 20 peswas (cents). Yes…children bet money on weather or not my hair is real. And they don’t just tug my hair…they PULL it. Because they know that I don’t use the cane on them (another long story), they take advantage of me and don’t take my discipline seriously in class. And when I want to take some pictures around the school, I can only get one in before they all swarm in front of the lens shouting “snap me, snap me”.

People watch every single thing I do…every, single, thing. Its one thing to be popular, it is something entirely different to be like a goldfish in a bowl. If I’m in the classroom and I pick up my bag to get a pencil, any adult in the room jumps on it, “are you leaving? Where are you going?” I sneeze and suddenly it’s as if I have meningitis. If I yawn or even sit down, they ask if I am tired. I am complemented on my clothing every day, no matter what I wear. When at first, I saw it as people trying to be nice and initiate conversation, I began to see it as a waste of time and an insult on my intelligence. I thought, why cant we talk about something REAL?… you talk with other people about politics, the economy, education…all sorts of good stuff, but when it comes to me the best I can get out of you is “your dress is very nice today”, or “the sun is hot, eh?” I am capable of adult conversation. I’m not just here to giggle and say “oh yes, Africa is soo hot…how do you do it?” It gets old after a while.
I also found the way people were looking out for me annoying. One day I was working with the seamstress who made my clothing and I wanted to go for lunch. I told her I was going across the street to the restaurant. It took about half an hour of persuasion before she let me go alone. She wanted to send one of her girls with me, like she had done the day before, but I insisted that I knew where I was going. I tried to explain that I felt uncomfortable taking someone away for their work so that they could walk me across the street and watch me eat a meal. What I WANTED to say was “Don’t you think I’m capable of getting myself some food?, there ARE streets in Boston, I know how to cross them, I’ve lived on my own for a while and I know how to take care of myself thank-you-very-much!”. It gets to the point that these things pile up and I begin to lose my temper…but its time for another 180.
One day, the shoes that I brought with me became too dirty and I decided to buy a new pair from the market. And just like in the summer when I switch over to sandals, I got a few blisters on my feet. They weren’t particularly bad but I decided to walk barefoot for a minute. The second I start walking, a few of the teachers come over all in a tizzy;
“oh is you foot paining you?”, “what happened”, “oooh you’re hurt, sorry, sorry”
“let me see let me see” “you should put on your shoes”
I try to explain that its not a big deal and that I’m fine, but they keep bending over trying to grab my foot to look at it, so I have to stop to let them give their two cents.
“oooh it’s a cut, sorry, sorry”
“No, its not a problem, I get them all the time, it’s just a small blister”
“ooh you need a bandage, come with me”
I say its ok, I’m fine and start walking away…
“ooh where are you going?”
“just to throw something out…its ok”
But I didn’t exactly say that last part in the nicest way….my tone was more than a bit curt. I was so frustrated with the fact that I couldn’t just walk on my own without people watching my every move and treating a small blister as if it were a broken leg. It seemed that no matter what I said or did, nobody would think that I could take care of myself. So I responded rudely when people were (in my view), over exaggerating. Big mistake.
After brushing off the 4 teachers who had gathered around me, and throwing away my garbage I headed towards the open area where the children play after school. Two of the teachers were walking ahead of me in the same direction. Just when I was slowing down my pace, as to not attract their attention, I heard one of them say “Americans, they’re all like that…..rude.” Oops.
Luckily, I think this is the only time that I have offended anyone by my behavior in Ghana (with the exception of using my left hand to eat and hand things to people, which I can‘t seem to break but folks seem fairly understanding) but it also served as an awakening about how I was adapting to Ghanaian life (or, not adapting as the case may be).
I began rethinking the things that had been bothering me recently. I realized that these people weren’t trying to patronize me because they thought I was helpless or stupid, they were trying to keep me safe out of genuine care and concern. Walking around barefoot with open sores really IS a bad idea, and they were trying to help me. Sneezing or fatigue can by symptoms of serious diseases that can be fatal. Crossing the street can be very dangerous, especially when you don’t know the area or how vehicles operate on a particular stretch or road. There is a certain amount of babying going on…but I think there was also some naivety and overconfidence on my part…so it balances out.
Children…well, I still think its rude to pull someone’s hair without even asking.
With cab drivers, I cant really blame them for the way things are. Most of the whites that come over to Ghana ARE ridiculously wealthy. They spend a few thousand dollars just to GET here. And once they arrive, they stay in the few five star hotels for over 200 US dollars a night. When I look at the big picture, I wonder who is actually taking advantage of who(m?). While I am an anomaly (a broke white person), should I really have a problem with a Ghanaian cab driver asking a multi millionaire for 20 cedi to go a 5 cedi route? For all I know, this whitey is an AIG exec. or something. Either way, they can probably afford it. And as for the driver, they drive around crowded, dirty, loud Accra all day for probably about 20 cedi worth of profit. 20 cedi is like 25 USD. See what I mean about the “big picture”? With less than one month left in Ghana, I believe that I am looking at things very differently. I know that I might have learned these lessons later on in life, I am glad Interfuture has provided me with the chance to do so at such a young age. My new slogan for the IF program is “Interfuture, grow up. Fast”

So the best (cheapest) way to travel in Accra is by tro-tro. They run all over the city, all the time. But they seem to put new meaning to the phrase “you get what you pay for”. They are usually white and have 15 seats, 3 in the front where the drivers seat is and 4 rows of benches with the seat on the end flipping up and to the side to allow people to pass. There are no seatbelts, that I’ve noticed at least. The vehicles that are used for tro tros are in terrible, terrible shape. Some of the seats don’t have backs, there is little or no paint, just old metal. I highly doubt that ANY of the tro tros that I’ve been on would pass an inspection in the US. Most of them squeal as they bump down the road, they constantly stall out. Tro-tros are run by teams of two people, the driver and the mate. The mate sits in the flip seat closest to the door and calls out the destination of the car to people on the street. I cant describe the way that the mates call the destinations…. they add syllables and elongate letters so that I can barely tell what they are saying. For example, a tro tro going to Achimota will sound like “aaaaahhhtchieeeemoooootttaaahhh” Once you’ve gotten on, the mate collects your fare (usually about 20 cents) and you trot along to your destination. Traveling to my home from the center of town takes 3 separate cars Accra to Circle, Circle to Achimota, and Achimota to Dome. Here is an account of one such trip:
After waiting for a few minutes for a car going to circle, one pulls over and lets me on. I try to get in and I can’t find the empty seat anywhere. I don’t realize that the lady in front of me is trying to let me through so I just stand there while they tell me to “get in get in!” When I finally sit down, I hand the money to the mate with my left hand and the 4 people around me all go ahhhhhh not your left hand (major African taboo). I feel like such a tourist.
I get off at Circle and walk for a while, some guy asks me where I’m going and says oh okay and walks me to an Achimota bus. Its totally full but the mate puts me in his seat, which is right against the door….which decided not to close. The mate keeps trying to close the door, but time is money, and the driver moves on. SO, I’m sitting in a jump seat next to an open door with no seatbelt and nothing to hang onto. I just sit and hope for the best. And for the first time in the history of Accra, there is no traffic and we start driving really fast. Eventually, the door closes and we drive to Achimota. There are a ton of people at Achimota and I wait for a while until Dome (dooh miee) comes. The tro tro was empty, meaning that 15 people can ride. About 40 people rush to the door. I have been waiting for a while and I decide to go for it. The tro tro doesn’t stop, it just slows down and people literally shove and push to get a seat… and for the first time in Ghana, it doesn’t matter that I’m white…it’s every man and woman for themselves! I reach the door and start to get on, the people behind me see that there aren’t many spots left and I get knocked over (I’m lying half outside the door of a moving van). When I manage to get up, I get a seat and relax. In the end, there are almost 25 people in the tro tro. The ride from here is pretty calm, I listen to people talking and watch all the crazy Ghanaian goings-on. We drive on and pass an accident, there is a huge 18 wheel plantain truck on its side and we drive past. People in the car start freaking out talking to each other and screaming and making all sorts of comments it’s a big event. One of my favorite things about Ghanaians is that they all want to give their two (or three) cents. It makes for interesting rides. By the time we’ve gotten past the accident, people have calmed down a bit and I am almost home. When we pass the street that I want to get off on I say “mate, mate, stop here please” the mate obliges and signals to the driver to stop by banging his hand on the side of the truck loudly. The driver says something in Twi along the lines of “no we’re close to another stop” and the mate says “for the obruni, she wants to go here”. SO the driver stops, the other passengers chuckle a bit and I get off…once again feeling like super-tourist.

Black People:
Give me 2 minutes to myself!!! Sometimes I just want to get up and WALK!, and I dont need to tell you all where I'm going...there are far to many of you to cover!
Stop talking to your friends in Twi laughing and throwing Obroni in all the time. Im the only white person around, I know your talking about me!
Yes I voted for Barak Obama...yes I know he is a black man...lets move on please.

White People:
Stop spending 5 times as much on cabs as you're supposed to...you're screwing me over by making drivers think I'm rich.
Stop driving around in your huge rental cars smoking cigaretts and talking on a cell phone...and you all look like a bunch of cooked lobsters! Haven't you ever heard of sunscreen?
Why do you all wander around Osu like you own the place? You know, there is a Ghana outside Nkrumah Park!!!
To all you 20-something dudes walking around with a dirty pony-tail, backpack, tivas, and a Nikon...you look stupid.

Men:
No I am not married...and call me crazy but I usually like to know peoples' NAMES before I agree to proposals!

Cab Drivers:
Gaah! I KNOW you're trying to rip me off... A ride to the circle is 5 cedi...not 20 you butthead! When I call your bluff..just get over it and take the real price!

Children:
Sometimes, I want to take pictures of things OTHER than a close up of your face! I don't know if you have spidy-sense of something but as soon as I turn that damn thing on..like 20 of you materialize right in front of the lens.
My hair is not your property..but If you ASKED first, I might take it down..so dont just pull at it!

Internet:
I HATE you.

Water:
Please please please, just stay on. I quite enjoy you, and I miss you when you're gone. And when you MUST leave...please hurry back, 2 weeks without running water is just foolish.

Dust: Get out of my eyes, get out of my clothing, get out of my room, get out of my hair, get out of finger nails, get off of my floor, stop covering the pages of my books, stop getting on my camera lense, and stay away from my room!

There is more I could complain about...but it's hard to stay mad at Ghana for long.

I visited the Cape Coast Castle which was one of West Africa’s most important slave holding facilities. I went into the slave dungeons, saw scratches on the floor made from men trying to break their irons, walked through the infamous “door of no return” which lead thousands of Africans to the Americas and Caribbean.
The waves crashed against the rocks and walls of the castle with such force that it seemed as if they were trying to wash away the shame and disgrace of the past. But I don’t think any amount of water can make Cape Coast Castle seem clean. Just being on the grounds of the castle is enough to cause an emotional reaction. Every single step I took made me think about the men and women who took the same steps in shackles. Every breath made me wonder what the air must have been like after 3 months of hundreds of captives defecating, sweating, and eating in the same small cell. I wondered how long it took their eyes to adjust to the dark, and what temperature the small, thick-walled cell rose to with 200 occupants. Standing on the beach, I looked back at the castle and tried to imagine how it felt for the captives as they were rowed out to the cargo ship to know that this was the last thing they would ever see of their homeland (which they probably didn‘t actually know). I found it hard to believe that any human being could survive in these conditions and by the time my tour was over…I was ready to leave.
The next day I went on another, less depressing, to Kakum National Park, about 45 minutes from Cape Coast. The parks main attraction is the “Canopy Ropewalk”, a suspended rope bridge between seven tall trees above the rainforest. Simply, it was amazing. Imagine the rainforests you see on National Geographic, and then imagine walking on a bridge on top of it, complete with monkeys swinging through trees underneath you. A-MA-ZING! I recommend taking a look at the pictures on the site I posted earlier. On the way back we made a quick detour to “Hanks Cottage” where we bought some raw chicken and fed it to crocodiles who also let us touch them! A good few days if I do say so myself.

I’ve been in Ghana for a month now and I can’t believe it! One third of my trip is over…but it seems like I’ve only been here for a few days. In many ways, I am still the same as when I left Boston in January. I am still shocked when I see the lizards running around all over the place (there was one in my room last night). I still don’t understand how a  shallow hole in the ground can be considered a bathroom. And I still cant seem to enjoy most of the food.
But in a few notable ways, I do believe that Ghana has changed me. While the food is pretty unappetizing to me, I have learned to give things a try (notably snail and octopus).  My skin is definitely darker…duh, and the Ghanaian chilled out” attitude is rubbing off on me.
I’ve also changed some of my perceptions and attitudes. In the beginning, I thought of Ghana was a totally different world, with every little detail being completely alien. I dwelled on seemingly little things, like the fact that the keys here are mostly skeleton keys, or the different power outlets. The unfamiliar car brands,  the open sewers along the road, the lack of “American Football” all made me feel at times like Ghana was absolutely NOTHING like the US. The Academy Awards came and went with no notice, Valentines Day didn’t involve any flowers, my host sister got sick (vomited on me) and was given some bottle of medicine that didn’t look anything like “our” medicine. All these things were like little bells going off in my mind telling me “I don‘t think we‘re in Kansas anymore”. 
But lately, I’ve been looking at things a little differently. I have noticed other seemingly insignificant things. Kids think fart sounds are hysterical. Men are obsessed with football (soccer) and comment on the days previous game with their friends as if they are head coaches…just like with American football. People do that little hand wave thing when you let them out into traffic. Easter involves decorating eggs too!  Everyone knows Ross and Rachel belong together (“Friends” is like all that’s on). I know all these things  seem silly and insignificant, but these little things are life. Basically, the moral of this story is that while things look very different on the outside, (keys, cars, food…) people go about their day to day lives in very similar ways.  I believe the old cliché, “That which unites us is greater that that which divides us” is in order here. Ask me a week or two ago and I would have said the opposite.

go to this site for photos!
s682.photobucket.com/albums/vv188/rachel_plukas/

I will post an entry soon....thanks for reading!

Things Ghana Needs:
Water
Electricity
Broadband Internet
Cheez-its
Cars with Good Shocks
More Toilet Paper
More paved roads
A Home Address System
A UU Church
TV Shows Made After 1990
Tro Tro's (bus) That STOP When You Want to Get Off

Things Ghana Could Do Without:
Dust/Dirt
Annoying Tourists
Speed Bumps
90% of its Taxi's
99.9% of its Chickens
Bread that Consistently Has Little Pebbles Baked into it

Things Ghana Should Export:
Milo
Kingsbite Chocolate
Heat
Seamstresses
Batic and Kente Fabric
Water Bags
It's Attitude

Obroni (pronounced "ah-bron-ee") is the Ghanian term for white people. And on an average day, I hear people call me this term at least 50 times. Taxi dirvers stop and honk to see if I want a ride. Children (and some adults) point and run after the car as I commute to and from school. Strangers walk up to me and say "pease, I would like to be your friend" or "miss, you are beautiful". For a few days, I loved this. Its nice to be complemented on a regular basis, and a little ego boost can be very empowering. But I am increasingly getting frustrated with the fact that I can't just walk down the street without having to greet every single person I pass. I look forward to driving at night when few people can see close enough to tell that I am fair-skinned. I can't balme anyone for this...I have yet to see a single obroni outside of the center of Accra, I stick out like a sore thumb. There are times that the special attention I get feels good. Other times it is akward, like when I am sitting with a group of children making baskets and the teacher works exclusively with me while the rest of the childrern wait. Or when teachers stop their lessons to talk with me, and tell their students that "if they are good and do thier work, I will take them back to America with me"....ummmmm.
It also feels very strange to be served and taken care of by black people...my host sister comes to collect my laundry and washes it, dries it, folds it, and brings it back to me. At meals, I am given a tray with my meal and water, when I am done it is quickly wisked away for washing. It doesn't seem to mean much to them, but I can't help but feel a little squeemish. I am facing the taboos about white guilt, and black history that exist in the U.S. but which naturally aren't as strong in Ghana.
The other night, my host mother and I were watching "Hanging with Mr. Cooper" (prime time programing) and a white person dropped the n-bomb, causing much drama. My host mother asked me what that word meant...I wanted to curl into the cusions of the couch. Making matters worse, she missed the term and asked me to repeat it. I started by telling her that the word has so much meaining attached to it that I felt uncomfortable explaining it...but I would try. When i was finished she said "oh okay" and that was the end of it....It was a strange experience for me, to her, it was just a cultural term from the U.S., it wasn't the controversial word that people arent even alloewd to THINK. The whity who dropped the n-bomb in the show was also a self proclaimed "wigger". When that term came up I also explained it to Nora. She was baffled.."so what?" she said. "Why is it a problem for white people to 'act black'". For that, I had no explination. Race is so different here and I am learning a lot about race in the U.S. by viewing it from Ghana.

After 24 hours in transit, I arrive in Ghana to a lovely, welcoming host family, the Amporful’s. The first thing I want to do when I arrive is eat…which I do. My host mother Nora makes me a sausage and rice dish, which could rival a $40 dinner at the top of the hub. Its 90 degrees and I need a shower. This is my first experience with culture shock. My shower consists of a tub with a tube about as wide as a pea. “oh” I think…well at least this is more environmentally friendly. The tube is not long enough to reach my hair so I have to bend over to soak my extremely dirty hair. This is when I realize that this is the best shower of my entire life. The water is cold and so refreshing that words can’t describe it. As I shampoo my hair, I feel relieved. The familiar smell of Pantene pro-v is comforting and I think to myself

“Oh yes, you KNOW this…I have shampooed my hair a million times, this is something that I can handle…even in Ghana. Now for soap, I know that too! Maybe I ‘m not totally lost here after all. I know what I’m doing”

At this moment, dirty brown water floods the tub, it is the drain water from the washing machine… I don’t care; this is still the best shower I’ve ever had and I look forward to escaping to my friendly, secret retreat as much as possible.

 

There are chickens EVERYWHERE. Some are spray painted fluorescent colors to indicate ownership, but most just wander and cluck along the streets looking for food. I tried counting them the other day but it was useless. I also try to forget that the chicken I see drinking black water from the drains on the sides of the street might be on my plate in a few days.

 

The day after I arrive, I go to school with my host brothers and sister. Since I am still feeling jet-lagged and exhausted from the heat, I take a nap in a stairwell. Not too long after I wake up surrounded by at least 30 10 to 12 year-olds.

“May I get you a chair”  at least ten of them ask?

“No thank you, the floor is fine”

“How about some water?”

“I have a water bottle here, thank you”.

Now begins the interrogation,

“Please, are you a teacher?”

“Have you met George Bush? Oprah? Barack Obama?”

“May I see your camera?”

“Please, may I carry your bag?”

“Are you sure you don’t want a chair?”

All the while, children are telling me their names and quizzing me to see if I remember…I don’t. I assure them that I will be around for a long time and I look forward to getting to know all of them…for now, that’s enough for them and they go back to class. I feel bad that I can’t remember any of their names so I make a vow to try much harder next time.

After school, I go home and go straight to bed and I don’t wake up until the next morning.

Let me begin with a story I was told the other day…

There once was a very rich man who built a new palace and had a big party to celebrate his good fortune. When all the guests arrived, he gathered them all together and presented them with a challenge. Any man who could swim across the pond behind his home could marry his daughter and have half of the man’s fortune. Nobody wanted to swim across the lake because it was infested with alligators and they would surely be attacked and killed. Everyone was silent, watching to see if anyone was foolish enough to take the man up on his challenge. All of a sudden there was a loud splash! Everyone looked to the side and saw one of the young men swimming in the water with all his might. The guests looked on in horror as the man battled the alligators and swam fiercely to the other side, not one person believed that he would make it to the other side. Amazingly, after a time, the man climbed onto the bank on the other side of the lake. There was an explosion of applause and cheering as the crowd stood in astonishment. The rich man honored his promise but wanted to know what the man was thinking as he battled the alligators and fought for his life. The young man replied,”I was thinking that when I find out who pushed me into the pond I swear I will kill him!”

 

 

These days, I feel a lot like the young man in this story. I know that the prize on the other side of this journey is great, but the “swim” seems impossible. Without the push from all the people in my life, I wonder if I would have made it. I am still battling alligators, but I think jumping in is most of the battle. We are capable of amazing things, but all too often, we are too afraid to take that jump. People have something strong inside of them but for most of us, it lies dormant. Interfuture is giving me the opportunity to realize my amazing potential and strength. We all have it inside of us and once we know that, we can begin doing amazing things! I think back to the Interfuture conferences…there were times when I wanted to kill the staff for pushing me in (you know who you are J) but I think they had confidence in my class and me that allowed them to do this. Anyway, that’s enough cheesy rambling from me… I have work to do.

Its been over a year now since I heard about Interfuture. I got a call from my parents saying that I had a letter from Suffolk waiting for me at home. I had them read it to me (if you know me at all you would know that I simply do not "wait" for anything). The letter was an invitation to apply for a unique and challenging study abroad experience called Interfuture. I wish there were words to describe how quickly and assuredly I knew that I would be participating in Interfuture. In my mind there was nothing in the world that could keep me from it; my determination could outlast any obstacle put in front of me. And ta-da!, a few months later I was beginning the process of forming a research project for my overseas study. Maybe I will discuss my process of forming my project in a later entry...I don't have the energy right now. Sufficed to say, it was probably the most challenging, introspective experience of my life.
Lots of people have asked my why I (a girl who grew up in the least diverse town in the world and who has never traveled anywhere other than Disney World) would chose two African countries half way across the world as my first foreign destinations. Honestly, I don't know, it's just what I want to do. The decision was no more difficult than say, choosing which movie to go see on a Friday night. As challenging and difficult as I know this experience will be, I am positive that I am ready and that I am the right person for the job.
Its exactly one week now until I arrive in Accra. Some friends and family members have been asking me to start this blog to keep them posted about my adventures! (and to quell anxieties about safety).
If you are still bored and want more info, go to interfuture.org, or send me an e-mail!