Oh the People You'll Meet

I often follow my perceived proper social prescription at home. Walking down the street I lower my head to a 60 degree angle and focus my attention to the grooves on the sidewalk. On the train I feel embarrassed for the woman who is talking loudly on her cell phone and frustration consumes me as I read the same line over and over again in my book, the tantalizing voyeurism of a mundane conversation invariably distracts me. I’ll enthusiastically greet friends at bars and ignore the guy I sat next to in biology everyday because I have nothing meaningful to say to him. I am happy to provide directions when I can and have often secretly wished I was a person who would abandon what I was doing for a stranger and walk them to their destination yet I always remain content at pointing in the general direction and drawing out a vague map in air.

In Ghana these are strange behaviors and can be downright offensive. On my way to work I usually greet every passer-by, the tro-tros are filled with lively conversation, and I’ve never carried a map because someone will be pleased to lead me the way – 50% of the time we will also exchange numbers should I need anything else while I am living here. In the more rural areas the greetings seem almost familial and genuine while in the city center it is hard not to cast an unusually friendly man as an opportunist or be approached by a vendor who is trying to sell you well, anything. Living in the most lively and “touristy” part of Ghana the walk around my neighborhood is a strange and calculated dance of crossing streets to avoid certain annoyances and a constant internal debate of who to trust, who to greet, who to stop and chat with, and who to ignore. Generally speaking though, my normal behavior would make me perceived as a rude introverted recluse with a stilted attitude. Thus, I have found myself sitting in the front seat of taxis to talk with the driver, having passionate conversations with strangers, and greeting everyone individually in every group I encounter. Consequently, for better or worse, I have met a lot of interesting Ghanaian characters.

I came to Ghana by myself without knowing anyone. I quickly learned that I don’t really enjoy my own company enough to spend a lot of time alone and I was desperate for human contact. Walking aimlessly around Osu (my neighborhood) trying to construct my bearings I was accosted by a smallish figure, the meagerness of his body emphasized by a dirty Charlotte Hornets jersey that was two sizes too large. He introduced himself as Frances and put his arm around me and I instinctively shoved it off but he kept following me asking me innocent questions about where I was from and why I was here. He followed me for another ten minutes until I deliberately began going down streets that I thought was out of his way. I underestimated his passion for wandering and tolerance for uncomfortable silence. Frances followed me around in circles for nearly an hour until I eventually told him I had to go home and he could not follow me there. He promptly pulled out a notepad and gave me the number to his and his mother’s cellphone as well as his postal and email address. He then gave me a map so I wouldn’t be so lost in the future. Frances represents a motivation prevalent in Accra and unique to any other city I’ve been: although I believe he lives on the street he has never asked me for money he seems to only want to be associated with me because of my white skin. I see Frances everyday now and he excitedly will cross the street to follow wherever I may go and I have no reason not to let him. The only time he has asked anything of me was to borrow my book which he grabbed out of my hand and erratically began skimming through – the book resting loosely in his hands, upside-down. I’ve embraced my friendship with Frances instead of treating him as an annoyance but have consciously limited these types of insincere relationships which are all too accessible.

That same evening I walked down the zebra striped road of darkness and headlight outside my house and wondered whether if it was safe to be out alone at night. A hollow voice called out to me and I timidly responded. The voice identified itself as my neighbor and emerged from the nearby bushes where he had been urinating and I grudgingly extended my hand to greet him. He held on to my hand the entire conversation – an uncomfortable common practice here. He introduced himself as Mr. Brown and I studied his face for any sign of a joke. We talked for a while and he finished by telling me that he would be happy to do my laundry for a trivial fee. I asked him if I should ring the doorbell when I need my clothes washed and he explained to me that there was no doorbell and I should just jump over the gate. Mr. Brown seemed a welcoming and friendly man of about 45 but when I told my landlady, Aunite Theo, that I had met him she dismissed him as a drunk. It wasn’t until a month later when a Canadian friend, Aaron, moved next-door that I learned Mr. Brown was actually an employee of my neighbor. His sole purpose is to open the gate when a car comes (hence the lack of doorbell). Mr. Brown is a human garage opener… and is treated like one. He sleeps outside by the gate rain or shine, armed with a slingshot that has twice been aimed at my face and a hand-held radio. He is generally on duty 24 hours a day. There remains a distinct hierarchy in Ghana that makes work like this not only acceptable but quite common. Who could blame him for reeking of booze?

There will always be an underlying feeling of distrust, suspicion of orchestration, and deceitfulness with the people I have met who have approached me on the street, but if it was I who was to initiate contact and strike up a conversation, a rewarding, albeit brief, relationship can ensue. Two weeks ago, I traveled to the coastal town of Winneba to relax on the beach with a group of friends who were working in a nearby Liberian refugee camp. A queue had formed for transportation to Winneba at an apparently random spot in the station and I stood for two hours fighting for prime position in the narrow slit of shade offered by an ominous bus, its exhaust collectively weakening our resolve. When the correct bus finally came, the line promptly disbanded, and everyone clawed towards the entrance to fight over the plentiful seats. I was lucky enough to secure a window seat and a man sat down next to me and announced he was ‘very very hungry’. I welcomed him to my bag of fried plantains and he kindly explained to me that fried plantains are not real food. He leaned over me and stuck his head out the bus window and began screaming food orders into a mass of preoccupied focused people that seems to describe all people in transit. But, soon enough, he was feasting on rice, chicken, a piece of fish, washed down with juice and cocoa. The 2 hour bus ride was filled with naps intermittently interrupted by wild excitement as cars recklessly attempted to pass our long bus; the crowd’s escalated cheering always climaxed with a disturbing collective sigh when the passing car jut narrowly missed oncoming traffic. As we approached Winneba I asked the man what stop would be most strategic for my destination and without hesitation, he told me he would lead me there. Within a few minutes of conversation, Hasam (the man’s name) had invited me to the northern city of Tamale where he will let me stay at his home and will prepare a traditional dance ceremony in my honor. Hasam walked with me for 30 minutes to my hotel and on Sunday he unexpectedly came back to lead me back to the bus station. He invited me back to Winneba the next weekend as his guest at a ceremony at the college he attends there. This is not an unusual scenario and I suspect everyone who visits has at least one experience with this sort of hospitality. I’ve met numerous Hasam’s throughout Ghana.

The spirit of giving continued into the next day when I received one of the sweetest gifts ever given to me: a bottle of Raid. This perfume of death was a special gift partly because my apartment has been infested with ants, spiders, flies, and endearing geckoes (who were not harmed in the spraying of Raid) but mostly because of the way in which I received it. I trudged through Makola market, a maze of kiosks hawking anything from pigs feet to tailor-work, to arrive at Auntie Alice’s store. As we sat and discussed how the month of Ramadan and the beginning of school made for slow business her errand boy returned with a bottle of Raid. I asked her where I could find a bottle for myself and she sent her errand boy back out for another one. I instinctively gave her money and she gave me a stern look and explained, “I would not accept money from my son [Baafuor] so why should I accept money from you who is also like a son to me.” Isn’t that nice.

While not quite that nice there are plenty more people whom would love to make your acquaintance. There are the array of Rastafarian men who encourage me to smoke with them and tell me about Jah and ‘one love’ countered by Clifford who always seems to be on my street dressed nicely, always creepily asking if he can have one of the women he sees me walking around with. I always run into Hakim who carries a stack of a dozen full length mirrors atop his head and walks for miles in the stubborn heat looking for a sale. I often see him at the end of his route and he frequently has not sold anything. Johnny, who occupies a stall that contains no more than six shirts, always offers to help me carry my bags of water that I unsuccessfully try to balance on my head. Of course, there are always the slew of men that are selling necklaces, t-shirts, and petty knick knacks that line the main drag in Osu and all know me by name, asking me for the 50th consecutive day why I won’t buy one of their ‘I love Ghana’ bumper stickers.

I can go on but I think you get the point. I seem to meet a new character everyday. Most of the people I mentioned I only see for brief moments of the day and I don’t have what I would consider a real friendship with any of them, but these are the people that I will remember when I reflect on my trip. They are what makes Ghana both intolerable and exceptionally pleasing, exhausting and perpetually rewarding.

The Creche

Before I walk down the street where the daycare center for Street Girls Aid sits, I pause and take an exaggerated deep breath. I pat down my uniform, a dirty pair of pants and a t-shirt that will never see America again, and transfer everything from my pockets (which the children’s curious hands can’t help but reach into) to my backpack. However, the desire not to get violently ill compels me to keep the all-important, life-saving hand-sanitizer close to me at all times. I have to maneuver around the scattered Muslims who are sprawled out on mats facing Mecca outside the neighboring Mosque to reach the gate of the center, the narrow alley amplifying the screams of children playing and crying amidst the rusty slides, the metal swings without a seat, and the bare foundation of a teeter-totter that neither teets nor tots.

The crèche usually cares for 140 children each day and unfailingly half of those kids will attack me on all fronts as they greet me and fight for one of my hands to hold on too. The trick here is to keep moving. A high five here, a ‘hello’ there, and a couple consoling pats on the head to the ones who are crying and make it to higher ground…fast. My first day I made the nearly fatal mistake of kneeling down to the children’s level and start to play with them a little. The kids tackled me and I found myself drowning in a cesspool of snot and tears. No matter what, I end up walking across the playground with a child grasped to each finger and two timidly clasping the back of my shirt following my every move.

Admittedly, I have not learned most of the children’s names, but I have given them my own endearing names. Clutchy is like a trained predator who will find me wherever I am in the crèche and when he finds me he will never-ever let go. This usually does not fair well with Ms. Territorial who will fight Cluthy or anyone else who reaches for my hand. I always keep an eye out for Crabby. Crabby is not a grumpy kid rather he runs after me in a crablike motion, clasping his thumb and fingers together in a pinching fashion, and repeatedly chomps his teeth together as he fearlessly jumps into me for the quick thrill of being placed back on the ground or to annoyingly use his pinchers to entangle himself in my shirt. Crabby is like a wind up toy and I’ve found if you lay him on his back the impulse to be a menace will diminish and he will just tire himself out until the next sight of me winds him back up again. Cutie will always greet me with a big smile and a hug while Sherry will customarily offer all the other children her snacks. Precarious likes to worry me by balancing on the jungle gym on one foot and copycat… well she never gets tired of pretending she’s a kitten. And then there is the sad pack. This group has a few regulars but generally varies by the day. You are considered a proud member of the sad pack if you cry when you are outside a 3 foot radius of me and consequently I am the Grand Marshall of a never ending parade of whimpering and wailing.

Assembly time marks the formal beginning to the day and it also allows me ample time to reflect on my inability to dance. Everyone will congregate in front of a drum and we will sing songs to bring in the new day. It usually culminates with the drummer bringing her beat over to me and another attendant grabbing Clutchy off my shirt for me to showcase my moves. Everyone seems to enjoy that a whole lot and I am left contemplating how the little kids who can’t cross the playground without falling on their face can dance so much better than me.

Formal class then ensues and I transform into “Teacher Brian”. I work in a small classroom with lots of 4 & 5 year olds, with few resources, and the inability to speak the student’s language. I work alongside Teacher Mary who has the remarkable ability to be really sweet and terrify you all at the same time. Corporal punishment is definitely in vogue these days in Ghana and its prominence has imparted me with a notion of utter helplessness marked by the inability to stop the pattern of abuse and my own ability to discipline the children. I watch parents beat their children as they drop them off at the crèche and then I watch parents slap other children as they leave. In class, Mary threatens “shut up or I’ll beat/cane you” so frequently that by the end of the day it is no longer comes across as threats rather a tired inevitability. The children have realized that I am not going to hit them and accordingly treat me with the same amount of respect I showed my teachers growing up. D’OH!

After class the staff (including me) help prepare the children’s meals. During this time the favorite topic of conversation is my marriage. This uncomfortable subject manner is exacerbated by the fact that one of my colleagues is, well… stalking me. At first, I accepted the repeated calling and prodding questions as harmless social differences but the invitations to her daughters birthday party and her insistence on taking me out ever night has become a little excessive. So when the nurse walks in and says “you’re so handsome one of these girls should marry you” I grit my teeth and curse the vile woman under my breath. The other favorite pastime of lunchtime is encouraging me to eat inhumane portions of food. Not finishing my plate is a sign of weakness and to a certain extent disrespect, so I always end up eating portions that would make Andre the Giant think, ‘I better not’. Today was rice with pallava sauce (cooked yam leaves) and a piece of an unidentifiable fish. After thirty minutes of continuous eating I was visibly sweating and holding back tears of pain but I was encouraged by the noticeable dent I had made in the trough that I was feeding out of. Then, that damn nurse snuck up behind me to mercilessly add another bowl of rice to my portion telling me “you better keep eating so you can be big and strong for your new wife” D’OH D’OH!

Soon all the children slip into happy little food comas and they sleep, ten to a mat, on the classroom floor. After they wake up parent’s begin to pick up the children or astonishingly, the pre-schoolers are allowed to leave by themselves if they know their way home. I don’t mean to sound cynical about my work because the crèches that S.Aid has set up (totaling six servicing over 750 kids) are, quite frankly, saving lives. Most of the children at the center where I work live in one-room wooden structures in shanty towns and their parents work long hours for a minute allowance. During field work I have seen the dismal alternative to the crèche. Mothers will pay 4,000 cedis (about 40 cents) a day to have their children looked over by ‘minders’. A one-room wooden structure with no windows, no lights, and no stimulation houses dozens of these unfortunate kids who will peak their heads out of a narrow doorway to stare at you with their glossy eyes and reveal their perceptibly malnourished bodies. Each crèche of S.Aid contains a resident nurse who monitors the growth of the children and provides them with proper medical care should they fall ill. The children are also fed two nutritious meals and a snack each day.

I’ve still been trying to discover my niche at the crèche. Two days of the week I work at a house of refuge for pregnant street girls (worthy of its own blog entry) and am accomplishing more sustainable work like the development of a website for the organization and a curriculum for their literacy and health classes. Whether it be circumstantial (only 7 adults attending to 140 children) or societal, the adults at the crèche are mainly there to discipline the children and their interaction with the kids manifests in shouts and occasionally hitting creating an atmosphere of ‘every-child-for-themselves’. The children themselves are abnormally aggressive. I’ve discovered that what I can offer them is reassurance of their well being when they fall down and consoling when they start to cry. I can tie their shoes when they fall off and congratulate them with a high-five or offer them some security from a tormentor. What these kids seem to need most is love and dependability and hopefully I can fill in a small part of this void. If not, I’ve still become pretty successful at teaching them funny faces and farting noises!