(Oh hey, it's Rivky- what up, guys.)
I have a paper due on Thursday, but because it's chag, and I'm planning on leaving tomorrow as soon as I'm done with my classes, I want to finish it before I go to sleep tonight. Hence, I'm procrastinating, so I figured I'd write that Ghana Conclusion piece people. Yes, I know I've been back for four months (1), but here's to hoping it'll still be relevant!
Everyone's been asking me I feel being back, a fair question, and hopefully I can articulate some of what I've been thinking since being home.
I've had a pretty tough time communicating to friends and family about my experiences. Describing tro-tros, classes, water and electricity, cultural differences...it's overwhelming, and I usually don't know where to start. People also don't know how to relate, what to ask; it just feels like such an un-relatable experience, like something completely different than my life here, barely any overlap.
One thing I've been thinking about is how people keep marveling about being frum (2) in Ghana. People ask how we ate, how we kept shabbos, how we did everything, really. And in truth, it just wasn't that hard. We ate a lot of the same food - tuna, eggs, rice, salad - over and over, but we never lacked for food. And shabbos wasn't especially difficult either, because we made it easy - we cooked all day on Friday and spent all shabbos playing cards, reading and napping. Both of them weren't difficult, but they are difficult to imagine because of what we normally think of as standard ways we relate to food - with restaurants, an endless amount of options, and fresh food being constantly available to us. And the way we think of shabbos - with shul (3), big meals with family and friends, and maybe some learning. Learning we could do, to a very limited extent, but other than that, the ways we experienced shabbos was just so different than at home. We kept the halachot (4) of shabbos exactly the same in America and Ghana, but the experience was completely different. I'm not sure what that means. But something to think about, I guess.
I should really get back to my paper, but before I do, one think that really struck me; it seems obvious that I would feel this was, but it wasn't to me: I miss Ghana. I miss my friends, I miss our living situation, I miss being with Zahava and Yamit every day, I miss the stupid church in back of my dorm, and buying fresh, huge mangoes for an afternoon snack, and dancing, and drumming class with Francis (oh, Francis), and walking through the market, and meeting random Israelis, and riding disgusting tro tros, and discussing issues with Ghanaians, and being asked for a visa (5), and dance parties, and tovelling in the ocean, and just, everything.
It was so amazing, and I think about it every day, every hour, and I think that's part of why I can't describe it, beyond anecdotes. Ghana didn't ~change my life~ (6) in the same way Israel did, but there was an impact that I don't have a handle on yet, and I love it and miss it.
Anyway, enough of that. I don't think I've said much, but that's okay. Back to the paper!
Oh, by the way, got my grades for the semester. Hysterical- got an A in Islam, Africa and the Global System, and Social Welfare and Social Policy, and a B+ in Dance and in Drumming. Seriously? First of all, definitely shouldn't have passed Africa and the Global System, and come on, I rocked the drumming final. Francissssss.
(1) I think I've been back in America for as long as Ghana. Wow, insane.
(2) Observant of the commandments.
(3) synagogue
(4) laws
(5) or a laptop? Fleisch?
(6) Ugh, Adi, your bizarre writing style had infected ALL OF US. SEE THE CAPS??
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Oboruni
(A warning: this post is a bit melodramatic, but it really does bug me.)
It's hard to define exactly what Ghanaians mean by 'oboruni,' but the word follows us everywhere. I think a strict definition is a foreigner of any kind, from England, America, or any other country outside of Africa. Practically speaking, oboruni ends up being the word that Ghanaians speak to refer to anyone who isn't West African. Black Americans routinely get called oboruni, once it's understood that they are not from Africa. (It's often clear anyway because most of them are lighter than most Africans, and dress slightly more American, even though so many Ghanaians dress so American...I digreee.) Even light-skinned Ghanaians have said that they are often mistaken for oborunis.
There are an endless number of blogs written by international visitors to Ghana who discuss their personal reactions to being called an oboruni. Ghanaians uniformly deny that there is any racism in the word, and that they don't mean it in any derogatory way. It's just a word used to refer to white people, a description, a tag.
Yeah, whatever, Ghana. I've said it before, and I will keep saying it. You're wrong. It's offensive- I'm offended. I don't call you 'black person.' I call you by your name, and if I don't know it, I say 'Excuse me,' or I tap you.
Obibini is the Ghanaian word for black people, but I only know that from Twi class, not because anyone would ever call someone else an obibini in public. I guess you could argue that one wouldn't call out "Obibini!" to get someone's attention because everyone is black. But it doesn't matter- if there are one white student and one black student are trying together to get a cab, they will call "Oboruni." Because they want the white person to answer; because they want to mock ("Good-heartedly!") the white kids. Just because. People walking by just scream out "oboruni!" for absolutely no reason.
And it's one thing when it's the women in the markets, or the taxi drivers, or people who are either uneducated, or in a different generation, or just have literally never met a white person before. I don't like it, but I can try to understand.
Before our dance final, four of us were sitting on a bench outside the studio and one student wanted to shift over the bench. Everyone stood up, but I didn't notice what he was doing, so to get my attention, the girl tapped me and said, "Oboruni, stand up, please." This girl was not a stranger, we had been in class together all semester. Even if she didn't know my name, she could have tapped me and said the exact same sentence without saying oboruni.
The word 'oboruni' has a function to separate, to make people different, to say 'you are not like me.' And that's offensive in and of itself. To constantly remind someone who is not of your culture just how different they are is insulting and unnecessary, and as is pretty clear, it bothers me. A lot.
It's hard to define exactly what Ghanaians mean by 'oboruni,' but the word follows us everywhere. I think a strict definition is a foreigner of any kind, from England, America, or any other country outside of Africa. Practically speaking, oboruni ends up being the word that Ghanaians speak to refer to anyone who isn't West African. Black Americans routinely get called oboruni, once it's understood that they are not from Africa. (It's often clear anyway because most of them are lighter than most Africans, and dress slightly more American, even though so many Ghanaians dress so American...I digreee.) Even light-skinned Ghanaians have said that they are often mistaken for oborunis.
There are an endless number of blogs written by international visitors to Ghana who discuss their personal reactions to being called an oboruni. Ghanaians uniformly deny that there is any racism in the word, and that they don't mean it in any derogatory way. It's just a word used to refer to white people, a description, a tag.
Yeah, whatever, Ghana. I've said it before, and I will keep saying it. You're wrong. It's offensive- I'm offended. I don't call you 'black person.' I call you by your name, and if I don't know it, I say 'Excuse me,' or I tap you.
Obibini is the Ghanaian word for black people, but I only know that from Twi class, not because anyone would ever call someone else an obibini in public. I guess you could argue that one wouldn't call out "Obibini!" to get someone's attention because everyone is black. But it doesn't matter- if there are one white student and one black student are trying together to get a cab, they will call "Oboruni." Because they want the white person to answer; because they want to mock ("Good-heartedly!") the white kids. Just because. People walking by just scream out "oboruni!" for absolutely no reason.
And it's one thing when it's the women in the markets, or the taxi drivers, or people who are either uneducated, or in a different generation, or just have literally never met a white person before. I don't like it, but I can try to understand.
Before our dance final, four of us were sitting on a bench outside the studio and one student wanted to shift over the bench. Everyone stood up, but I didn't notice what he was doing, so to get my attention, the girl tapped me and said, "Oboruni, stand up, please." This girl was not a stranger, we had been in class together all semester. Even if she didn't know my name, she could have tapped me and said the exact same sentence without saying oboruni.
The word 'oboruni' has a function to separate, to make people different, to say 'you are not like me.' And that's offensive in and of itself. To constantly remind someone who is not of your culture just how different they are is insulting and unnecessary, and as is pretty clear, it bothers me. A lot.
Monday, May 10, 2010
accountability, Denise
Conversation with the lady who works at the gas station store.
Me: Is there any more milk?
Her, looking over to where I’m pointing: No, we’re out.
Me: Is there going to be more?
Her: Maybe.
Me: Um. When?
Her: Maybe tomorrow. Maybe.
Me: Okay. Great. Thanks.
Conversation with the tro-tro mate on my way back from Shoprite.
The ride costs 20 pesewas. I had given him 50, and he gave me 20 change.
Me: You owe me 10 pesewas.
Him: I don’t have a 10 pesewas coin.
Me: So give me 20 pesewas.
*Laugh track of people on the bus*
2 minutes later, a woman gets on and pays in small coins.
I stick out my hand.
Me: You owe me money.
Him: I said I’m sorry.
Me: Oh, I forgive you, but you still owe me money.
*Laugh track*
He looks through his bag of coins and hands me 10 pesewas.
Me: Is there any more milk?
Her, looking over to where I’m pointing: No, we’re out.
Me: Is there going to be more?
Her: Maybe.
Me: Um. When?
Her: Maybe tomorrow. Maybe.
Me: Okay. Great. Thanks.
Conversation with the tro-tro mate on my way back from Shoprite.
The ride costs 20 pesewas. I had given him 50, and he gave me 20 change.
Me: You owe me 10 pesewas.
Him: I don’t have a 10 pesewas coin.
Me: So give me 20 pesewas.
*Laugh track of people on the bus*
2 minutes later, a woman gets on and pays in small coins.
I stick out my hand.
Me: You owe me money.
Him: I said I’m sorry.
Me: Oh, I forgive you, but you still owe me money.
*Laugh track*
He looks through his bag of coins and hands me 10 pesewas.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Three Days in Togo
Sorry for the delay, but the following is a quick account of our trip to Togo, Ghana's eastern neighbor. (Semi-written by Zahava, semi by Rivky. This is Rivky. Hi.) It was a completely crazy experience. It was all the ridiculousness of Ghana but in FRENCH! Surprisingly enough, our French skills (1) from Frisch did not come much in handy.
A couple of weeks ago, CIEE sent out an email to all of the students with a travel advisory not to go to Togo because they were holding elections. Because there was no major coup after the election, we figured our trip would be fine, but then two days before we left, we heard that the new president was being sworn in on Wednesday (our trip was Sunday to Tuesday) and that the opposition party had been rioting in Lome, the capitol city. We were told not to sleep in Lome until after Wednesday. On Sunday, when we got to the border, we were told that they actually pushed up the date, and the inauguration was going to be on Monday. Apparently, the government is trying to keep the rioters on their toes so they can't try anything. Fun how a country can just decide that.
When we got to the border of Ghana and Togo, it started raining. First we had to go to Ghana’s building to get checked out. We filled out a card (and will continue to fill out every time we enter or exit, about 4 times over this trip) called “Embarkation/Disembarkation Form” (as if that’s a word).
Crossing the border is so annoying and completely inefficient. Ridiculously enough, the Ghana side was actually more organized and more logical than the Togo side, and what's more is that in Togo, everything is in French. I know like it seems as if I'm harping on this, but we didn't realize how bad the language barrier would be until we actually got there. Most people didn't speak a word of English. The Togo side refused to help us for the first ten minutes we were standing there because it was raining. Eventually we got out and took “moto,” which was somewhere between a motorcycle and a motorbike, to the city center. They were awesome! I'm convinced that there is no better way to travel. We got dropped off around the market area and saw the capital monument. It was raining and Sunday so a lot of things were closed. We still got a feel for the city, but it would have been cooler if we had actually seen things. We had brought cookies and peanut butter, and in the market bought bananas. To take a break for a little bit, we sat under a building and had lunch. As we did, every single person there stared at us as if we came from Mars. From the way they were staring, it seemed as if they had never seen or never even heard of white people before.
We slept in Aflao, the border town, on Sunday night. It was beautiful; after a lovely dinner of tuna and crackers, we took a walk to the beach, where the waves were much stronger than in Accra. In Ghana, people always come up to white people to initiate conversation, just because they love the idea of speaking to such foreign people. In Togo, it's similar, but the language barrier quickly takes over and they walk away, which was pretty much a relief, actually.
We realized on Sunday night that we were going to run out of CFAs soon, but we decided against wasting time on Monday morning, and instead taking money out of an ATM once we got to Kpalime, where we would sleep, on Monday night. Readers, bad idea. I'll explain when we get to that part. So anyway, on Monday morning, we went back to Lome and took a tro-tro two hours north to the foot of Mt. Agou, the highest mountain in Togo. The drive was gorgeous, we were surrounded by beautiful scenery. Green everywhere! It seemed strange that so close to Ghana, a place so nature-y existed. Accra is dusty and dirty, and Togo was generally more similar to the Volta Region in the east of Ghana, lush and green.
At the bottom of the mountain, we tried to explain to the men working (2) there that we wanted to hike up the mountain and then take motorcycle cabs back down afterwards. Again, it obviously took 20 minutes to communicate that in French. We were dying of laughter the whole time, but luckily, the French-English dictionary we borrowed from our friend Dela came in handy. We looked up the word for “walk” (marcher). We pointed up and said “marcher.” Then we pointed down and said “moto.” Eventually they got it but were still advising against it, for unknown reasons. (3) The road up the mountain is 12 kilometers, but there is a more vertical hike through the bush, instead of on the road, which is both faster and prettier. Along the hike, there are small villages and lots of fruit trees. We were able to pick cocoa (4), mango, and guava. Fresh guava is awful, FYI. There were also hundreds of cocoa beans drying on the side of the road. We made it up halfway, and then we called some motorcycle cabs to take us the rest of the way up. When we got to the top, right before the peak, there was a man standing there in an Addis jersey saying that he was a soldier, and we need authorization to pass and it costs 2000 CFAs ($4). Clearly it was a bribe for no reason, but after yelling about bribery and the inappropriateness of the entire system, we paid our $4 and sat at the top for a little while. Almost ten guys followed us the whole way: our three drivers and a bunch of other guys who worked (5) there. They were being loud and rowdy and ruining our peaceful scene.
At the top of the mountain, we had lunch (cookies and peanut butter again). Then we left the mountain, and these three motorcyclists drove us to Kpalime, the town we were staying in. We wanted to stay there to visit the Cascades, which are a collection of waterfalls that are supposed to be beautiful. We had them drive us first to an ATM, but all three of the ATMs that they tried driving us to were broken. Eventually, we just had them drop us off at the hotel, assuming that the hotel would either take credit card or know where the nearest ATM is. Bad call on our part, because the hotel only took cash and the receptionist doesn’t know where an ATM is. Don’t forget that no one speaks English! (I know, I'm sorry I keep mentioning it, but it’s just important to keep in the back of your mind because that makes every situation so much funnier.) He told us not to worry about the ATM now; we’ll go to a bank in the morning and pay then. So we didn’t worry about it; we settled in a little. Then we went out at night to walk around the town, buying bananas and avocado. While trying to communicate with the avocado boy, a Nigerian guy came up to us and began to translate. (Nigeria is an English-speaking country, but he's lived in Togo in a while, so he was fluent in both languages. Sweet.) He ended up walking with us all over town. We explained that we needed an ATM, and he walked us to the one the motorcyclist had brought us to. It was still broken. We said that we were planning on going to the Cascades in the area tomorrow, and he said he would come with us because we need a guide. However, I was getting more and more anxious, working backwards in time. I had a final on Wednesday (went really well, thanks!) and didn't want to get back really late on Tuesday night, because obviously I had no clue when the exam was. We knew we also had to figure out how to get money in the morning, so we didn't want to risk taking the time to go to the Cascades. It was slightly disappointing, because the Cascades were a big reason why we came to Kpalime, but Mt. Agou was awesome, so it definitely wasn't a waste. He walked us back to the hotel, and we can had excellent dinner of, you guessed it, more tuna and crackers, took showers, played squinch for a little and watched CNN (the only channel in English) and fell asleep.
On Tuesday morning, Yamit and I woke up bright at early, telling a groggy Zahava at 8:45 that we were leaving and we would be back in about half an hour. We spent the next two hours wandering around Kpalime, and I don't think I exaggerate when I say that most people in the center of town were familiar with us and knew that we were broke Ghanaian exchange students. The ATMs weren't working, fine, but the language barrier was the worst part. We managed to find a sketchy money changer in the middle of the market, and we exchanged some cedis for CFAs, but we still didn't have enough to pay the hotel. When we got back, Yamit told the receptionist plainly that we couldn't pay the hotel, but obviously she had no clue what we were saying, so we just shrugged and went back to the room, where we woke Zahava up and the three of us sat to ponder our situation.
We pulled out all the CFAs (19,500) and cedis (25) that we had. The hotel cost 16,000, and we needed 6,000 for the motos to get to the border. We decided to go down to the receptionist, put 13,500 CFAs on the table and say, sorry that’s all we have and there is no working ATM in this entire freaking city. So that’s what we did. We promised to send her the money, and that this whole situation was completely unintentional, and we felt horrible, etc. Obviously, she didn't understand what we were even talking about, but then when she finally got it (probably around the time that Yamit opened her empty wallet), she sort of shrugged and took the 13,500 CFAs. What else could she do?She wrote down the phone number of the hotel on a piece of paper (unclear why she didn't write the address, so we could send her money, but I wasn't going to press), and we left. We got motos to the border. On the way, there were three checkpoint type things, even though we hadn’t yet left Togo. At one of the checkpoints, they made us go into this room and this guy wrote down our passport information, unclear why. Eventually we crossed the border and walked to the tro-tro station. And by tro-tro station, I mean a dirt paved parking lot with a tree in the corner that two tro-tros were parked under. We waited for the one going to Ho to fill up, which took about 30 minutes, but while waiting, we entertained ourselves by making friends with some guys who were trying on Yamit’s pink sunglasses and dancing to the music on my iPod. I think they were impressed by my West African hip hop collection, what can I say? I'm a music connoisseur. At Ho, we finally found an ATM, but obviously, it was the only ATM working in the whole city, so the line was about 15 people deep. Eventually we got on a tro-tro to Madina. Once we were on it, we decided we were gonna try for lunch, and as I opened my baf to take out the peanut butter, I realized that both the peanut butter and my deodorant had opened and were all over each other and everything else. It's actually kind of great, because we're always so gross here, with our disgusting clothing and hair flying everywhere, and, you know, deodorant in the peanut butter, and Ghanaian women are so much more classy than we are. They probably think Americans are pigs. So we spent a significant amount of time on the tro-tro and energy on the tro-tro trying to clean that up. (While the Ghanaians looked at us like we were insane.) When that was over, we had a lovely lunch of cookies (sans peanut butter).
And that's basically the full story! I left out a bunch of things that are too complicated for a written account, but this is the gist of the tale. If the internet were fast(er), I'd upload some great pictures, but for now, we must be content with words. Sorry, guys.
Oh, and 7 days until our flight home! If you're lucky, maybe Zahava or myself will write a post about feelings leaving Ghana. We'll see.
(1) Oh, internet sarcasm.
(2) More sarcasm!
(3) It's sad that this lack of communication cannot be blamed entirely on the French. There is a genuinely different way Americans and West Africans speak; their logic is different. It's hard to explain.
(4) Cocoa plant is delicious! We had it for the first time in the first week of Ghana, on a tiyul with our program, and it's amazing.
(5) Are you picking up on these yet?
A couple of weeks ago, CIEE sent out an email to all of the students with a travel advisory not to go to Togo because they were holding elections. Because there was no major coup after the election, we figured our trip would be fine, but then two days before we left, we heard that the new president was being sworn in on Wednesday (our trip was Sunday to Tuesday) and that the opposition party had been rioting in Lome, the capitol city. We were told not to sleep in Lome until after Wednesday. On Sunday, when we got to the border, we were told that they actually pushed up the date, and the inauguration was going to be on Monday. Apparently, the government is trying to keep the rioters on their toes so they can't try anything. Fun how a country can just decide that.
When we got to the border of Ghana and Togo, it started raining. First we had to go to Ghana’s building to get checked out. We filled out a card (and will continue to fill out every time we enter or exit, about 4 times over this trip) called “Embarkation/Disembarkation Form” (as if that’s a word).
Crossing the border is so annoying and completely inefficient. Ridiculously enough, the Ghana side was actually more organized and more logical than the Togo side, and what's more is that in Togo, everything is in French. I know like it seems as if I'm harping on this, but we didn't realize how bad the language barrier would be until we actually got there. Most people didn't speak a word of English. The Togo side refused to help us for the first ten minutes we were standing there because it was raining. Eventually we got out and took “moto,” which was somewhere between a motorcycle and a motorbike, to the city center. They were awesome! I'm convinced that there is no better way to travel. We got dropped off around the market area and saw the capital monument. It was raining and Sunday so a lot of things were closed. We still got a feel for the city, but it would have been cooler if we had actually seen things. We had brought cookies and peanut butter, and in the market bought bananas. To take a break for a little bit, we sat under a building and had lunch. As we did, every single person there stared at us as if we came from Mars. From the way they were staring, it seemed as if they had never seen or never even heard of white people before.
We slept in Aflao, the border town, on Sunday night. It was beautiful; after a lovely dinner of tuna and crackers, we took a walk to the beach, where the waves were much stronger than in Accra. In Ghana, people always come up to white people to initiate conversation, just because they love the idea of speaking to such foreign people. In Togo, it's similar, but the language barrier quickly takes over and they walk away, which was pretty much a relief, actually.
We realized on Sunday night that we were going to run out of CFAs soon, but we decided against wasting time on Monday morning, and instead taking money out of an ATM once we got to Kpalime, where we would sleep, on Monday night. Readers, bad idea. I'll explain when we get to that part. So anyway, on Monday morning, we went back to Lome and took a tro-tro two hours north to the foot of Mt. Agou, the highest mountain in Togo. The drive was gorgeous, we were surrounded by beautiful scenery. Green everywhere! It seemed strange that so close to Ghana, a place so nature-y existed. Accra is dusty and dirty, and Togo was generally more similar to the Volta Region in the east of Ghana, lush and green.
At the bottom of the mountain, we tried to explain to the men working (2) there that we wanted to hike up the mountain and then take motorcycle cabs back down afterwards. Again, it obviously took 20 minutes to communicate that in French. We were dying of laughter the whole time, but luckily, the French-English dictionary we borrowed from our friend Dela came in handy. We looked up the word for “walk” (marcher). We pointed up and said “marcher.” Then we pointed down and said “moto.” Eventually they got it but were still advising against it, for unknown reasons. (3) The road up the mountain is 12 kilometers, but there is a more vertical hike through the bush, instead of on the road, which is both faster and prettier. Along the hike, there are small villages and lots of fruit trees. We were able to pick cocoa (4), mango, and guava. Fresh guava is awful, FYI. There were also hundreds of cocoa beans drying on the side of the road. We made it up halfway, and then we called some motorcycle cabs to take us the rest of the way up. When we got to the top, right before the peak, there was a man standing there in an Addis jersey saying that he was a soldier, and we need authorization to pass and it costs 2000 CFAs ($4). Clearly it was a bribe for no reason, but after yelling about bribery and the inappropriateness of the entire system, we paid our $4 and sat at the top for a little while. Almost ten guys followed us the whole way: our three drivers and a bunch of other guys who worked (5) there. They were being loud and rowdy and ruining our peaceful scene.
At the top of the mountain, we had lunch (cookies and peanut butter again). Then we left the mountain, and these three motorcyclists drove us to Kpalime, the town we were staying in. We wanted to stay there to visit the Cascades, which are a collection of waterfalls that are supposed to be beautiful. We had them drive us first to an ATM, but all three of the ATMs that they tried driving us to were broken. Eventually, we just had them drop us off at the hotel, assuming that the hotel would either take credit card or know where the nearest ATM is. Bad call on our part, because the hotel only took cash and the receptionist doesn’t know where an ATM is. Don’t forget that no one speaks English! (I know, I'm sorry I keep mentioning it, but it’s just important to keep in the back of your mind because that makes every situation so much funnier.) He told us not to worry about the ATM now; we’ll go to a bank in the morning and pay then. So we didn’t worry about it; we settled in a little. Then we went out at night to walk around the town, buying bananas and avocado. While trying to communicate with the avocado boy, a Nigerian guy came up to us and began to translate. (Nigeria is an English-speaking country, but he's lived in Togo in a while, so he was fluent in both languages. Sweet.) He ended up walking with us all over town. We explained that we needed an ATM, and he walked us to the one the motorcyclist had brought us to. It was still broken. We said that we were planning on going to the Cascades in the area tomorrow, and he said he would come with us because we need a guide. However, I was getting more and more anxious, working backwards in time. I had a final on Wednesday (went really well, thanks!) and didn't want to get back really late on Tuesday night, because obviously I had no clue when the exam was. We knew we also had to figure out how to get money in the morning, so we didn't want to risk taking the time to go to the Cascades. It was slightly disappointing, because the Cascades were a big reason why we came to Kpalime, but Mt. Agou was awesome, so it definitely wasn't a waste. He walked us back to the hotel, and we can had excellent dinner of, you guessed it, more tuna and crackers, took showers, played squinch for a little and watched CNN (the only channel in English) and fell asleep.
On Tuesday morning, Yamit and I woke up bright at early, telling a groggy Zahava at 8:45 that we were leaving and we would be back in about half an hour. We spent the next two hours wandering around Kpalime, and I don't think I exaggerate when I say that most people in the center of town were familiar with us and knew that we were broke Ghanaian exchange students. The ATMs weren't working, fine, but the language barrier was the worst part. We managed to find a sketchy money changer in the middle of the market, and we exchanged some cedis for CFAs, but we still didn't have enough to pay the hotel. When we got back, Yamit told the receptionist plainly that we couldn't pay the hotel, but obviously she had no clue what we were saying, so we just shrugged and went back to the room, where we woke Zahava up and the three of us sat to ponder our situation.
We pulled out all the CFAs (19,500) and cedis (25) that we had. The hotel cost 16,000, and we needed 6,000 for the motos to get to the border. We decided to go down to the receptionist, put 13,500 CFAs on the table and say, sorry that’s all we have and there is no working ATM in this entire freaking city. So that’s what we did. We promised to send her the money, and that this whole situation was completely unintentional, and we felt horrible, etc. Obviously, she didn't understand what we were even talking about, but then when she finally got it (probably around the time that Yamit opened her empty wallet), she sort of shrugged and took the 13,500 CFAs. What else could she do?She wrote down the phone number of the hotel on a piece of paper (unclear why she didn't write the address, so we could send her money, but I wasn't going to press), and we left. We got motos to the border. On the way, there were three checkpoint type things, even though we hadn’t yet left Togo. At one of the checkpoints, they made us go into this room and this guy wrote down our passport information, unclear why. Eventually we crossed the border and walked to the tro-tro station. And by tro-tro station, I mean a dirt paved parking lot with a tree in the corner that two tro-tros were parked under. We waited for the one going to Ho to fill up, which took about 30 minutes, but while waiting, we entertained ourselves by making friends with some guys who were trying on Yamit’s pink sunglasses and dancing to the music on my iPod. I think they were impressed by my West African hip hop collection, what can I say? I'm a music connoisseur. At Ho, we finally found an ATM, but obviously, it was the only ATM working in the whole city, so the line was about 15 people deep. Eventually we got on a tro-tro to Madina. Once we were on it, we decided we were gonna try for lunch, and as I opened my baf to take out the peanut butter, I realized that both the peanut butter and my deodorant had opened and were all over each other and everything else. It's actually kind of great, because we're always so gross here, with our disgusting clothing and hair flying everywhere, and, you know, deodorant in the peanut butter, and Ghanaian women are so much more classy than we are. They probably think Americans are pigs. So we spent a significant amount of time on the tro-tro and energy on the tro-tro trying to clean that up. (While the Ghanaians looked at us like we were insane.) When that was over, we had a lovely lunch of cookies (sans peanut butter).
And that's basically the full story! I left out a bunch of things that are too complicated for a written account, but this is the gist of the tale. If the internet were fast(er), I'd upload some great pictures, but for now, we must be content with words. Sorry, guys.
Oh, and 7 days until our flight home! If you're lucky, maybe Zahava or myself will write a post about feelings leaving Ghana. We'll see.
(1) Oh, internet sarcasm.
(2) More sarcasm!
(3) It's sad that this lack of communication cannot be blamed entirely on the French. There is a genuinely different way Americans and West Africans speak; their logic is different. It's hard to explain.
(4) Cocoa plant is delicious! We had it for the first time in the first week of Ghana, on a tiyul with our program, and it's amazing.
(5) Are you picking up on these yet?
Our morning in the post office!
Because I have the most amazing friends in the world (1), Zahava and I set out on Thursday morning to pick up a package sent to me from New York. (2) I don't think I detailed our last visit to the post office, but to be concise, it took around three hours, my wallet was stolen, and I almost cried numerous time. By some miracle, on Thursday, we got to the post office at around 11:45, and less than 15 minutes later, the package was sitting in front of us!
Unlike in America, when you pick up a package, you can't just sign for it and walk out; you have to open the package in front of them and they charge you different amounts based on what is contained in the package. So Zahava and I opened it, revealing loads of candy, Purell, letters, disposable cameras (awesome!), a dance mix CD (guess if that was from Rachel or Peter?) and season 3 of The Office. (3) The woman looked inside and declared that I owed 10 cedis for this package.
I would have shrugged and paid the 10 cedis, but Zahava immediately started arguing that it was too much, so the woman offered to make us a chart explaining the cost. She had all these additional costs- VAT, health insurance (yes, for a package. Zahava and I were cracking up in front of her), etc. That added up to 6 cedis, and then she said that there was a blanket 3 cedi expense on all packages for transportation from the airport. Zahava started freaking out, "If I went to the airport, picked up a single package, and then took a cab straight here, it would be 3 cedis! Is that how the post office works? Do you guys not have a truck? How inefficient!" Obviously the post office workers were confused, and Zahava and I were cracking up. She asked how much we think transportation should cost, and I said that it shouldn't be more than 30 pesewas per package. She was loving us and our chutzpah; both women working with us were laughing and repeating what was going on (in Twi) to the other post office workers in a clear tone of 'sheesh, get a load of these white girls.' (4)
Bottom line, they agreed, and we ended up paying 6 cedis and 30 pesewas for the package. A satisfying morning, especially when we got to spend the tro tro back eating Mentos and taking pictures of ourselves with a disposable camera.
It just baffles the mind that we were able to convince the postal workers to lower the price of receiving a package by arguing with them. (Of course, it also baffles the mind that we have to pay to receive a package in any case, but that's neither here nor there.) In retrospect, the bureaucracy, like the experiences with the post office and the university, made our experience in the Ghanaian embassy before we came here make so much more sense.
(1) Hey Peter and Rachel!
(2) The package had gotten in a week earlier, but because of finals and Togo, my first free day was yesterday.
(3) Again, how much do my friends rock??
(4) I hear that tone a lot, especially when I'm with Zahava.
Unlike in America, when you pick up a package, you can't just sign for it and walk out; you have to open the package in front of them and they charge you different amounts based on what is contained in the package. So Zahava and I opened it, revealing loads of candy, Purell, letters, disposable cameras (awesome!), a dance mix CD (guess if that was from Rachel or Peter?) and season 3 of The Office. (3) The woman looked inside and declared that I owed 10 cedis for this package.
I would have shrugged and paid the 10 cedis, but Zahava immediately started arguing that it was too much, so the woman offered to make us a chart explaining the cost. She had all these additional costs- VAT, health insurance (yes, for a package. Zahava and I were cracking up in front of her), etc. That added up to 6 cedis, and then she said that there was a blanket 3 cedi expense on all packages for transportation from the airport. Zahava started freaking out, "If I went to the airport, picked up a single package, and then took a cab straight here, it would be 3 cedis! Is that how the post office works? Do you guys not have a truck? How inefficient!" Obviously the post office workers were confused, and Zahava and I were cracking up. She asked how much we think transportation should cost, and I said that it shouldn't be more than 30 pesewas per package. She was loving us and our chutzpah; both women working with us were laughing and repeating what was going on (in Twi) to the other post office workers in a clear tone of 'sheesh, get a load of these white girls.' (4)
Bottom line, they agreed, and we ended up paying 6 cedis and 30 pesewas for the package. A satisfying morning, especially when we got to spend the tro tro back eating Mentos and taking pictures of ourselves with a disposable camera.
It just baffles the mind that we were able to convince the postal workers to lower the price of receiving a package by arguing with them. (Of course, it also baffles the mind that we have to pay to receive a package in any case, but that's neither here nor there.) In retrospect, the bureaucracy, like the experiences with the post office and the university, made our experience in the Ghanaian embassy before we came here make so much more sense.
(1) Hey Peter and Rachel!
(2) The package had gotten in a week earlier, but because of finals and Togo, my first free day was yesterday.
(3) Again, how much do my friends rock??
(4) I hear that tone a lot, especially when I'm with Zahava.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Last Thursday's Tiyul to Shai Hills
Hey everyone, Rivky here. Wanted to tell everyone about our cool day on Thursday, visiting Shai Hills Forest Reserve.
Yamit really wanted to do something, so even though Zahava and I are lazy shlubs who didn't mind staying in Accra, we agreed to do a one-day trip, and it actually ended up being awesome. We decided to go to Shai Hills Forest Reserve, which is this huge park about 50 km from Accra. As expected by the name, Shai Hills is a reserve for wildlife and animals. The guidebook and one of the blogs we read beforehand said that we should wear sneakers, but I figured, it's a walk around a preserve, why can't I wear flip flops? Bad call on my part, but I'll get to that later.
We left Legon at 7:15 AM, and 3 tro-tros later (to 37 bus station, to Ashaiman bus station, and then to Doryumu), we were left off at the side of the road right in front of the entrance to the reserve. (1) We paid 11 cedi each (2) for a two hour hike and then set off with our guard, Timothy.
About 10 minutes into our walk, Timothy spotted our first baboons. We walked towards the baboons and they walked towards us, and Timothy encouraged us to attempt to feed them, though he warned us they might reject our food. We gave them crackers straight out of our hands- it was awesome. They literally walked over, reached into my hand, took out the cracker, and ate it. So amazing. We fed monkeys a couple of weeks ago, which was also a cool experience (we held bananas out to them and they peeled and ate them), but baboons are considerably more humanlike- for example, they walk instead of swinging on branches. I wish I could have taken pictures, but a stolen camera make that more difficult.
After we left the baboons, we kept walking around the reserve. We walked up to a watering hole, at which antelope and other animals drink, but none were there at the time. As we walked, Timothy gave us a little history of the cave we were going to be visiting, which was where a tribe had lived in the late 1800s, when they were hiding out. (From the Ashanti? From the British? Both? It was slightly hard to community with Timothy, though he was a really sweet guy. We gave him a Cliff Bar, that's how much we liked him.)
Eventually, we started climbing. We figured it would just be a short climb and then we'd enter the cave on ground level, like caves in Israel or America I've been to. Instead, it was an entire ordeal to get there; it's not that the hike was the toughest thing in the world, but it was definitely more challenging than anything I've done in a while. We got to the cave after about an hour, and it was rocky and dark, and smelled slightly like bats. It seemed like a tough place to live for years, but Zahava was pretty sure she would have loved it. Most of the hike was climbing through dirt and rocks and branches, but then the last 10 minutes was basically climbing up rocks. By this point, my flip flops were useless; they had zero traction as it is, and my feet were so sweaty that I slipped out of one trying to get from one rock to another. Timothy advised me to take them off and do it barefoot, which was a scary but weirdly cool experience. (4)
When we got to the top, we sat on the peak for a while and looked around. Accra, the capitol city, is not beautiful; it's a loud, crowded city, with a lot of garbage and pollution. One would never call it scenic. And though I haven't traveled too extensively, it seems pretty clear that Ghana is not known for being a gorgeous country. That doesn't mean I don't like living here- Teaneck isn't the most gorgeous place either, but I like it a lot for other things. I like Accra a lot. But from the top of this peak in the forest reserve, it really was nice. Relatively dry, with random spurts of trees. There was one long chain of trees, with Timothy attributed to water running in that direction.
The climb down was slightly difficult, and then the walk back was nice. We saw baboons again, and watched them for a while when we got back to the entrance. (5) We took two tro-tros to get back to Legon, and even though I was nervous about time and getting back after dark, we were back before 4, and because the water has been running much more regularly (6), we were all able to shower. No joke, that might have been the best part of the day.
(1) We were there by 10:30, which is actually a surprisingly short commute, considering how bad traffic is here.
(2) About $7ish.
(3) In my defense, keep in mind that I live in Teaneck, NJ, and now spend my college years in Baltimore. Neither are exactly the most intense hiking areas in the world.
(4) If I ever do the rock-climbing wall in the Hopkins gym, I want to do it barefoot!
(5) We sat and relaxed for a while. We also washed our feet in a spigot. Luxurious, no joke!
(6) A whole saga in and of itself.
Yamit really wanted to do something, so even though Zahava and I are lazy shlubs who didn't mind staying in Accra, we agreed to do a one-day trip, and it actually ended up being awesome. We decided to go to Shai Hills Forest Reserve, which is this huge park about 50 km from Accra. As expected by the name, Shai Hills is a reserve for wildlife and animals. The guidebook and one of the blogs we read beforehand said that we should wear sneakers, but I figured, it's a walk around a preserve, why can't I wear flip flops? Bad call on my part, but I'll get to that later.
We left Legon at 7:15 AM, and 3 tro-tros later (to 37 bus station, to Ashaiman bus station, and then to Doryumu), we were left off at the side of the road right in front of the entrance to the reserve. (1) We paid 11 cedi each (2) for a two hour hike and then set off with our guard, Timothy.
About 10 minutes into our walk, Timothy spotted our first baboons. We walked towards the baboons and they walked towards us, and Timothy encouraged us to attempt to feed them, though he warned us they might reject our food. We gave them crackers straight out of our hands- it was awesome. They literally walked over, reached into my hand, took out the cracker, and ate it. So amazing. We fed monkeys a couple of weeks ago, which was also a cool experience (we held bananas out to them and they peeled and ate them), but baboons are considerably more humanlike- for example, they walk instead of swinging on branches. I wish I could have taken pictures, but a stolen camera make that more difficult.
After we left the baboons, we kept walking around the reserve. We walked up to a watering hole, at which antelope and other animals drink, but none were there at the time. As we walked, Timothy gave us a little history of the cave we were going to be visiting, which was where a tribe had lived in the late 1800s, when they were hiding out. (From the Ashanti? From the British? Both? It was slightly hard to community with Timothy, though he was a really sweet guy. We gave him a Cliff Bar, that's how much we liked him.)
Eventually, we started climbing. We figured it would just be a short climb and then we'd enter the cave on ground level, like caves in Israel or America I've been to. Instead, it was an entire ordeal to get there; it's not that the hike was the toughest thing in the world, but it was definitely more challenging than anything I've done in a while. We got to the cave after about an hour, and it was rocky and dark, and smelled slightly like bats. It seemed like a tough place to live for years, but Zahava was pretty sure she would have loved it. Most of the hike was climbing through dirt and rocks and branches, but then the last 10 minutes was basically climbing up rocks. By this point, my flip flops were useless; they had zero traction as it is, and my feet were so sweaty that I slipped out of one trying to get from one rock to another. Timothy advised me to take them off and do it barefoot, which was a scary but weirdly cool experience. (4)
When we got to the top, we sat on the peak for a while and looked around. Accra, the capitol city, is not beautiful; it's a loud, crowded city, with a lot of garbage and pollution. One would never call it scenic. And though I haven't traveled too extensively, it seems pretty clear that Ghana is not known for being a gorgeous country. That doesn't mean I don't like living here- Teaneck isn't the most gorgeous place either, but I like it a lot for other things. I like Accra a lot. But from the top of this peak in the forest reserve, it really was nice. Relatively dry, with random spurts of trees. There was one long chain of trees, with Timothy attributed to water running in that direction.
The climb down was slightly difficult, and then the walk back was nice. We saw baboons again, and watched them for a while when we got back to the entrance. (5) We took two tro-tros to get back to Legon, and even though I was nervous about time and getting back after dark, we were back before 4, and because the water has been running much more regularly (6), we were all able to shower. No joke, that might have been the best part of the day.
(1) We were there by 10:30, which is actually a surprisingly short commute, considering how bad traffic is here.
(2) About $7ish.
(3) In my defense, keep in mind that I live in Teaneck, NJ, and now spend my college years in Baltimore. Neither are exactly the most intense hiking areas in the world.
(4) If I ever do the rock-climbing wall in the Hopkins gym, I want to do it barefoot!
(5) We sat and relaxed for a while. We also washed our feet in a spigot. Luxurious, no joke!
(6) A whole saga in and of itself.
Monday, April 26, 2010
obruni = money
Ghana works in extremes. If I could think better on my feet, I could give you a million examples of this, but this is the only story I can think of now.
Last Tuesday, Yamit, Rivky, and I were on our way back from Shoprite. We were waiting for a tro-tro for about 20 minutes, and we were getting antsy. A cab that already had three people was waiting for one more person. We decided to split up because it would probably be easier and quicker for us all to get back that way. Rivky had no money, so I pulled out my wallet, handed her 50 peswas (about 75 cents), and put my wallet back in my bag. As Rivky was getting into the cab, a random guy near us started yelling at Yamit, saying that Rivky shouldn’t get in. Then the cab driver started yelling at us not to trust this guy because he was a criminal. A second later, a nearly empty tro-tro pulls up. Rivky jumps out of the cab and says to us, “Let’s go. I’m not getting in the middle of this.” As the three of us try to squish onto the tro-tro, I look back at Rivky and say, “Keep an eye on my bag.” She kept her hand on it until we got inside. But it was too late. Before I said anything, the “criminal” had already taken my wallet. He had seen exactly where I put it back after I gave Rivky the 50 peswas, and he squished into the crowd as if he were trying to get onto the tro-tro. I noticed the second I got in, but there was nothing I could do. He was already gone. There was 20 cedis (about $30), my UGhana ID, my expired drivers license, my debit card, my credit card, pictures, a mincha/maariv booklet, and a few other insignificant things. I immediately called my mom, who immediately cancelled the cards.
I was really really upset. It wasn’t about the cash or the wallet or its contents. It was about being stolen from, specifically in Ghana. Almost all of the Americans on our program have already been stolen from, a blackberry, a laptop, a wallet, etc. It just leaves a sour taste towards Ghana. It associates Ghana with stealing. It just makes me feel more like it’s Ghana vs. the obrunis. No one is on our side. They don’t want us here. They’re all racist. They look at me, and they see money. I’m not a person; I’m a checkbook. I hate it. I can’t stand being referred to by my skin color, and I can’t stand being labeled.
(Side note: Rivky’s wallet was stolen out of her bag in the post office a few weeks before we went to Israel. She also called my mom right away, and the cards were cancelled. Luckily enough, my mom was able to send a new debit card with Rivky’s friend to Israel. For the few weeks in between, I would just take out money for the two of us and keep track of who was spending what. Now we’re going to do the same thing, but now with her money. When Rivky’s wallet was stolen, she also lost her UGhana ID, which we need for finals, which started today. We went last Monday to the registry, and they told us to come back Wednesday at 9am. That’s the only time they do IDs. It was the following day, Tuesday, that my wallet was stolen. Wednesday we both got new IDs, 10 cedis each.)
THEN! Just now, a girl on our program was sitting with us in our common room and was like, “Oh, Zahava, this is yours. A guy at the airport gave it to Bri,” (another girl on our program). She pulled out all the contents of my wallet, sans the wallet itself or the cash, and put it on the table. The truth is that nothing in the wallet is of any worth. I already got a new ID, the license is expired, and the rest is limitedly important.
This is the other extreme of Ghana. Yes, I am “Obruni” (“white person”). I am a walking checkbook to many. But to many it doesn’t matter. There is a genuine kindness to this culture. People walk us half an hour out of their way to make sure that we get somewhere safely. I am not surprised that somebody was walking around with the contents of my wallet, waiting to meet an obruni who knew a Zahava. It restores my faith in Ghana. It reminds me that for all the bad, there is so much good. There is so much sincerity.
Last Tuesday, Yamit, Rivky, and I were on our way back from Shoprite. We were waiting for a tro-tro for about 20 minutes, and we were getting antsy. A cab that already had three people was waiting for one more person. We decided to split up because it would probably be easier and quicker for us all to get back that way. Rivky had no money, so I pulled out my wallet, handed her 50 peswas (about 75 cents), and put my wallet back in my bag. As Rivky was getting into the cab, a random guy near us started yelling at Yamit, saying that Rivky shouldn’t get in. Then the cab driver started yelling at us not to trust this guy because he was a criminal. A second later, a nearly empty tro-tro pulls up. Rivky jumps out of the cab and says to us, “Let’s go. I’m not getting in the middle of this.” As the three of us try to squish onto the tro-tro, I look back at Rivky and say, “Keep an eye on my bag.” She kept her hand on it until we got inside. But it was too late. Before I said anything, the “criminal” had already taken my wallet. He had seen exactly where I put it back after I gave Rivky the 50 peswas, and he squished into the crowd as if he were trying to get onto the tro-tro. I noticed the second I got in, but there was nothing I could do. He was already gone. There was 20 cedis (about $30), my UGhana ID, my expired drivers license, my debit card, my credit card, pictures, a mincha/maariv booklet, and a few other insignificant things. I immediately called my mom, who immediately cancelled the cards.
I was really really upset. It wasn’t about the cash or the wallet or its contents. It was about being stolen from, specifically in Ghana. Almost all of the Americans on our program have already been stolen from, a blackberry, a laptop, a wallet, etc. It just leaves a sour taste towards Ghana. It associates Ghana with stealing. It just makes me feel more like it’s Ghana vs. the obrunis. No one is on our side. They don’t want us here. They’re all racist. They look at me, and they see money. I’m not a person; I’m a checkbook. I hate it. I can’t stand being referred to by my skin color, and I can’t stand being labeled.
(Side note: Rivky’s wallet was stolen out of her bag in the post office a few weeks before we went to Israel. She also called my mom right away, and the cards were cancelled. Luckily enough, my mom was able to send a new debit card with Rivky’s friend to Israel. For the few weeks in between, I would just take out money for the two of us and keep track of who was spending what. Now we’re going to do the same thing, but now with her money. When Rivky’s wallet was stolen, she also lost her UGhana ID, which we need for finals, which started today. We went last Monday to the registry, and they told us to come back Wednesday at 9am. That’s the only time they do IDs. It was the following day, Tuesday, that my wallet was stolen. Wednesday we both got new IDs, 10 cedis each.)
THEN! Just now, a girl on our program was sitting with us in our common room and was like, “Oh, Zahava, this is yours. A guy at the airport gave it to Bri,” (another girl on our program). She pulled out all the contents of my wallet, sans the wallet itself or the cash, and put it on the table. The truth is that nothing in the wallet is of any worth. I already got a new ID, the license is expired, and the rest is limitedly important.
This is the other extreme of Ghana. Yes, I am “Obruni” (“white person”). I am a walking checkbook to many. But to many it doesn’t matter. There is a genuine kindness to this culture. People walk us half an hour out of their way to make sure that we get somewhere safely. I am not surprised that somebody was walking around with the contents of my wallet, waiting to meet an obruni who knew a Zahava. It restores my faith in Ghana. It reminds me that for all the bad, there is so much good. There is so much sincerity.
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