GonetoGhanaNews

A Big Thank You to all the people who have supported the bakery project and the Garasie Women's group through their donations, fundraising, and moral and spiritual support! The funds have been raised to make it possible to build the bakery, thanks to your generosity. Thank you!

More than a year ago I walked into a bank with, judging by crowd reaction, two of the tallest and palest men ever seen in Ghana; my dad and brother needed to exchange money. My dad handed the manager a small handful of 20 dollar bills, and with all eyes following us we went to sit down and wait. After a while my dad was called up to the counter as the teller was struggling to push several huge bricks of bills through the hole in the glass. Seeing this, my dad loudly exclaimed, "oh my god!" Everyone (who wasn't already watching us) turned to watch as we tried to be as inconspicuous as possible pushing the bricks of money into our bags.
Starting 6 months ago, the ubiquitous radio/TV jingle told me, "July 2007, the Bank of Ghana is changing its currency… The value is the same." Posters on every building and bus announce the arrival of the new Ghana Cedi, "for faster and easier transactions." Now, instead of the usual 30 seconds it might take me to buy 3 eggs and a bag of oatmeal for 13,400 cedis (9,201 cedis = $1), I now take time to explain that the crisp, new, bright red 1 Ghana Cedi bill (repeatedly evoking nostalgia for fruit roll ups) is equal to 10,000 cedis,… only to realize that the only other bill I have is a 5 Ghana Cedi. After another short lesson in ratios, it is established between the kiosk owner and myself as equivalent to 50,000 cedis. At this point, I then have to wait for him to go around to all of his buddies and neighboring stores to show off his new piece of modernity while trying to find enough change for me and my enormous bill.
This of course will change with time as more people make the journey to the bank and more of the new Ghana Cedi goes into circulation. Similar to the US Dollar or Euro, under the 1 bill there are only coins (or pesawas). My prediction: instead of carrying around huge wads of bills, I will now have a big bag full of coins or prices will increase to compensate for extreme shortages of correct change.

U.S. funeral vs. Ghanaian funeral = NOT the same.
One of the first and most obvious cultural differences I observed when I came to Ghana was funeral traditions. While living at a home-stay in Techiman (a city in the south) for our 10 weeks of training, I would often lay awake at night cursing the music from a funeral near by, which was loud enough to shake my entire room. On more than one occasion, I walked out of my bedroom in the morning to find my host family all dressed in black and red, drinking and tripled in size because someone they were somehow related to had died. It seemed to me that Ghana had put the fun back in FUNeral (sorry I couldn't resist). Every weekend there was a different funeral, which the whole town attended to enjoy socializing, drinking, music, and dancing. Funerals in the north happen just as often and just as many people go but instead of DJs there are wooden xylophones and there is an added component of wailing.
A while ago the neighbors whom I have adopted as my family-away-from-family had a death in the family (Mama Filomina's mother). It was the first time I actually knew the person who had died. But in this case it was a very old woman, and therefore after the standard wailing and some lingering tears from close relatives there was dancing and singing. I remember coming home tired from dancing and covered in dust and sweat thinking it was one of the funnest days in Ghana yet. I was beginning to think funerals were always a party… until today.
The father of the captain of my volleyball team was buried today. As the tro-tro drove through the small village to the family's house, we must have past hundreds of people on bikes and motorcycles headed to the funeral. There were over 20 vehicles, hundreds of motorcycles, thousands of bikes, and over 5,000 people. I got down from the tro and nervously walked toward the funeral grounds suddenly aware of how much I stuck out and how unsure I was of the funeral traditions. I started to scan the crowd for a friend, as most of the volleyball team was there (the rest were at a different funeral on the other side of town), only to become more nervous with the realization that men and women do different things when entering a funeral.
Just then I spotted Prospera, one of the few other women who play volleyball, dressed in an awkwardly tight, shiny, black shirt with a matching long skirt and clothe wrapped around her waist, teetering over tree roots and rocks in obviously, borrowed high heels. I told her that I would follow her because I was still learning, "oh, but I can't lead you," she replied, "we must find a madam." She spotted a woman in her 50s dressed in all red informally leading a group of women over to the platform (a 6'x6'x6' wooden box with one open side stilted up with the base at about 8' high). Inside, the body, dressed in several layers of his best modern, western and traditional clothes, was propped up in a purple, faux velvet arm chair.
As we waded through the crowd toward the platform, the women all reached down to the knots tied in a corner of the fabric wrapped around their waists. I am instantly embarrassed that I have forgotten to bring coins (you'd think I would have learned by now!). Seeing the look of panic on my face as I searched every pocket, Prospera slipped some coins into my hand. We were now in the inner circle of the funeral surrounding the platform. Some of the women around me began to wail loudly, others remained silent and some already had tears streaking down their cheeks. I see Mama Filomina an arms length away; we make eye contact briefly but don't say anything returning our gaze to the corpse. (Am I supposed to greet in the inner circle?). Our group stands for awhile then moves toward the platform where we all throw coins up onto the platform. We now move back again and stand. We then start to circle around the platform (counter-clockwise). We pass by the men who are gathered around several large jile, wooden xylophones, and singing sad songs. We throw coins at the feet of one of the singers. Circling around again, we pass the widow who is wailing and weeping with several women surrounding her and holding ropes and long strips of cloth tied around her waist (to recognize her as a legitimate wife who has been dowryed). The widow is holding out her hands, the left hand supporting the right which is weighed down by hundreds of strips of cloth (showing that she is in the family of the deceased). We each press coins into her hands, and continue to circle.
I hear one voice projecting loud, raspy cries over the other wailing; Prospera hears it too. I am surprised to see that it is coming from a man with several strips of cloth on his right wrist, about my age maybe a little older. He is sobbing uncontrollably, something I have never seen a Ghanaian man do before. Prospera breaks out of the circle, grabs his shoulder, leads him to the edge and squats him down. I find this so odd that I wonder if maybe he is mentally disabled, but I remain silent, holding back all the questions. As Prospera joins my side again, I notice a woman leading another sobbing woman to the edge of the circle where she guides her down to a squatting position. (Are they being put on time-out for crying too loud? I later found out that this is how you consol a friend when you think their grief is too much and you will share it with them.) The woman sat down on the ground, her legs straight out in front of her. She wailed loudly with her cloth wrapped arm outstretched to the people passing by for a few minutes then got up and joined the people circling the platform until someone else pulled her aside and squatted her down.
As I continued circling around, I saw friends staring up in disbelief that the person in the platform was the friend, relative, neighbor they'd talked to not so long ago. (I was told he died of jaundice… Hepatitis?) He was a healthy 61 year old man with 6 children and several orphans living in his house. He retired last year, but has yet to collect his pension, and according to my friend, Justice, whose father died before collecting his pension when he was 2y.o, the family will never see even one pesawa of it. An old woman next to me began singing in old proverbial Dagaare that I didn't understand. The women around me answered back in sorrowful moans of agreement at how awful death is that it will come and take your family. I passed by two of the daughters, teenagers who will soon be of marrying age, with tears running down their faces, they wept loudly and shouted out, "why, Baba? Why?" I was on the verge of tears, and even though those around me were trying to cry to show their support, I hold them back very aware of how much I stick out and still unsure funeral customs. It was very strange to feel like I am a part of something, to have a sense of belonging while simultaneously feeling out of place. I couldn't walk ten feet without seeing another familiar, friendly face, but funerals hold so many elements of traditions that will never be mine, that I realize there are limits to how integrated I can be.
So, sad funerals do exist in Ghana… as I walked out through the smoky haze of fires from kosie (fried bean dough) sellers, pito (local millet beer) stands, and people only there to see something and drink because they can, because everyone is invited. I start to wonder if funerals in Ghana are usually sad, but I've just never been close enough to the inner circle to see it and understand it.

ALSO...
Check out the audio slideshow that the extremely talented Peter DiCampo (fellow Peace Corps Volunteer and boyfriend) has recently finished and put on his website. it lives here: http://peterdphoto.com/slideshow/The_Dry_Season/index.html . it's basically a journal in pictures of how his first four months at site went, including a lot of guinea worm, an elephantitis case, and a glimpse of life in a small village in Northern Ghana. check it out!! (he also apologizes in advance because he thinks volume is too low)

wow! that was a long one... maybe i should write more often.
peace,
jenell

Every week when the Garasie Women meet, I sit under our usual neem tree waiting for the members to arrive. Now that it's May and the rain has begun its slow but joyous return to the Upper West Region, Ester, the treasurer and usually first to arrive, and I search the sky hopefully for any sign of rain. We debate for a moment on the potential of a lone, inconspicuous, off-white cloud on the horizon, then laugh and agree, "biou" (tomorrow)… surely it will rain tomorrow. I'm like an impatient (American) child on Christmas Eve who fears that tomorrow may never come. My impatience for rain is fueled by selfish desires to escape the routine of hot, sweaty, and restless nights, the fun of playing with neighborhood kids in the rain, and the beautiful transition of dry, dusty and burnt to lush green landscape. Not to mention, the added bonus of farming season, meaning the young men will all be hard at work in the fields instead of looking for trouble around town. For the women of the Garasie group, however, the rain translates into the majority of their livelihood; without enough rain their yields of yam, corn, millet, peanuts, rice, or beans won't last their household through the year.

Many say we are fortunate to live in a town and not a village because there are opportunities to do more than just subsistence farming. Opportunities, however, are very limited and out of reach for most women of the Garasie Bakery Cooperative. That is why they came together and sought out help. They want to create opportunity for themselves. The funds raised for Garasie Women's Bakery will be used to build a bakery and buy equipment, but more importantly it will create employment for these women.

As I said earlier, a major reason I feel so strongly about raising funds for this project is because I personally know and believe these women deserve this. I wish there was a way for me to invoke those connections in all of you… so that every time you think of the "Garasie Women" you think of Elizabeth's hug, Ester's laugh, Rebecca's ability to grow 2 feet when speaking passionately about something, Winifred's extremely loud clap…. So here is my attempt to give you a glimpse at three of these women I have come to know so well.

Elizabeth has a huge smile and hug and is one of my best friends in Jirapa. She is the leader of the group and constantly uses her natural leadership as a Pentecostal pastor's wife to mentor disadvantaged women and girls. Elizabeth feels very passionately about empowering women and is constantly organizing events, such as skills workshops to give women the opportunity to be a part of the family income generation. It was at one of Elizabeth's skill workshops that the Garasie group met and the idea for a bakery originated.

Winifred, a tall, strong woman with a look about her that conjures up words like pioneer, is the president of the Garasie group. She is extremely hard working and often comes straight to meetings from farm work, as apparent by the rice hulls on her head scarf or soil on her thick callused hands. I believe it was because of her work ethic that Winifred was elected president. Winifred only completed elementary school and struggles with reading and writing, leaving her with very few employment opportunities as the sole provider for her 4 children since her husband's death several years ago.

Rebecca, a petite, eager women with an elfish grin, paler, freckled skin and hair tinted a slight orange (a common effect of vitamin deficiency), is the most organized and literate in the group and was therefore elected secretary. The only work she could find was as an elementary teacher in a small village school a 5 mile bike ride from her house. This is the only way she has been able to help her husband, Luke, the contractor who has volunteered to build our bakery, support their 4 children and her sister, who is mentally disabled, and her sister's 2 children who live in their 2 bedroom house.

Note: Jenell’s email ended here- though I don’t think her entry was entirely complete. I am sure she would have encouraged you to keep the bakery group in your thoughts and continue to think of ways to raise the money needed to make this bakery a reality. It is important the bakery money is raised and construction can begin while Jenell is still a Peace Corps volunteer in Jirapa (she is done in the end of Nov which means they need to start construction soon!) because she has the connections and history with these women that will make the next step of the project go smoothly. Thank you to those who have donated, and please think of what we all can do to help raise the remaining $6,000.00 quickly.
p.s. To contribute go to peacecorps.gov or here is a direct link to the webpage describing the project and links to donate
https://www.peacecorps.gov/resources/donors/contribute/projdetail.cfm?projdesc=641-225& (click on "contribute to this project, and follow directions to Enter the amount, Go to the bottom of the page, click continue and enter your credit card info)

In April, the peak of the hot season, my only consolation for sleepless nights and consuming heat rashes is mangos (all you can eat mangos for 20 cents), but this year I escaped from the heat in the cool mountain air of Himalayan India (and returned in time for all you can eat mangos for 50 cents). For two weeks I got to hang out with my college friend Courtney in Northern India where she's been living for the last 2 years.

India… India is amazing: the smells of curries, flowers, and incense (and lack of sanitation but that detracts from my over-romanticized description of "incredible India"), the people were very kind and I was really struck by the peaceful nature of the people, the women seemed so exotic and beautiful in their layers of colorful, flowing fabric accented with bangles, bindis, rings, anklets, and henna designs, and the food, wow, why can't we have food like that in Ghana?

When I was in the states for Christmas, someone asked me, "how has Peace Corps changed you?" At the time I was only able to think of little obvious things like becoming more patient, or just more understanding of people from different cultures, but I realize now that the ways my time in Ghana has affected me may not become apparent until years down the line. As I sat in Mussoorie's bazaar, the town Courtney's living in, I was amazed to find myself observing gender roles, water sources, family unit structure, sanitation practices, etc. I would go back to Courtney's house with all sorts of questions about family planning or sanitation. I guess, once a development worker, always a development worker? Many Americans traveling to India are struck by the poverty, but coming straight from rural West Africa, my view of poverty is a scaled one, meaning it's hard for me to just say someone is poor as I first did when I came to Ghana because almost everyone had less than my family. The poverty in India was different than in Ghana, up in the mountains harsher weather than Ghana forced the people to need more clothes, shoes, and sturdier houses and what I saw briefly of city poverty was that of over population with so many people existing together in such a small place. When Courtney and I went on a 3 day backpack farther north in the Himalayas up to a sacred lake (the birth place of Hindi god Ganesh), I would get really excited about there being power lines and water pipes in tiny villages you can only walk to.

But I didn't spend my whole trip observing social issues; I spent most of my time enjoying Courtney's company and in deep appreciation of the beautiful mountains that were spotted in blooming rhododendrons and the snow capped peaks in the distant. One of my favorite moments was when we got to the sacred lake, Dodital at 10,000ft, and just after we set up our tent it started to rain. We walked through the rain clouds over to the small house/shack next to the temple where 2 sadus (Hindu monks) had been living for 20 years. The sadus had invited us to chai, so the four of us huddled around the concrete fire pit in the middle of the floor sitting on cardboard on the floor loudly sipping our hot chai.
I had never felt as worldly as I did on the way back, 3 continents in one day: India for a very early breakfast, Italy for lunch and Ghana for dinner. One thing I drew from all this way how nice people are. I came back really feeling like people are all inherently friendly and helpful. In India, I took the train from the base of the mountains down to Delhi (about 10 hours with all the stops). I sat in the cheap seats and after a few failed attempts at communicating in English, I communicated with a few smiles and nods to the 2 families sitting around me for the first 6 hours. Then an uncle from the next compartment came over and the 2 girls who been watching me intently begged him to talk to me. We talked for a few minutes and I answered the long list of questions the girls had apparently been storing up should the chance arise for them to interrogate me. Although it turns out they could have interrogated me earlier as one of the girls spoke decent English once she became brave enough to use it. After this I was part of the family (who was on holiday from west Bangladesh). They insisted I try a bite of everything they bought from the vendors who would wander through our car when we stopped at a station and give them a full report of what I thought. Remembering Courtney's cautions of typhoid, this simple gesture made me feel quite daring. The girls continued asking me questions and sharing food while I asked them questions and shared my music, which made them my instant best friends. It was getting late (after 10pm) as we finally approached Delhi, the girls and I watched in awe as the huge city began to pass by our windows. We pulled into a station and a sign in English said "Delhi" so I stood up and grabbed my bags. "Oh, no," said the older girl, "this is Old Delhi you don't want to get down here." At this point it became obvious that I had no idea where I was going and this became an issue of the entire extended family. A debate on Delhi versus New Delhi station erupted around me. Pulling into the main Delhi station, I grabbed my things and went to ask someone in the station how far we were from the airport when the father, a short and serious looking man with silver framed glasses and a look of practicality about him, stopped me and spoke to me for the first time in broken English, "it not safe, take care." He got down with me and talked to a few people until he was certain that this is where I should be then went with me to get a taxi to the airport.
Later I when I was back in Ghana I was telling a Ghanaian friend, Rebecca, about how when my airplane stopped in Italy, I walked around and saw women with dogs in matching sweaters. Expecting to get a big reaction from a person I've seen eating dog. I was surprised when this part of my story didn't even phase her… she launched into a million questions on how and when I was able to secure a visa to Italy. I reluctantly broke the news that they gave it to me in the airport in about 5 seconds because I am an American. For a second, Rebecca actually looked wounded, then upset. We talked for awhile about issues of immigration, but in the end we were left with an issue of the world not being even a fraction as fair as I once thought it was. I began to think about how nice people were to me even when I didn't speak Italian when I asked for directions and the family on the train going out of their way for a stranger. If Rebecca had been in my place would she have been treated the same? How much of me seeing the world as full of nice people has to do with my blue eyes, blondish hair, and big smile?

For some cool pictures of my adventures with courtney in india check out the april 17th entry on Courtney's blog www.courtneyahumm.blogspot.com

It's the moment you've all been waiting for... the proposal to build a large bakery with my women's group is finished and has finally been approved by the Peace Corps Partnership Program. In years past, I've participated in raising money for different organizations and charities... and hated it. It felt so wrong to send out mass emails asking for money for large generic causes, but this is different. I have no problem writing all of you today because this is something I really believe in on a personal level. I know how every dollar you donate will be spent (and even the smallest donations will be helpful) and I really think that the end product can make a difference. By helping to buy equipment and build the Garasie (Dagaare, my local language, for grace) Women's Cooperative Bakery, we will be creating jobs which are difficult to find in the remote Upper West Region of Ghana, especially if you are a woman.

As a Health Volunteer I am constantly trying to find sustainable ways to fight reoccurring health issues, such as Malaria, Malnutrition, Infant Mortality, HIV, etc. The most sustainable way to permanently reduce the frequency of these problems and future health problems is to reduce the poverty level in the home. To ensure that the economic benefits of the bakery reach the entire family, we are working specifically with women.

My hope is that the initial group of 15 women and more women in the future will be empowered with their new skills and ability to contribute to the family income giving them more control over maintaining and improving the health and well being of the family. We get to start building as soon as all the funds have been raised, and with only 9 months left of my service. So, my hope is that this money can be raised quickly so I can bake bread along side them before I return to the states.

How to donate money to the Garasie Women's Cooperative Bakery: go to http://www.peacecoprs.gov Then go to Donate Now linkgo to Volunteer Projects. Scroll down to Ghana. Scroll to Women's Co-op Bakery, J Stewart (project number 641225) enter amount of donation and scroll to bottom of page and click continue. Enter credit card information. Forward this message to 7 people in the next 24 hours and all your dreams will come true. Just kidding, but seriously if you know of anyone who might be interested in helping my women's group spread the word.

Thank you for all your support. Jenell Stewart

p.s. from Lisa: here is a direct link to the webpage describing the project. http://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.projdetail&projdesc=641-225
Then follow the rest of Jenell’s directions (Enter the amount, Go to the bottom of the page, click continue and enter your credit card info)

Hi folks!
I just talked to Jenell yesterday and she told me some GREAT news! The women's group bakery project she has been working on since she first came to Jirapa was finally APPROVED by the Peace Corps! This means that she and the women's group have done all of the groundwork and jumped through all of the hoops (both in Ghana and in the Peace Corps) to get to the point where the Peace Corps will accept donations on their website for the project.

Once the funds are raised ($10,000 in donations), then Jenell and the women can actually start to build the bakery! They have all worked so hard to get to this point and are excited to continue working toward the goal of a co-operatively owned and run bakery to bring in extra income for these women and their families. If you are able to contribute- through a monetary donation or by spreading the word!- please help Jenell and the Grasie Women's Group raise the funds needed to move on to the building phase.

Where can you find out more and donate? on the peace corps website there is a "donors" link where projects are listed by country. You will see Jenell's there listed under Ghana. For a direct link go to http://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.projdetail&projdesc=641-225

Jenell has limited access to internet right now, but if you have questions you can try to email her or put a comment up on this blog and I will try to get a response posted as soon as I am able to get an answer.

Let's pull together to meet the $10,000.00 donation goal quickly!
Lisa H. Stewart

If I didn't live in rural West Africa and the only internet cafe in the Upper West region hadn't been closed the last 2 months, I would feel really bad for leaving everybody out of the loop for so long. Well....actually, I do feel guilty (I am part Minnesota Lutheran after all). Last month, I traveled a full day over to the next region to use internet. I took care of peace corps stuff then sat down and wrote a long 45 minute email only to sit and wait another 10 minutes for it not to send and be deleted.... oh, the developing world.
Ok, enough excuses. How do I sum up all the ridiculousness and stories since November?!?
'merica was a strange and magical place filled with private cars, washing machines, free refills and choices.... so many options for everything! I could barely buy a pack of gum in under 15 minutes because I was overwhelmed by whether I wanted fruity, minty, bubbles, whitening, etc. then once I decided that mint was what I really "needed" I was stuck at another boggling crossroads of cool ice, arctic breeze, winter fresh, or glacier freeze. what's the difference anyway? all that and for the same money and time spent I could have bought and eaten lunch for me and a friend in Ghana. Despite all the oddities of american culture that were suddenly very apparent, it was really good to go home and see so many of the people I've missed so much in the last year and a half, but even all the big hugs, bowls of cereal and sushi were not enough to keep me there (yet). My projects are going really well and I was really excited to get back and keep things rolling. I feel like my time here is growing short and I have so much left to do... most days :D. Overall, I am very happy with living in Jirapa and being a Peace Corps volunteer, but saying "overall" glosses over a lot of the rollar coaster ride that is peace corps. Meaning my life (like so many other volunteers) seems to be in a constant back and forth between intense highs and lows... with a few indefinable and truly ridiculous situations thrown in the mix....

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to See a Hippo
A few times each year all the volunteers from each region get together for a meeting to talk about what's happening and to touch base on any issues and up coming events in the region. In January all 3 of the northern regions decided to meet at the same time at the Hippo Sanctuary in the Upper West region, just outside Wa.
There were 6 of us volunteers leaving the station at the same time. We piled into the trotro, which, like all tro's should, was parked in direct sunlight, and waited for it to fill. Only 4 Ghanaians had joined the tro when the driver came, started the lorry and began to pull out of the station. "Sweet!" I said to the volunteer next to me, "Maybe we're picking some people up on the way." We sped down the road dodging potholes, goats, and pedestrians... we sped right past our turn. When questioned, the driver said he wanted to pick up his junior brother at the hospital. "Oh, no problem," we said. We drove right past all the recently released patients at the gate onto hospital grounds. "My brother is not fine," the driver responded to questioning glances. "Oh, sorry, sorry," we chimed in, then returned to our conversations. The driver stopped the tro, got out then opened the back to make room for his junior brother. "He has gone with God," the driver casually announced. our conversations continued on for a second then stopped suddenly when the words sunk in. "WHAT?!? Did he just say what I thought he said?" We stared at each other in disbelief as we realized that we were now parked in front of the hospital morgue. We sat there in front of that morgue waiting, as bodies were being rolled in and out, trying to prepare ourselves for a tro ride into the bush sitting next to a dead body. Was it funny? sad? gross? or just ridiculous? What do you think about while you are parked in front of a morgue for hours waiting for a body to be loaded into the sit next to you. Meanwhile the driver was trying to track down the doctor who had forgotten to declare the junior brother dead before he left for the weekend. We waited 3 hours until we gave up and walked back to the tro station. At which point I was almost disappointed to be robbed of this truly ridiculous experience we had been waiting for.

And now I fast foward to last week...
Last week was intense. An intense peace corps rollar coaster ride. A lot of it was the usual little stuff, but it all seemed to pile up last week. I want to say that it was stressful, but it's such a completely different stress from American stress. I get 8 to 10 hours of sleep every night, I take my sweet time eating breakfast and reading before "work" everyday, and often a portion of my "work" is hanging out under a mango tree talking to people. So I feel a little funny telling a bunch of people living in america about how incredibly exhausting it is sometimes. I think it's things like the little comments that let me know that men do not respect me because I'm a woman, that make something simple like sitting under a tree and talking exhausting. At times I feel like I'm fighting an entire culture on this issue, but other times I feel completely defeated because I know that it's not worth it to fight every comment all the time if I want to be integrated and productive.
Here the hierarchy is firmly in place without much room for change. The man is always and always will be the head of the house. He makes the decisions. He is the only one who is supposed to say when he did something wrong. A man can beat his wife, but if a woman beats a man, he can divorce her and take everything including the children. At this moment I'm worked up about it, but compared to other countries and compared to how it used to be women in Ghana are making progress and there are many very strong women in this country. But in my eyes it's still unacceptable. Ever since I knew there was a difference between boys and girls, it was common knowledge to me that they were equal: that girls could do anything boys could just as well, if not better. It was probably this attitude which made me the target of lunchtime pranks by the boys early in high school, but those days are long in the past. Right? Often the men I encounter while walking down the street remind me of groups of 15 year old boys hanging out with no moms around and with no work to do. They are left just hanging out and looking for ways to entertain themselves.... just looking for trouble. (of course, this does not represent all men in Ghana or in Jirapa... many are busy working or are even helping out in the house... although not common)
At certain times of the day, dusk for example, all the women are busy in the house, so if I walk down the street I usually only pass men who are just sitting around with their buddies waiting for their dinner to be done at home. Unfortunately, I am often the target of their attention. I have learned clever ways of fielding the usual comments of "I love you," "hey, my wife," "take me as your boyfriend, if your husband is not here," "I want you," "I will come visit you tonight," "you are looking fresh," and then all it takes is for someone to say, "you are too beautiful," and it will piss me off so badly. If I'm not in the mood to be clever or funny, every other guy I pass is likely to get a lecture on respect... talk about exhausting. I think the most frustrating thing is how accepted it is. Older men talk to school girls like this all the time. Most girls deal with it when they are younger, so they just laugh at me when I get upset about the way men act. But then there are times where I get attention beyond what most get because I stick out so much... like the guy at market last week who told me I needed a black man and tried to show me his "more horsepower." If this happened to a Ghanaian wife the husband would go and beat him. I know that school girls sometimes encounter similar behavior but rarely stick up for themselves. The social hierarchy is a strong system in which older men are much much higher than a school girl even despite their actions, and therefore girls don't feel like they can say "no." The good news is that despite my frustrations, I have hope. The volleyball team (all single men 15 to 30) respect me so much more than when I first came a year ago. They wouldn't dare harass me and are now becoming aware of sexist remarks they make.

Update on Linda and People Living With HIV/AIDS (PLWHA) group
There is only one member of the PLWHA group who is literate. That is Linda, and she is leaving to continue her school and do something for herself. I am proud of her, but at the same time the group feels helpless. At the meeting the other day we all weighed in to clap for those who are maintaining their weight. I got a huge clap at 70kg (that's 154lb = my high school weight) because I weighed DOUBLE most the group. Linda is "healthy" at 50kg. They need drugs. the drugs are in our region now for about $10 a month for drugs, transport and travel food. They are struggling to raise the money doing the soap making I helped teach them because they are being taken advantage of by others who exploit them and are too weak to work hard. I am hopeful this will be somehow resolved before I go.

I'm afraid if I write anymore, no one will read it because this is so long!! I will save some of my fun stories... I have more than just frustrations... for next time.
peace,
jenell

Where to begin…

I am always so intimidated to sit down and try to put to words to everything that's happening here that I often put it off thinking the perfect story will come along to better describe life as I know it. Instead I write to you now with the motivation of relaying the latest before I visit good ol' 'merica, where I will find family, friends, pieces of meat the size of my head, machines that wash my clothes, hot showers and frozen boogers. It's been 15 months since I was last in the US. Will I see it the same way? I hear stories of volunteers coming home and crying at the sight of drinking fountains and grocery stores. Will I be home long enough to let the difference in perspective and reverse culture shock sink in? Maybe I can save the major cultural readjustments for my final trip home next year. I'm kind of hoping that I can take note of differences but focus my time on the people I've missed, namely ben and jerry :D. With less than 2 weeks until I'll be there, I thought it safe to finally resurrect my Shawn Colvin Christmas music and all the pictures of family that made me cry so hard this time last year because they only represented an absence in my life. I can proudly report not a tear was shed this year, but only big smiles at how fortunate I am for everything/everyone I have waiting for me at home and how far I've come. Ok, enough about that. The latest from Ghana….

STRIKE!

Teachers on Strike:
Late last September as the rainy season came to an end and harvest began, students began to mend and iron their uniforms for a new school year. Teachers, frustrated with a pay of approximately $70 a month (I receive $150 a month to support one person at the local level), organized a nationwide strike. It wasn't until a few weeks ago that the government ordered the teachers to return to the classroom. So, by order of law the teachers went back to the school; however, many of the teachers are only sitting in the classroom refusing to teach until they see evidence of the pay increase the government talks about. This week is exam week and students everywhere are being tested on material they've never been taught. Ahhhh! Those poor kids! It's quite possible that the entire nation, or at least students where I live, might be held back a year.

We're all on Strike:
Everyone was so caught up in the strike that it seemed to create a strike fever. One day I was in the market and I came across a group of women yelling angrily. It seemed too big to be the usual dispute about how much a bowl of beans costs, so like a typical Ghanaian I went over to join in the argument because here everything is your business. One of the women turned to me and started yelling at me. Months ago this would have scared me and set me running home, but now I recognize it as the local arguing style. Because everyone around is involved in your argument, you never argue one-on-one with someone but instead try to win the masses over onto your side. It is very rare to see an argument in a public where the 2 main people are actually making eye contact and yelling at each other. After this long explanation of arguing, you're probably dying to know what they were arguing about… The grinding mills were on strike. One woman wanted her maize ground into flour, but the woman operating the mill refused to grind it because the grinding mills were on strike to raise their prices. This is totally ridiculous because grinding mills are privately owned and in-charge of setting their own prices. But the teachers were doing it and the nurses did it in June, so why not?

Strike is on everyone's mind. My friend, Justice, and I were standing on the main road when 20 motorcyclists wearing green with red bandanas rode into town blasting their horns. Maybe they're on their way to Sturgis, I thought. Two huge trucks full of yelling people in similar attire followed. They looked a lot like the latest pictures in my Newsweek of militia groups in Congo (sans guns). Luckily, I live in a very peaceful place and don't have to worry that these yelling people with red bandanas might be coming into town to start a war. But what were they doing? Another strike of course. Justice told me that they were from the Agriculture office and were protesting their wages. A good guess these days, but as it turns out it was a funeral. Someone from their office had died and they were mourning.

Immune System on Strike:
I can't believe I haven't written about the group of people living with HIV/AIDS that I've been working with since September. In the Jirapa area there are 56 people who know that they are HIV positive. An anonymous test of blood samples taken from pregnant women who gave birth (in the hospital… keep in mind that the less educated and more susceptible often give birth at home) last year showed 31 who tested positive for HIV but the hospital only has records of 3 women who knew they were positive. This leads me to believe that many more are positive but are unaware of their status.
I'd been trying to meet with the group at a monthly meeting since I came, but was informed that I wasn't welcome to come and stare, take pictures, and make empty promises like so many before me. They said if I wanted to help I was welcome to come when I had something to offer them. Months later a soap and beauty product-making workshop was organized with much work and collaboration between several organizations. A core group of 25 was at the week long workshop… by the end of the week, I had 25 new friends in town. They are a fantastic group, and I am so glad they decided to open their arms to me. Really I learn more from them than they learn from me. Of course there are the usual frustrations with trying to organize meeting times, etc. especially now that the season has changed to Harmattan (the time of year when the cool, sandy winds blow down from the Sahara) and the extreme dryness and cold (by cold I mean 65-75… brrr. I'm going to die in Minnesota) that has given many of us colds and sinus infections has put most of my group in the hospital. I could tell sad stories or I could gush for hours about their positive attitudes and tell fun stories, but I'll save all that for another time.
Aside from Agnus, a one year old with a constant smile sandwiched between two chubby cheeks, my closest friend in the group is Linda. Linda is in her 20's and speaks English. Like most of the group the story leading her to being in the group is very interesting, but this email is getting way too long, so I will leave you instead with the story of my first visit out to Linda's house (her village is a 40 minute bike ride away):

I found her house and was immediately invited to eat. I can't really walk more than 20 ft without being offered a ball of carbohydrate in this country. Carbohydrate of the day: a big pot of boiled wheat. Linda gave up her chair for me and sat on a small stool in between her niece, who was squatting with one eye on the boiled wheat in her right hand and the other very curious eye following my every move, and her senior mother (her father had 2 wives), who was sitting on the ground with her legs stretched out in front of her. The old woman laughed and laughed with shock and amusement as I spoke Dagaare in between handfuls of wheat. (I'll never get over how Americans expect foreigners to know everything and Ghanaians expect Americans to know nothing.) After a lot of explaining and gesturing, I figured out that this was not Linda's birth mother, who was out in the field. Linda jumped up and came back with her bicycle and an eager grin giving the impression that she intended to show me everything. After greeting most of her village, we headed out of town.
I followed Linda down the red dirt road. Now out of hearing range from friends, family, and neighbors who might chase her out of town, we could talk freely about her HIV and recovery from TB. She stopped at a random spot on the road and turned into the bush. I followed closely behind talking to the back of her head which was done up in very modern, multi-colored, plastic curlers. The morning light streamed over the top of the grass and in between the occasional shea, mango, and guava tree. We laughed and talked as we rode along an unseen path through shoulder high elephant grass that softly swept past my arms and legs as it swung back in a sea of pale green grass with purple, feathery tops which Linda parted with ease. [a very surreal, i-live-in-africa moment]. I continued to follow blindly, deep in conversation for several minutes until we came to her family's field. Three women and about five kids sat under the three small trees in their field. Linda's mother, whom they called junior mother, offered up her overturned basin for me to sit on. So, there I sat plucking soil covered peanuts from their plants and tossing them into a woven basket talking as much as I could with Linda's mother. After a few minutes we heard some distant thunder, and we all gathered to look at the rain clouds on the horizon and decided that I should ride home so I wouldn't get caught in the rain. As I got up to leave, Linda emptied one of the woven baskets of groundnuts (that's what we call peanuts here) into my shoulder bag… which I continued to find for days afterward….

NOTE1: This is where Jenell's email ended, so I'm not sure if there was more or she just forgot to sign her name?
NOTE2: Happy Birthday (on Dec 10) Jenell!

WATER IS LIFE!
It’s raining hard against the zinc roof and when the wind blows water comes through the open windows. I revel in the cool breeze. I prayed so hard for this feeling back in April when it was so hot you’d stop peeing because you sweat all day, but you wouldn’t even realize you were sweating because it was so dry the sweat would evaporate instantly. (Does that sound like something my future grandkids will hear, or what? “Back when I was in Africa…” )

“We are blessed,” my friend Issah exclaimed, “last year, this time all the earth was dry and dead.” He shook his head and made clucking noises at the thought of it. I wonder what Maa Kuma, a woman in my neighborhood I know only as “grandmother”, would say about today’s rains. Last week she told me that Burkina Faso has a machine that controls the clouds and keeps them from crossing over into Ghana, and that is why while we don’t have as much rain as we used to, Burkina Faso continues to have green fields and gardens. (Inside Info: Unlike Ghana, Burkina Faso has irrigation systems) Just like the discussions of the elders at The Rapids diner in Pelican Rapids it seems the weather is always much better or much worse than last year… never the same… that would kill half the conversation.

I am thankful I noticed the dark clouds on the horizon when I left my house this morning and remembered to put out all my buckets to collect rain water. One less trip to borehole, I think to myself as I listen to the rain beat down on my roof. About a month ago the water that used to run freely from 6am to 6:30am almost every morning stopped. No public service announcement or notice on my door, nothing. I no longer have the luxury of running a hose into my house to effortlessly fill my tank. I now go and sit at the borehole until it is my turn to pump until my triceps burn while children laugh and cheer and the women stare and suck the air in between their teeth in approval. However, unlike these women, I bring a 5 gallon bucket to fill, the size appropriate for a 10 y.o. girl. They help me lift it to my head and I walk back to my house in a line of women steadily balancing 12 gallon basins on their heads. Between my 10 gallons and the 24 gallons carried by Eulalia, I now had an additional 34 gallons of clean water to my name! I immediately took a bucket bath (1 whole gallon). Then, I made breakfast and did dishes (another gallon). Then it was time for laundry (a painful 6 gallons). 8 gallons gone just like that… that’s another two trips to the borehole for Nansaapo, white lady…errr… small girl.

Realizations:
1) Why most everyone is shorter than me: it is way easier to carry water when you don’t have to squat down under every branch and doorway.
2) Why people can sleep on a hard bench near a noisy road: if I worked that hard all the time I could probably sleep anywhere too.
3) Why more women don’t play volleyball in the afternoons: even the ones who are excused from pounding fufu, grinding peppe, and stirring TZ never come because they must be exhausted from working so hard.

Last Saturday I went running, fetched water twice, hand washed clothes for a few hours, and cooked for myself…. And I was done. No volleyball that day. After completing the workload of a small girl, I was ready for bed. Mama Filomina laughed that night as I rubbed my stiff neck and shoulders with my left hand while I ground the okra. [if you grind with your left, it will be spoiled]. She had fetched water 10 times that day. Plus, because of borehole politics she has to fetch from a borehole twice as far. Borehole subculture is fascinating; even though I look forward to the new water system coming some time next year (God willing), I am thankful for the excuse to be a part of and observe life at the borehole. I’m still trying to figure it out…. So more later.

A FEW INCHES FROM POWER.
Starting last month, all of Ghana is rationing electricity. Power in Ghana comes from the dam on Lake Volta (the largest man made lake in the world), but the water level is low and therefore the dam is not generating enough electricity for everyone. To solve this problem, the whole country is divided up into small sections which rotate “lights out”… every other day the power goes out from either 6am to 6pm or vice versa. It’s really not that big of a deal… now, but what happens when rainy season ends and the water drops even more. And that is when the temperature sky rockets and I’ll really want my ceiling fan to work. It seems, however, that in a culture of taking things day by day, or “one, one” I’m the only thinking that far ahead. Silly white lady.

CLARIFICATION:
Even months after Lisa’s visit I am still explaining to people that, “no, I am not having a twin sister.” But how is it possible that two women with such pale color, loud voices and long legs did not come from the same egg? The kids in my neighborhood have no problem pointing out “Mama Lisa, Mama Lisa!!” in all the pictures on my wall. They even beg and plead to take “just one” home with them.

From Lisa: I added the pictures below to give you some visuals that relate to Jenell's email. By the way, I'm sure I am much happier than Jenell that people seem to think we are twins :-)

The "twins"? Lisa and Jenell at the beach in Ghana in August 06


Maa Kuma (the neighborhood "Grandmother" Jenell was refering to). Note the "dimple" in her upper lip from an old custom where they put a stick through their lip when they were younger. I only saw this on older people for some reason....