Monday, December 11, 2006
STRIKE! email from Jenell Dec 11, 2006
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!
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!
