Tuesday, November 06, 2007
The Value is NOT the Same (email from Jenell July 17, 2007)
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
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
