On suckage, part II
[Note; I actually had a really great weekend between my last entry and this one. Fear not for my tenuous emotional state, loved ones! I’ll return to carebear-and-rainbow mode shortly.]
I often get asked, by strangers and acquaintances alike, for things. It comes with the territory of being white and foreign; from the “rich Obruni” stereotype. The history of missionaries in this country does not help koraaa (”at alllll”). Being asked “what mission are you from?” and “what will you give us?” in the same breath is not altogether uncommon.
Two days ago at market a random woman told me to bring her a drink. I say “told” instead of asked, because the phrasing translated to “you [will] bring me a Pure Water”, and as a Twi statement there was no danger of having heard misspoken English “would you bring me a Pure Water?” “Pure Water” refers to the 500ml plastic sachets that cost .05ghc, or “5 t’ousand” - about $0.05, so hardly an imposition. It was the principle of the matter that offended my precious senses (that, and the fact that I was tired and hot, and would’ve like a Pure Water myself, had I the spare change left in my pocket).
It’s a terrible reality on many levels: my emotions alternate between frustration and helplessness. There are times when I wish I could give whatever is being asked, but there are many many more times when I’m simply astounded by the shameless audacity of the begging. There’s an ingrained sense of entitlement that seems a part of learned culture, from early childhood on, and which serves to hold back so. much. development and progress. This is
read onSometimes my job sucks
I know I haven’t written in a while, and I know I owe at least 3 people emails. As they say around here: Sorry, sorry-o. I’ll catch up eventually — but not tomorrow. I learned today that tomorrow I’m “expected” to attend a funeral with the teaching staff (or rather, the percentage of teaching staff who deign to show up, unfortunately I live on campus so can’t escape): which, for the uninitiated, means leaving campus at 7am and returning sometime after dark. The hours in between will be spent sitting under outdoor awnings with hundreds of strangers, watching everyone around me become gradually more intoxicated, and slowly losing my hearing due to the constant (and max-volume’d) music. Funerals are social events with direct bearing on community status; very little mourning is actually done. They commonly take place weeks, even months after the deceased’s passing; the celebration itself is supposed to last 40 days.
If that came across as somehow more bitter than the average Sara, sorry-o. There’s been a lot of minutae piling on this week, and I’m somewhat upset about losing my “Saturday Beach Ritual” to a funeral. Oh well. Day-after-tomorrow’s another week, right?!
The only other thing I want to vent share is probably the most disheartening of this week’s “pile”. A few days ago, as I closed class for the day I ran into the other ICT teacher. I’d spent the week teaching classes the meaning of “Data Representation,” complete with the tiniest introduction to Base2 math and Binary numbers. The majority of the students were able to grasp the concept, but relating a pile of boring theory to the “Real World” of
