November 16, 2008 at 12:07 pm · Filed under Stuff
[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 not only me venting my culturally-biased, inherently negative worldview - it’s a statement I hear made often by Ghanaian friends (my housemate being foremost among them).
Aside from being frustrating, this phenomenon is also detrimental to my ability to do my job here. Many, if not most, of my faculty coworkers have yet to take me seriously as a teacher. A lot of it is based on stereotypical descriptors (foreign/white/single/female, amusing oddity), but there is also the misconception regarding why I’m here: I’m seen not so much as a teacher (to say nothing of “3 goal-oriented PCV”), but as potential windfall facilitator. I’ve been on staff at this school since August, and already the novelty of my appearance is fading: I’ve been faced with confusion, even subversive hostility, based in large part on the “why haven’t you bought us new computers yet?!” question.
Last week, during the same afternoon that led to my previous blog entry, I had an interesting encounter with a teaching colleague. We were discussing the computer situation, and I was relating my excitement at finding so many “extra” computers. The resulting exchange upset me so much I copied it down a few minutes later (”Ghana English” and all), ostensibly ‘taking notes’ during the staff meeting.
Him: But why don’t you just buy new computers?
Me: (trying to joke it off) Oh, I’m too poor! I’m a Volunteer, remember?
Him: Ei! No no no, you are rich.
Me: Oh, why? You know I make half your money!
Him: Ok, so just call your American friends and tell them we need new computers, they’ll send them.
Me:No, I can’t do that, I am just a teacher. Peace Corps doesn’t want us to work like that.
Him: (Conspiratorially) Oh, don’t mind them. Just have your mother pick two or three computers when she comes to visit.
This conversation affected me on so many levels: my visceral reaction was a lump in my throat and clenched fists (which happens a lot at staff meetings…) — if it was so gorram easy for my mom to buy “two or three computers” then she would be able to visit sooner than later (hi mom, don’t feel guilty, I’m just making a point :) ). Close on that thought’s heels was “you have no. bloody. idea., do you?” [cue self-pitying internal monologue] you’ve never even left the country, much less the continent, and the idea of uprooting yourself from everything you’ve ever known and loved for an extended period of time, willingly transplanting into an incredibly unwelcoming and alien environment, in which you’re seen by colleagues not as an equal but as some conglomerate of gift-bearing amusement/unintelligent-lesser-being — that’s completely outside your realm of comprehension, isn’t it? [/end moment]
Closing out my mental reaction to the passing conversation was resounding emotional deflation: I’d just spent 20 minutes in conversation with this particular colleague, and was beginning to feel warm-fuzzies with the idea oh wow, maybe I’ve FINALLY been able to make a connection here!. Bubble, meet pin.
September 28, 2008 at 2:16 pm · Filed under Stuff
Saturday, 27 September 2008
Today marked the third (fourth?) “official” occasion of what is becoming a weekly ritual for me: every Saturday, I go to Cape Coast, head for the Beach, and spend a few hours letting the wind blow the cobwebs out of my soul.
Mind you, the beach itself is a rocky, dirty, foul and polluted territory, and has little in common with the tourist-and-tanning-oil drenched, salt-white sands of the Gulf Coast back home. Children (and more than a few adults) have no qualms about using the beach for their own personal latrine (even today I saw, or tried not to see, a kid perpetuating that truth). Trash and …other things… litters the beach; suffice to say it’s not a place to toss a towel and umbrella for a sunning session. So I don’t actually go onto the beach itself. Instead, I go to Castle Beach Restaurant, which - astoundingly - is adjacent to Cape Coast Castle, and situated on the beach. It’s a wide open, stilt-built affair, with solid wooden floors slick with constant damp. It’s definitely intended primarily for tourists and outsiders, as the location and menu both attest, but I’ve seen equal parts Obruni and Ghanaian patrons. Generally speaking, though, the beach-facing section is left remarkably empty on Saturday mornings - a few locals might troop through, but never stay long. Hungover tourists don’t stumble in until noon-ish, and when they do, most head away from the wind and wet and towards more sheltered tables.
“My” table faces the beach, with nothing to obstruct the view - or the airflow - but a wooden railing. Thanks to Castle Restaurant’s elevation, most of the less-savoury aspects of the beach are substantially dampened. The breeze is constant, the atmosphere is deliciously unobtrusive, and the drinks are reasonably priced. More importantly: I can sit and think and read, and nobody bothers me. I can bring in outside food and drink and the staff overlooks it (granted, they know I’ll eventually buy something anyway). I can sit for hours and not be hustled. I’m waited on but not catered to. I’m respected as a customer but not as false royalty. I know full well how lucky I am, and I the fact that I really am a Spoiled Volunteer doesn’t escape me at all. It’s glorious.
I arrive with full bag, armed and ready for Serious Business. Book, iPod, notebook & pens, matches & cigarettes, an impulse buy of two oranges from my walk up the street. The staff knows my face. They greet me and follow me to my corner, asking where “my Brother” is, and whether I’ll want a drink now or later. I’m predictable, and it’s easy enough to recognize returning Obruni faces, but it still gives me warm fuzzies to be remembered. I told M (my neighbour PCV; the “Brother”) that this is Ghana’s Cheers, only with more beach and less laughtrack.
It’s absolutely worthless to write this all up, as the only thing conveyed will be a shadow of reality, but I wish wish wish that somehow I could transfer the contentment I find in my Saturday morning beach-flavoured hours to you. It’s a moment out of time, of relaxation and calm, of being and not doing, of sensory satisfaction and simple pleasures. I usually feel that I’m doing precious little here, if measured against the lofty standards I originally painted onto myself before arrival. Being, though, is utterly exhausting, cliched though that may sound. To understand the peace I find Saturdays, sitting at that rickety-crickety-slimy-grimy table in the corner of Castle Beach, you’d have to understand the emotions that wash in with my personal tides throughout the week. I want to write of those too, to explain and convey and transport a complete sense of place - but even that only comes out with a hollow ring.
There have been times this month where I’ve contented myself with groundnut paste peanut butter and tea for days on end (boo hoo, poor suffering volunteer that I am, a thousand tiny violins weep for me), because it’s too mentally exhausting to go to market for anything more substantial. I shake my head and struggle to understand so many actions that surround me daily - I find them illogical, and fight to quell the urge to Change Things. My Obruni-Barbie smile hangs by the door, to be donned before leaving home every morning. I laugh off the marriage proposals (standard fare, and only half-jokingly offered), too-personal questions (my age is none of your business, neither is my virginity), corrections and arguments (even though it’s not the Ghanaian way, I promise that my way of [cooking, shopping, walking, breathing] does work!), friendly teasing and less-friendly heckling (Newsflash: I understand a lot more Twi than you think) as a matter of course, because if I didn’t I’d have no time or energy to devote to anything else. And then, come Friday evening, as I look forward to the next day’s mental vacation, I’m exhausted by my own senses of bitterness and unfulfillment: what, really, have I done this week to merit such a reward?
And in the end, as I struggle to relate it all, to help you comprehend: I still come up short.
And maybe too, also in the end, the reason for that is that I am still struggling to comprehend. I’m disillusioned and content, depressed and at peace, busy to exhaustion and bored to tears, alternately regretful and excited. I’m thrashing and fighting against the world and against myself. Through it all, though, I’m trying: to be quiet, to hear, to look, to see, to Be Still and Know. And so it goes.
