CindyLouWho's blog

It’s strange to still be here. When you’re living with 32 people in close quarters, seeing them at all hours of the day, it’s strange when most of them suddenly disappear. The last day of the NYU Accra program was yesterday, but a few of us leave later since we took classes at Legon University. So yesterday was the surreal/strange/awful experience of saying goodbyes, realizing everyone really was leaving, and then watching the bus pull away, out of the gate, and disappear. The rest of us who were staying just stood in the completely silent courtyard, summed up by one of us uttering, “Fuck.”
 
As much as I love being in Ghana, what I love more is the people. The best part of this program is how close you become with the students here. I don’t think I would have meet many of them on my own in New York City. I do think though that you have to be a little off-kilter to choose Ghana as a study abroad site, and it’s in that weirdness that we’re similar.
 
We often talk about living in the city post-Ghana, meeting each others’ New York selves and all the things we have to do together. Being here feels so much like a dream—with time moving either too fast or too slow, never in between—that it’s a bit of a shock to think of going back to NYC and that, in 24 hours, some of my dream friends will be there.
 
If I’ve learned anything from this experience, it’s to be friendlier to people. Trite, I know, but it is because it’s true. Everyone greets everyone else in Ghana—hello, good morning, ete sen?—from close friends to complete strangers. It’s pretty hard to be anonymous, even more so because I’m clearly not Ghanaian. Yes, sometimes it sucks: the catcalls of obruni, the children in school uniforms demanding 10 pesewa for water, the absolute lack of thought behind parroting homophobic propaganda. The disorganization of development. The men who grab my wrist in the street. Yes, sometimes people suck, but I don’t have to be one of them. Eugene the guard still gets my name wrong but is always enthusiastic to see me. Mary the fruit lady dashes me food even when I haven’t bought anything. A Ghanaian acquaintance’s father passed away a month ago. A professor’s niece did as well. Bertha the seamstress laughs at my thorough descriptions of clothes I want made. The puppies on the street outside our dorm grew big and died. I think I’ll be friendlier to strangers in New York.    
 
So Ghana. I feel like whatever farewell I try to articulate won’t do you justice. What I do know is that it’s strange to think of life before you, that I didn’t know these wonderful people four months ago. That Africa is now a place where I have lived and will go back to. So thank you. 

(Photo is my own. We had a sleepover in our living room the night before since it was most people's last night in Accra)

Let me start by saying everyone should live abroad somewhere for some time. Go as far away as you possibly can since being abroad is never about where you live but what you learn about yourself and the place you call home. Or in other words, if you’re open to the experience, how far outside your comfort zone you go is directly proportional to the amount of learning, hurting, and growing that you’ll do.
 
That being said, Ghana is not for everyone. If you’re someone who needs a shower everyday, fast internet, and electricity all the time, Ghana is not for you. If you can’t stand sweat drenched clothes or un-straightened hair, you probably shouldn’t come. If you hate being known as a foreigner and called at everywhere you go, you might want to reconsider. If all these are not your preference but you can handle them, when else are you going to live in West Africa?
 
Academics will not be your focus. Not at all. Most of the professors are Ghanaian and teach through constant repetition and by defining terms. Some of them talk so slow that it’s agonizing. Others will have a slideshow and read off it, word-for-word, for hours every single class. There is a lot of observation and very little analysis or stimulating discussion. With one exception, I learned nothing productive. Classes are more of another point of cultural immersion and learning about how the Ghanaian education system works. If I could redo my schedule, I would take Global Connections: Accra, Globalization and the Developing World, African Popular Music, and African Dance Performance at Legon University.
 
Go on all the organized events. I’m sure other students have blogged about this already, but, seriously, go on all of them. Travelling on your own is not impossible but much more difficult because of the terrible roads and unreliable public transport system. When you do have the time though, try to do some travelling on your own. Find someone who speaks French and go to Togo if you want to relax and eat real cheese, Benin if you’re really daring and want an adventure of the questionable sorts. Possibly the most beautiful place I’ve gone is Keta in Eastern Region. Some places I want to go but haven’t had the time to are Axim, Nzuelezo, Biapka, and the Bole Mud Mosques. Mole I’ve heard is mostly waiting to see animals but exciting when those moments happen. Remember to explore Accra too; you might just stumble upon something unexpected but incredible, like a free concert blasting music in the middle of a crowded street in Osu.
 
Research as much as you can before you come. There are tons of blogs out there written by people currently living in Ghana, and they’ve been a great wealth of information. I wish I had access to or knew about this site beforehand since I was trying to research about the NYU Accra program and of course could find barely any information and no pictures. Being able to read about past students' experiences and advice would have been incredibly useful.
 
Hang out in the IPO building/try to find someone in the CIEE program at Legon and become friends with them. I got lucky because I knew someone from home on that program, and it was through her that I got to experience a Ghanaian home stay and college life at Legon University on a fairly regular basis. It was also hard to meet Ghanaians my own age since the going out culture isn’t especially popular, and it was through my friend that I became friends with Ghanaian college students. It will show you another side of the study abroad experience and how some communities, the ones that see NYU students come and go each semester, perceive the NYU program. However, don’t forget about the CRAs. They were selected for a reason, usually pretty incredible ones, so talk to them too!
 
Bring a flashlight. Lots of snacks or staple foods you like. Tupperware. Measuring cups. Hand sanitizer and pocket Kleenex are a MUST. Definitely Tums too. A water bottle. If you wear them, plenty of contacts and CONTACT SOLUTION. USB DRIVE(S). Hair accessories like hankerchiefs or hair ties. Books, movies, games. Wet naps. Scotch tape. Travel sized toiletries. OFF bugspray; deet isn’t really necessary. Sunscreen. Pictures of clothes you want made. Heels or nice sandals you can walk easily in if you’re a girl. 

Be prepared to make really close friends. It will be strange at first that you share such emotion experiences when you don't even know they're favorite color, but that will change. Just wait and see. And come fall semester.

And finally: Always ask questions. This was the last piece of advice my mom gave me before I left. It's been perhaps the most invaluable for anywhere I've travelled. The unknown can be confusing, scary, and overwhelming, but people in general are willing to lend a hand and direct you tp where you need to be.

(Photo is my own of Keta)

Grown-ups love playing make-believe. You would think that it’s something only kids do. According to how play develops, make-believe is the only stage of play that adults grow out of. I think, though, that the ability to make-believe doesn’t disappear but becomes so deeply ingrained that it just seems like it disappears. People become used to playing games, and, when enough people play, the game becomes real. It becomes politics, economics, and religion. It becomes war or movies. It becomes culture.
 
I already had my own ideas about this before, but it took a while for me to realize that my ideas about culture were happening to me in real life. Probably my first clue was when I stayed with my host family. One of my host brothers continuously proposed to me, asking me to take him to America. But then he would talk about the importance of religion and how it was inappropriate for women to wear short skirts in public. When we were dancing, he watched out for me and steered away other men who seemed too forward. His behavior got me thinking: what if he’s not actually asking me to marry him so he can get to the US, but asking me because that’s what a Ghanaian man is supposed to do when he sees an obruni woman? Yes, some Ghanaian men propose to me definitely because they want to get to the US. However, I’m pretty sure many do as a way of interaction; they don’t necessarily expect that I’ll follow through and marry them. Even my friend back home in the US gets proposed to by a Ghanaian man every time she sees him.

It’s the same with bargaining. Before, bargaining used to terrify me because I couldn’t stand the idea of arguing over money. But now that I’ve had to learn how to bargain, or at least learned how to bargain in Ghana, the practice feels more like a formality than a business deal. I’ve noticed that taxi drivers respond better to bargaining if I smile and put on a bit of a show (“No no no no no, four cedis is too much. Make it three”). It seems obvious that if I’m friendly, I’ll have an easier time, but thinking that idea and actually doing it really do feel disconnected. Both the drivers and I know that there is a certain price the ride is supposed to be, but we still have to bargain to see if we both play the game well enough for that price to hold.
 
Maybe that’s one of the reasons why people travel: to see how many and how well they can play games. If each culture is its own separate game, with rules and penalties unique to it, then traveling to a new place means being able to play and possibly master a new game.  The traveler is someone who has mastered the skill of adaptation and can hold his own. The tourist is someone who needs another to hold his hand throughout the game, walking him through every move. No wonder why the reputation of world traveler, not world tourist, is so sought after. I guess that’s the reason why flipping through my passport, now that it’s filled with visas and stamps, is so rewarding.

I remember when I first arrived in the Accra airport and having the realization that I was in a foreign country among complete strangers hit me. The sheet NYU told us to print out said that someone would meet us upon arrival, but I still had to get through immigration and customs on my own. And the idea that these strangers, immigration officials, held the power to let me into the country or deny me entry was a bit terrifying. Not to mention that people tend to mirror the emotions of the people they are interacting with (it’s a form of bonding!), and the official’s grim face as he examined my documents did no wonders for my nerves.   
 
I’ve never been particularly fond of NYU, the university as a whole. Seeing two Ghanaians wearing NYU shirts though—after getting through the legal proceedings, waiting for my bags, becoming terribly confused by the airport’s lack of signs and directions, and even more so by the crowd of unfamiliar faces when I walked into the waiting area—was a relief. Arriving in a completely new place is overwhelming because everything is unknown. You don’t know the people, you don’t know the etiquette, you don’t know how much things are supposed to cost. Buffeted by the enormity of unknowns, anything familiar becomes a lifeline, something to cling onto for the time being. Yet, I think that what makes travelling to a new place so daunting is the fear of being unwanted. My memory of arriving in Accra would probably be much different if the Ghanaians wearing NYU shirts hadn’t smiled when they saw me, if one of them hadn’t lead me to a quieter place to wait for the other students as she introduced herself as Rosemary.
 
It’s a little strange to write about Rosemary now because she no longer works for NYU. She’s no longer our fashionable CRA who shares my house’s kitchen as well as the delicious food she cooks. She no longer is around to help us battle with rats or walk into our living room in the morning to see how we’re doing. If street vendors are too persistent, she’s no longer there to tell them they should stop since “it’s bad for business because it looks like you’re stalking them.” Even though I’m excited about her new job, I still miss her. It’s strange because if Rosemary were here, I would have written about her as one of the people who has anchored me in Accra and made me feel at ease. But because she isn’t, my sense of being off-balance has become a bit amplified, like I’m floating above the ground instead of walking on it.
 
My memory of arriving in Accra is tied to meeting Rosemary. To feel wanted is a powerful answer to the question “Should I even be here at all?” A smile did wonders for calming my nerves. It welcomed a stranger into a new place and tugged a smile out of me too.
 
(Photo is my own. Who do you think is Rosemary?)

It’s hard to believe I’d never eaten plantains before coming to Ghana. They’re everywhere, at pretty much every meal, in every form—fried, boiled, roasted, mushed—and not to mention scrumptiously delicious.
 
Needless to say, plantains are a major staple of the Ghanaian diet and have thus become a main staple of mine as well. My favorite dish, kelewele, is of course made from plantains. Chopped into small slices, covered with spices, and fried in what I think is soybean oil, kelewele is more of a snack than a meal. It’s spicy sweet in flavor, a strange sounding combination until you’ve tried it and become hooked, and the closest dessert-like dish I’ve found in Ghanaian cooking. 
 
Because kelewele is pretty easy to make, street vendors often sell it freshly made on the side of the road. The best kelewele I’ve had was bought for me by my host brother from a lady on the street. She cooked the plantains over an open fire, threw in some peanuts, and poured it all into a piece of newspaper before twisting it into a bag and handing it to me. The entire process was pretty makeshift, something that happens a lot. Stores made from metal sheets or wooden panels may be up one day and dismantled the next. Vendors bring produce to their stands every day and take them away every night. Hawkers carry enough goods to make a profit but few enough to move around easily. There’s a greater sense of transience here, of how quickly things can change overnight and how little you can do about it.

I’m a little wary of getting kelewele on my own though. Hygiene and sanitation of street vendors is a definite problem. So far, I have seen no organized method of monitoring it and have seen, heard, and experienced more instances of when it is not, with cases ranging from mild stomach pain to typhoid fever. I didn’t mind eating the kelewele my host brother bought since he knew the lady who cooked it for years and she made it fresh in front of me. Sometimes I do buy prepared food from street vendors if I see them on a regular basis, if the food is dry, or if it is in a plastic bag to protect it from flies. However, I doubt I will be buying kelewele from the street any time soon since I personally know no one who makes it and have no idea when an unknown vendor last washed her hands. 

Some favorite foods I could live off forever. Kelewele is sadly not one of those. Ghanaian dishes are very starch based: plantains, cassava, yams, potatoes, rice. Starchy carbohydrates dominate the menu of most meals I’ve eaten. On one hand, I understand the benefits of a high-density carb-centric diet; it means that less food will feed more people and keep them full for a longer time. On the other, a diet with such heavy focus on carbs and meat neglects other necessary nutrients for supporting metabolism or digestion. I’ve eaten enough plantains for almost every day already to know that the novelty wears off after a while. What I’m left with is the feeling of being full, and that feeling, even when I when I’m actually hunger, is rather unpleasant.  
 
Still, I guess I’d rather have too much kelewele than have never tried it at all. It’s the same for coming to Ghana—the more limited personal space, the incredible friendliness of the people, sometimes to the point of surprising sweetness, other times to the point of startling. I still prefer to have more rather than less. 

What was startling about the section on Ghana in Ryszard Kapuscinki’s The Shadow of the Sun is how accurately he describes the country. His observations are spot-on and depicted with astonishing insight. Except for the slight fact that he wrote about Ghana in the 1950s. Over sixty years later, his observations still describe the Ghana I see today.
 
I’m no expert when it comes to development, but the model that Ghana is following seems to contradict its goals. Too much emphasis is placed on participation in the global community rather than infrastructural development. The need for progress is recognized, yet the definition of progress appears internationally oriented. But I’ll leave that side of the conversation to my peers who have articulated it brilliantly in their book postings.
 
What I want to consider is Kapucinski’s style of writing: magical realism. Kapucinski was the first Polish journalist to be stationed in Africa and travelled around the continent during the mid to late 1900s. His book is a compilation of anecdotes about his time there and written in a way that describes his experiences with a dream-like quality. There is something unbelievable about his time in Africa, something that has characterized my time here as well. Everything feels surreal. It’s hard to realize its happening. It’s hard to believe I’m really here.
 
Once in a while, I have to tell someone, “We’re in Africa!,” just to remember that, well, we’re in Africa. I really am seeing palm trees and sunlight everyday I wake up. I really have stood in the prison cells where slaves were kept until they boarded ships that took them to the Americas. I really have seen a monkey tied to a tree in the middle of a road surrounded by zipping motorbikes and jumped into an ocean with questionable contents, both in francophone West African countries two weekends ago. I really did just travel twelve hours north this weekend to see baobab trees dotting picture-perfect savannas and cross into no-man’s land where Ghana meets Burkina Faso.
 
While I could say this whole experience feels like summer camp, that doesn’t quite capture it. What it feels like is wandering around in a dream. One of the ways Kapucinski convey this feeling is by throwing in short anecdotes, such as the location of elephant graves and how, for years, Africans guarded this secret from Europeans who couldn’t find any dead elephants when searching for their tusks (61). Similarly, I often feel like I’m just minding my own business when I’ll suddenly be blind sighted by some occurrence Ghana throws at me. I once was having lunch with a Ghanaian friend when some spicy soup squirted into her eye. She clasped her eye in pain, asking for water, but when she finally got water, she put it on her big toe. She appeared completely fine after that, like nothing had happened at all.
 
Even stranger is when I have dreams. They take place at home, in the US, sometimes in New York City. But then I wake up and I’m in Ghana, where everyday life feels so surreal.
 
Yes, the word Africa carries ridiculous stereotypes. It conjures war, famine, poverty, and disease. It is associated with wild animals, yellow grasses, and mud huts, ignoring the toilets, the suavely dressed, and the cities that spread and sprawl. But to some extent, the stereotype is not completely inaccurate. What it fails to capture in image it captures a bit in atmosphere. Because living here now, I feel timeless. Like I'm watching some kind of movie, I'm drifting through some wonderful dream.

(Photo is my own of Northern Ghana)

Hanging out and having a good time in Accra is not synonymous with a public space. Or at least that is what my experience has led me to understand. Sure, there are places that I have frequented when going out with friends, but none of them would be places where I would bring my laptop to work or a book to relax or a friend to chat. I don’t think of any one of them as my own, like “my study café” or “my 2 am food spot” in New York City. Similarly, most of the Ghanaians I’ve talked to seem to enjoy spending time at home in their rooms listening to music, reading books, or watching movies. The whole American going-out culture isn’t especially popular or approved of. Not to say that people here don’t hang out or go out. It’s just that those who do tend to be from wealthier, more internationally-oriented neighborhoods or did not grow up in Ghana. Needless to say, going out to have a good time is more of an effort than usual.

Then again, it could just be a matter of redefining what counts as a “great good place.” Because maybe it’s the extra effort of going out or the convenience of living in close quarters with 19 other people or the fact that I’m living in Ghana, but I seem to have adopted the mentality of the private sphere, home, as the great good place to hang out. In our compound, we have dinner parties and yoga classes, readings of student written plays, tv show marathons, massage lines, New Mexico gloom burning tradition, study sessions, semester-long puzzle solving, pseudo soccer matches, and impromptu dance parties. Much of these activities seem to occur on a daily basis in the house I’m living in, House 3. Whether it be music or conversation, friends gather in our living room often enough that I can only study in the mornings before anyone else wakes up. And yet, when everyone left for fall break, to walk into my living room and see neither my housemates nor anyone else there felt horribly weird.

A dear friend learned in class that our residence has the set up of a traditional African family compound—a central courtyard with two houses bordering its left side and two on its right. Perhaps the reason why we’ve all become like an extended family is because this configuration fosters relations more strongly than others. I think though that a huge contributing factor was, and still is, the unpredictable shortages of running water. While the housing here has the nicest accommodations I’ve ever had as an NYU student—shiny tile floors, couches you can lie down on, kitchens with counter space—, none of that really matters when the shower suddenly stops working just as I’ve put conditioner in my hair. Still, it happens often enough that I doubt anyone is surprised any more when someone from another house shows up and asks to use a shower.

I suppose it could be argued that I’m not trying hard enough to go out and have a real experience, to befriend real Ghanaians and break out of the NYU bubble. And to some extent I agree with the validity of that argument. At the same time, socializing in Ghana appears to occur more in the private sphere. Activities seem quite family-centric as opposed to going to public places to be in the company of strangers. I don’t intend to say that I should try to remain within a bubble, but I do want to point out that the perspective of that argument is one that comes from a certain place with certain ideas about what an experience should be. That perspective comes from its own kind of bubble as well, and my opinion is that creating an authentic experience within a bubble is a possibility. 

(Photo is my own)

When I think of African art, the first image that comes to mind is woodwork. I think of viscerally carved markings, exaggerated features, and sometimes even feathers. Instead of dainty brushstrokes, the traditional African art I’d previously seen in New York City was much more dynamic in its creation; its making demanded more bodily involvement than just the hand.
 
Yet, most of the art I’ve seen since coming to Ghana has come from its contemporary art scene. The present artistic focus features current artists much more prominently than its traditional pieces. Sometimes, I find this focus unnerving since it feels like an attempt to progress without acknowledging the past. For instance, Artist Alliance Gallery—one of the first galleries in Accra—dedicates the majority of its space to contemporary artists while crowding its collection of traditional artwork into a single, small room. Other times, I find it fascinating since the contemporary pieces I’ve seen usually rework aspects of Ghanaian customs in a new light. They are also often culturally or politically charged.  
 
Recently, we went to the opening night of an exhibition that featured the artworks of one of our CRAs, Kelvin Haizel. His studio is basically in the dorm I’m living in, and it’s interesting to see his works as they move between the contexts of creation to display. The mixed media piece shown in the picture above, 110252 (II), is one I remember seeing the first time I walked into his studio.
 
To break it down, three aspects of this piece strike me the most: the fabric, the eyes, and the blue outline of the head.
 
Fabric: Unlike New Yorkers, Ghanaians aren’t afraid of bold patterns or color. The majority of the piece’s color comes from these printed fabrics. They are easy to buy anywhere and can be taken to a seamstress to make pretty much any kind of clothing you wish. The high contrast in color and pattern creates a sense of high energy and reflects the liveliness of Ghanaian traditions, particularly in music and dance. Furthermore, the association with clothing hints at fashion’s role in establishing or reiterating a person’s background in daily life. Not to mention that Ghanaians are quite fashionable. It's wonderful, except I always feel rather underdressed.
 
Eyes: Aluminum cans and plastic plates, two mass-produced yet environmentally unfriendly items. Despite its rate of development, Ghana still does not have a strong infrastructure for cleaning up trash or an efficient waste policy. Many people burn their trash or leave litter in the streets. Soda is very popular; I’ve drank more soda in the past two months than I have in the past two years. The use of these products as eyes indicate that the main focus right now is increasing development without thought for consequences. The plastic plates easily grab attention and seem larger than necessary, almost as if the eyes are taking over the face of a man fixated on something. Despite a rich background, more attention is given to a goal that offers temporary satisfaction with long-term effects on individual, social, and environmental health. In a way, Ghana's lack of a tourism industry or focus on local development and emphasis on its participation in global affairs attest to this preference.
 
Blue outline: The outline recalls the shape of African masks, tying the fabric and eyes together while simultaneously emphasizing them. It implies that tradition defines the direction of contemporary events; the past shapes the present and therefore the future. 

(Photo is my own)

At Legon University, my professor announced that we would be learning a new dance in class. We had been practicing the old one for quite some time now, and, while it was theatrical and entertaining, I was ready to move on. The new dance, he said, came from the Volta region and was traditionally performed by the thunder cult priest. Unlike the previous social dances we had learned, this one was a ritual dance with the ritualized aspects removed. He said that was the reason why we could learn it.
 
Incidentally, I had gone to the Volta region on a class field trip the weekend before. Our professor, the one who organized the trip, had lived in the area all his life and showed us around the neighborhood.  I had met the thunder cult priest in his compound and had watched a dance troop perform—for an incredible hour and a half—traditional dances that hailed from that region. If I had come to Ghana on my own, I doubt I would have had these opportunities.
 
Opportunities. Cracks in otherwise almost insurmountable barriers. Gateways to a real experience in the context of travel. Ghana has a sparsely organized tourist industry, and the particular place we went was one of the country’s least touristy areas. Because of its popularity and potential for profit, tourism has become associated with performance or “staged authenticity.” To join an organized tour implies that tourists will have the opportunity to see authentic content in an inauthentic context; for example, the dances performed by the dance troop would normally be done for purposes such as celebrating a harvest or preparing for battle, not entertaining foreigners. The combination of its accessibility and its staged authenticity placed the chance to see the dance troop on a lower rung of the opportunity ladder.
 
However, a member of the community, not an industry, organized our tour in Volta region. The intimacy of this connection offered the chance to experience authentic content in an authentic context, a back region. More specifically, we got to meet the thunder cult priest in the compound where he and his family lived. Instead of a preplanned performance, the priest—who only spoke Ewe and was unwell at the time—sat in a chair as our professor lectured and then paid for the visit. In this situation, the price for accessibility and unscripted authenticity was a more immediate awareness of cultural barriers and of blunt reality. Because I don’t speak Ewe, I could not converse with the priest myself. Even if I did speak the language, I probably would still have difficulty communicating since we live within different cultures with different norms and social cues. Also, exposing the exchange of money instead of hiding it with the frills of staged authenticity confirmed and reinforced the stark truth that I was just a tourist
 
MacCannell says that the search for authenticity today mirrors past religious pilgrimages for the sacred. I’d like to add another layer of that in terms of dance. Historically, dance has developed through three stages: ritual, social, and finally performance. Since tourists discredit performance, it seems as if the search for the authentic is an attempt to rediscover the root of things, the beginning intentions, what makes a culture tick. I, as an outsider, wish to experience not a performance but a ritual dance. Maybe the dance I am learning in class is no longer authentic since the ritualized aspects have been removed; it has been changed from a dance for rituals to one for performance. Some will consider it a poor imitation of the original, diluted for the masses. But I think that the experience of authenticity is relative. Every body moves in a different way.
 
Our dance instructors constantly tell us to “make it your own.” Learn a traditional Ghanaian dance—possibly with inauthentic content in an inauthentic context—with authentic intention. Since we are not robots, they scold, we can make a dance interesting. I should do something only I can do every time we practice. The drumming started, and we tried again.

(The video is of Sovu, the dance described above. It's a little different from the one I learned since everyone dances it a bit differently. The basic movements, however, are the same)

Bargaining completely baffles me. Besides finding it hard to be firm about the price I want, I feel like I have no clue how the dynamics of haggling works. Is the price I’m asking fair? Am I giving in too soon? Am I being taken advantage of? Doesn’t this person need to make money too? Most of the time, I’m just too overwhelmed and try to pay a reasonable price as fast as I can.
 
Bargaining, though, is a daily life skill in Ghana. Prices usually aren’t fixed; if they are, it’s at a place that expats frequent, sells high-end novelties, or imports goods (a pint of Haagen-Dazs ice cream is about 30 cedis, roughly the equivalent of 20 US dollars!). Even when I tried to bargain at Kumasi central market, the prices of some goods were easier to negotiate than others. When I was buying cloth from a seller in the marketplace, she declared that one yard was five cedis. I asked if I could get three yards for 12 cedis instead 15 cedis total. She refused. In Onions Are My Husband: Survival and Accumulation by West African Market Women, Gracia Clark exposes two systems of bargaining: price and quantity. While you negotiate the price of a set amount of goods in price bargaining, you negotiate the quantity of goods received for a set price in quantity bargaining (129-130). Cloth, since it comes in bulk and has the potential to be expensive, falls under the price bargaining category. I was correct in asking for a lower price; if I had asked for more cloth for the offered price, I could have offended the seller since using an inappropriate bargaining system results in hostility and derision (129). So why was I still unsuccessful? Clark recounts that among market women, “One clear sign of domination…is that one side can impose a bargaining style unfamiliar or unwelcome to the other” (129). Because I was familiar with neither styles of bargaining, I had no idea how to play the game. The seller could impose whatever method of transaction she wanted, and I had to go along with it since I wanted something she had.
 
With the exception of taxis, I find that I frequently give into the seller’s way of doing things. For instance, I’ve never bargained at the food stalls along the street. I’m not even sure if I can. My assumption is that their prices are fixed, but I’ve never bothered to ask anyone if that’s true or not. In the Kumasi central market, “The uniformity of prices traders call out creates the illusion of price fixing, and is often used as evidence of it” (130). Likewise, the food stalls I’ve been to in Accra all seem to have similarly priced items. It could be true that prices are actually fixed, but my never asking seems to be connected to the uniformity of prices among the various stalls.
 
At the same time, I know I don’t bargain since I frequent some stalls almost every day. Bargaining then feels inappropriate, like I’m infringing on the process of coming to know a seller as a person. There is one stall owner—whom I will affectionately refer to as the fruit lady—whom I would never try to bargain with. It just doesn’t feel right. And yet she dashes me gifts of extra fruits or veggies when I buy my week’s worth of groceries. Clark calls this sort of gift an add-on, a present of additional items for a large purchase (131). Although I know part of the fruit lady’s motivation in dashing me food is to strengthen business relations and to discard ripe produce, I also think that she does intend to give sincere gifts (132-3). Once, I stopped by her stall with a friend. My friend bought food. I didn’t buy anything. The fruit lady insisted on dashing us oranges. Maybe there is no such thing as a free gift, but an orange in exchange for the debt of friendship? Of course.  

“Where are you from?”
“Where do you think I’m from?”
“Japan, Korea, China.”

He never once mentioned America.

I suppose for this post I could talk about the street side food stands, constantly dirty feet, the pile of dirty dishes that need running water to be cleaned, the trials and tribulations of navigating a carb-based diet. But these tidbits of daily life, as wonderful and frustrating as they are, pale in comparison to the overwhelming factor of race. I’ve come to Ghana from the US and am ethnically Chinese. In this dialogue between black and white, where do I belong?

Most Ghanaians who ask where I’m from expect to hear China. Some will even press on, after I’ve answered, with a “No, where are you really from?” Trying to explain how I am from America, I say that my parents are from China and moved to the US. Still, it’s more complicated than that. My parents are Chinese, but my dad was born in Vietnam while my mom grew up in Macao and Hong Kong. They don’t come from China per se.

In preschool, the girls had fair skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes, and I looked nothing like them. A few weeks ago, someone said that a white girl like me shouldn’t be out in the sun for too long. I thought that if I were in the States, people would call me Asian or yellow. I thought that if my family saw me now, they would say I had become too dark and should get out of the sun.

Two situations with babies:

1. A mother holding her child walked up to me. The daughter stared at my face, big-eyed, open-mouthed, fascinated.
2. I stood next to a mother with her toddler. The daughter looked up at me. She ran behind her mother’s legs, burying her face into them.

Sometimes, I forget what I look like. Access to multiculturalism is easy to take for granted, especially in New York City where diversity is the norm. No one there looks twice at me because of my appearance. Accra, however, has a predominantly African population. Instead of diversity, visual homogeneity is the standard. Not too many white foreigners visit, Chinese-American ones even less so. No wonder babies have such reactions to me; I could very well have been the first Chinese face they’ve seen.

Because I look Chinese, some Ghanaians refuse to believe that I am from the US. They argue that when they say "Where are you from?" they mean where are my parents from and that I can't be from the US because I'm not white. At the same time, I am categorized as white when convenient since I am neither African nor dark enough for my skin to be called black. So I am white yet not an American, the expected prerequisite of whom is being white. Where do I belong? 

(On the girl in the picture: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=120311417)

“You’re so quiet.” We were relaxing in a University of Legon dorm room, my friend from home, three Ghanaian girls, and I. I had just met the Ghanaians a few hours before; my friend had brought me to their room and introduced us to each other. Unbeknown to me, two other Ghanaian students would point out my silence in two separate situations later that day. At the time of the first comment though, I just smiled. I’ve never been one to prefer speaking words.  
 
From advertisements for Glo mobile phone service to signs such as “The Future is Unknown Drinking Spot,” English adorns the architectural and mobile environments everywhere I’ve gone. The billboards and the walls, the trotros and the shacks, Ghana’s lingua franca is ever present. Combined with the more leisurely pace of life, I get the overwhelming sense that I’m on a vacation instead of living a semester on the foreign continent of Africa.
 
Showing up at a dorm unannounced, talking about boys, having someone do my hair, it all felt so stereotypically college-like except in a Ghanaian context. The conversation’s topics could have come up in any girls’ dorm room anywhere. Its deliver I have only experienced in Ghana. I could see the thread of conversation, sense what kinds of comments and responses would be appropriate at certain points, but I couldn’t catch it myself. The discussion writhed and twisted so quickly that I was often confused by the sounds and how they fit together.

I have traveled to countries before where I couldn’t understand the common language. Even more strange is traveling to a place where many people speak English and still not understanding it. The Ghanaian girls I met spoke rapidly and used terms in ways I wasn’t familiar with. A hot guy? Nope, he was a fresh boy. That girl who knows about everything local? She’s an area girl. What to say when you’re about to explain your point? I’m coming. I continued to listen.

Often times, the conversation would break from English into Twi or Ga, two of the more widely spoken local languages in Accra. The girls asked at one point how much of the languages I had picked up. Ghanaians I see on a daily basis at NYU locations or on the street have tried to teach me bits of their native languages. One tries to add a new Twi word to my vocabulary every now and then while another offered to give me Ga lessons whenever I had time. I said some of the phrases I’d learned. The girls laughed, then helped correct my pronunciation.

(The photo is my own)

My typical walk to campus in New York City goes something like this:
 
Speed walk as quickly and decisively as possible while dodging tourists, taxis, and the like.
 
My typical walk to the academic center in Accra goes something like this:
 
Exchange greetings with the resident hall guard. Depending on who the guard is, the greeting may either be in Twi or Ga (both are local languages). Walk about twenty paces outside. Stop to greet another guard sitting outside. Ask how he is in Ga. Continue until meet gentleman in front of a hotel. Exchange greetings in Twi. Walk down a dusty red dirt road. Turn right and see lady grilling plantains. Start conversation in Twi. Possibly learn new words and/or phrases. Arrive at the academic center gate. Sing hello to guard as he sings back. Get to class. 
 
No New York City grid, no local street signs, I felt extremely disoriented the first two weeks here. Riding a bus from place to place confused me even more; the Accra I knew then consisted of isolated bubbles drifting around the same space. Walking helped in regaining some sense of equilibrium; it developed connections between places I had come to know. I am still organizing the city in my mind though, trying to figure this tangled web of roads out.
 
Someone told me that Ghanaians don’t use maps; they just ask other people for help. Sure enough, I have yet to meet a taxi driver who navigates with addresses rather than landmarks. I don’t think I’ve seen a local street sign since I’ve been here. I have, however, encountered Ghanaians who have gone out of their way to guarantee I get where I need to go.
 
On my way home from my first day at community service, a kind elderly gentleman walked me to the nearby trotro stop. Since I had never ridden one before, he guided me onto the correct bus and asked the fare collector to make sure I got off at the right stop.
 
Often times dilapidated and crowded with people, trotros are public transportation vans that are a cheap and popular way of travelling. The trotro I got into was a bit like a run-down party bus. Bright orange on the outside and pounding music on the inside, it whizzed down the street and picked up passengers as it went. The fare collector, sporting a sideways cap and Mardi Gras beads, leaned out a window and shouted the final destination. The gentleman sitting next to me volunteered to lead me to the shared taxi stand once we got there. He probably realized from my questions that I had no idea where I was going.
 
From the elderly gentleman to the fare collector, a gentlemanly stranger and finally the taxi driver, one person passed me to another until I arrived home. It’s people rather than streets that are creating my mental map of Accra. I’ve spent just over a month here. I don’t know my way around in the conventional sense. I’m okay with that.

For a while, I’ve realized that the part I love about traveling isn’t so much getting somewhere as going somewhere. The feeling of moving somewhere without moving, usually at speeds humanely impossible, is addictive. I need to be in cars, on planes, riding trains. I get fidgety otherwise. 
 
When I think of places I want to go, I imagine a dot on a map. That dot on the West African coast? That was Accra. Ghana was—and to some extent still is—some abstract, wonderful idea. Talking about studying abroad felt more tangible than packing my suitcase for the four months to come. I remember saying goodbye to my parents in the airport and thinking it was strangely surreal. Even though it was a momentous occasion, I felt like I could have been going away for the weekend. I kind of just floated through the terminal and onto the plane. It wasn’t until the moment the plane began accelerating for takeoff that it hit me: I was going to live in Ghana for a semester and would not be back home until its end.
 
In his writings, de Botton points out that there is “a psychological pleasure in this takeoff…the swiftness of the plane’s ascent is an exemplary symbol of transformation. The display of power can inspire us to imagine analogous, decisive shifts in our own lives.” I have yet to put them in my own words, but I think I’ve always liked takeoffs for these reasons. There is something about watching the ground sink away under my feet, of being suspended above clouds and experiencing the possibilities of technology that is such a rush.    
 
The same can be said for landing. Descending at night into Accra, or any city for that matter, was like going back up into the sky again. Pin-pricks of light that dot the darkness, mirroring those up above. I’m usually not the biggest fan of radio music, but it reminded me of "airplanes in the night sky like shooting stars." Landings are like stepping through a looking glass, and within the next twenty minutes I stepped onto another side of the world.
 
Except it also wasn’t. My first thought inside the airport was “This smells like China.” The smell is very distinct, one that lingers in the private dining rooms of restaurants in China. Sense memory, especially smell, is a powerful mechanism for remembering experiences. To have a scent remind me of China upon landing in Ghana though was extremely disconcerting; Africa merged with Asia. Much of what I have seen does. The unpredictable drivers, the street-side hawkers, the strange yet intriguing influx of technology into a still-developing space, it all seems so familiar despite the difference in thousands of miles. Normalcy or a sense of the everyday, I have found, is much more normal and widespread than I think I have been led to believe. 

(The photo is my own of the inside of a bus when traveling in Ghana. It doesn't matter where I'm going; I'm sure I'll see something similar to this each time.)