AnnaTaylor's blog

On the eve of my departure from Ghana, I am plagued by many reflections. My time here has been an experience unparalleled by any other in my life. When I came to Ghana I unknowingly embarked on a journey that would teach me more about the world than I imagined possible. Everybody told me: You will change so much. Traveling is such a life-altering experience. You will come back a different person.

 

It’s not that I didn’t believe that I would change, but I had no idea as to how I might be different. Would I come home to America and scoff at the luxuries and commercialism, having gained a newfound appreciation for all things rural and poverty-stricken? Maybe I would find a deeply rooted passion for our Homeland Africa and reject the notion of spending my life anywhere else. Or perhaps I would learn that I am an American princess who cannot deal with lizards and insects in mud huts and the absence of running water in my home.

 

Instead, what I have learned is that I am independent and capable, curious and thrill seeking, but sensible and contemplative. I discovered these tools within myself that have enabled me to travel all around West Africa, a region of the world that is completely opposite from my home. I have befriended persons that would have previously been dauntingly foreign to me, and grown accustomed to relying only on strangers and myself.

 

I have learned the truth in the cliché: the world is full of possibilities. Moreover, I now know that I have the ability to take advantage of those opportunities. Nothing is too foreign, too uncertain, too far away. In fact, the experiences in which I have sought out the unknown have been by far the most rewarding.

 

Traveling to rural villages in the East of Ghana, to Burkina Faso, and the Northern Regions, I had a recurring out-of-body experience. I would look around at the villages, wild goats and cattle roaming the red-brown dirt on the roads. Then at my method of transport: at best, a visibly aged trotro bumping over the pothole-ridden roads; at worst, piled into the back of a van driven by a Burkinabe man who speaks not a word of English, feeling the burning heat of the malfunctioning engine as we speed down dark, deserted dirt roads in the bush. I depend upon and utilize these uncertain means, and survive.

I took this picture at Mole National Park in the Northern region of Ghana. It is one example of the breathtaking, unbelievably awesome things that one can see through travel.

GO TO GHANA! Ghana is a beautiful country in infinite respects: the beaches of the West, the forests of the East, the savannah of the North, and the castles of the South. The people and their attitudes—never before have I met people so welcoming, appreciative, or comfortable around strangers. The villages, with their mud huts and dozens of children playing. The colors of the cloth on the mothers and babies. It is far and foreign but in life it is necessary to leave your comfort and learn to find it elsewhere.

 

Religion is EVERYWHERE. You will see it on signs, in shops, with your Fan-Ice. You will hear it on every radio station and in every conversation. Even if you are religious, prepare yourself for more of this than you can imagine.

 

You have never stood out this much. No matter what race you are, you are easily identifiable as an Obruni. This means that strangers will stop you to ask for a picture, children everywhere will pitifully pull on your pants asking for money, and it’s safe to assume that any price that someone tells you is about two times too much. This is an annoyance of life here, but it is easily manageable. All the same, prepare yourself.

 

You will never complain about public restrooms again. Did you know that there is such a thing as a female urinal?

 

Don’t be afraid. Not of the people, or the food, or the places, or the travelling, or the means to get there. A bucket bath is not that bad and African insects are more or less the same as the ones you’re used to. Don’t stress about getting malaria. Most of the time you won’t have running water but it’ll be okay. Go outside and stand in the warm and pouring rain. By overcoming my subtle fear of general life here, I began to appreciate and learn from the culture and people of Ghana. Only after realizing this did I truly start to travel.

 

You have never eaten this much rice before. Seriously. So much rice.

 

Pet your dog or cat—a lot. There are tons of animals here, but few are house pets and people don’t treat them as tiny humans like we do in America. I only got to play with one dog in the past 4 months—you’ll wish you gave Fido a little extra attention before you left. You will get to see baby goats running around the streets on a daily basis though—I never knew this before, but baby goats are probably the most adorable creatures in the world!

 

Bring chocolate. I didn’t—cocoa is the main export of Ghana, after all! But since the country sells almost all of this resource to outsiders, it is very expensive here.

 

In the picture, donkeys in a village in the North of Ghana

It didn’t take me long to realize that, as a white girl, I’m in the minority here in Ghana. It did take me awhile to get used to it, though. Now I notice when I see another white person walking down the street. Who are they? What are they doing here?

 

I don’t know when I became acclimated to such nuances of life here. One day I walked outside without realizing that I had stepped into hundred-degree weather. Then I stopped marveling at the bright tropical vegetation that replaced the New England forests I was used to. After that I tuned out the high-pitched squeak of the Fan-Ice carts pushed by local men selling plastic packets of ice cream. I became accustomed to the odorous burning trash that wafts through streets and into windows.

 

I have lost the impulse to buckle my seat belt when I enter a car, since in the vast majority of vehicles this feature has fallen apart. I don’t blink an eye when I see a woman with a baby tied to her back bend down and haul heavy amounts of food onto her head, although though this would make American moms faint from fear. One slip could send the platter toppling onto the child.

 

Here in Ghana, people don’t live their lives walking on eggshells like they do in America. Nobody fears getting sued, and people take it upon themselves to look after their own well-being. If you’re worried about falling out of the speeding trotro with no door, either don’t get on it or hold on tight. If you fall, people will help, and you do not blame them for your stupidity.  

 

Obsessive regulation permeates every corner of my life in America. Now, I feel like a young teenager who has just moved out of her overprotective parents’ house and into her own freedom: realizing that this is what life is. It is a beautiful thing to see people’s everyday lives functioning freely.

 

I’m not saying it’s entirely good, because there is definitely a benefit to having safe strollers and health inspections. But when life becomes one long attempt to adhere to government codes it loses the purity and freedom that comes from independence and self-reliance. America was founded on liberty, but through the quest to develop as a nation has ironically stripped the freedom of everyday living from its citizens.

 

Henry Miller writes, “One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.” If this is true then I have finally reached my destination.

 

This picture is of the Pikworo Slave Camp in Paga, Ghana. From this site in the North, slaves were marched to the coast in the South. During their stay here they performed many labor-intensive tasks. When we went to the slave camp it was about 120 degrees Fahrenheit, in the blisteringly hot African sun. The camp itself has not been tampered with too much, but also does not have bars and plastic coatings that it would if it were in America. Instead of feeling like I had stepped into a museum, a recreated version of the truth, I rather felt like I had glimpsed the reality of the slave camp.

When I walk around the house that I share with eighteen other women and one man, I am greeted by two sunny Community Resource Associates (CRAs). Abigail and Nana Ama are Ghanaian women, NYU Accra’s version of Resident Advisors. They are completing their Year of Service, which is mandatory for all Ghanaian college graduates. Nana Ama went to the University of Ghana in Accra, majoring in Hospitality. Abigail graduated with a double major in Psychology and Art from Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology in Kumasi. These are the two premier universities in Ghana, and two of the most prestigious in all of Africa. NYU Accra gets the cream of the crop.

 

“Hello, dear,” Abigail’s round and smiling face speaks. She is beautiful; with her hair elegantly braided and her curvy body wrapped beneath a traditional outfit she looks like an African queen. “How are you this morning?”

 

I smile; hers is infectious. “I’m fine, Abigail, how are you?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Are you going to church?” I am still in my pajamas at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. Abigail is fully dressed, her hair carefully tied back from her face, layers of printed fabric tied and zipped around her frame that trail down to the floor.

 

“Yes, dear. Have a nice day,” with a giggle and a smile she leaves. She is like my mother, sweet and loving.

 

 

 

Nana Ama is bigger, with lustrous eyes and a booty that I swear is the muse of Sir Mixalot. She is less charitable with her affections than Abigail, and usually gets along better with men than women. Nana Ama walks around with a slight sneer on her face, just enough so she seems always slightly amused. Her attitude can easily be mistaken for coldness but she has a kind heart.

 

I walk into the kitchen and see Nana Ama standing at the sink, washing dishes. The house smells fragrant, like cooked stew and onions. The steaming pot of tomato-drenched chicken on the stove tells me Nana Ama just prepared this delectable meal.

 

“Yum,” I say, but she doesn’t respond so I think she didn’t hear me, or just didn’t want to answer. I walk to the refrigerator and extract some ingredients for breakfast.

 

We cross paths on my way back to the counter. I smile and she says, “Good morning, Anna.”

 

“Good morning,” I chirp.

 

As I continue to make my breakfast she leans over me and smells the pan deeply. “Yummy,” she says, and smiles at me. She is like my older sister, sassy but affectionate. 

 

In this picture, Abigail welcomes the students to Kakum National Park. 

The most beautiful parts of Ghana are not in Accra. I learned this on the first trip that I took out of the city to the Shai Hills nature reserve. This place has a taste of wilderness, somewhat hindered by the people-pleasing baboons that flock to the opening gates whenever there is a visitor. This is not the most beautiful spot in Ghana.

 

Ghana’s coastline is 539 kilometers long. Interestingly, it is the closest country to the “center” of the world, the coordinate of (0,0) which lies a few miles south of Ghana in the Gulf of Guinea. Because of its coast, Ghana is one of the most developed countries in Africa. It was colonized by the Portuguese in the 15th century, and became West Africa’s primary trading post with Europe and America for gold, ivory, and slaves. Through the country’s history, this early colonization and European influence has had tremendous implications. For example, the demographic layout of Accra developed because European soldiers preferred to live with other white people. They achieved this by expelling locals to neighborhoods such as Jamestown, which is now commonly known as the slum of the city.

 

Accra is located on the coast, but is not build upon this resource—rather than letting the town develop around the beach, Accra is a town with the beach in the background.

 

The background is breathtaking. An endless panorama of white sand spanning under salty winds from beyond the misty green-blue waves that crash onto shore. Vastness; no land until Antarctica lies ahead. The sand is grainy, the water temperate and tropical. This is the first time I have ever experienced ocean water that invites you warmly into its body, rather than freezing your extremities off before you wade halfway in.

 

The beaches in Accra are not the most beautiful. They are usually filled with litter and smells of burning trash. On Wednesday nights the two major beaches, Labadi and Toale, are transformed into loud parties of reggae and Rastas, locals and Obrunis alike dancing freely in the waves. Restaurants populate the beaches, serving delicious fare such as fried yams with spicy shiito sauce. These beaches are fun— destinations for a party or a day out with friends.

 

The most beautiful parts of Ghana are out of reach, secluded, sheltered from the grossness of city life and human habitation. On the coastline outside of Accra, there are beaches that are sequestered, nestled in rock formations and unfriendly terrain. They are perfectly pristine, in a way that envelops the wilderness of the coastline and the delight of the peaceful ocean. These beaches are the Genius Loci of Ghana.

 

I took this picture on a beach in Cape Coast, near the Elmina Slave Castle.

“Here is pure water!” a middle-aged Ghanaian woman shouts. Her black sandals have turned brown from walking in the hot dirt ground. She wears a vibrant blue and yellow cloth knotted around her waist. On her head is an enormous tub full of sachet packets, swimming in a melted ice bath to protect the drinks from the scorching heat of the day.

 

A man in front of me turns and hisses at her, signaling that she should come to him. She hurries over, rapidly sidestepping market shoppers and merchandise, not bothering to steady the heavy bucket on top of her head.  I am still amazed whenever I see Ghanaian women perform this skillful balancing act. They sell everything from cell phones to bath products in this manner, but usually the merchandise for sale is food: juicy pineapples to be cut and eaten for one cedi, flour-dusted hard-boiled eggs with the spiciest pepper sauce I have ever tasted, crispy kebobs of smoked giant snails, hot and salty fried plantain chips.

 

The woman lowers her bucket, placing it at her feet and hands the man a dripping sachet. He gives her a coin and helps her raise her load back to its resting place. She walks through the endless stalls at the Kumasi Central Market, back to her sister’s fabric store. Her daughters, aged about four and six, stand outside of the shop and sell Milo candies for ten pesuas. The woman takes down her water once more and sets it on the ground, handing each girl a sachet. They bite the corner and eagerly suck down the cool water.

 

In her book “Onions Are My Husband,” Gracia Clark skillfully captures the intricate relationship between Kumasi Central Market, the women who sell goods there, and the development of West Africa. The author offers a remarkable account of her ethnographical study in the Market, but leaves me desiring more narration and personal anecdotes. For example, the beginning of chapter three (“Persistent Transformations”) consists of extended descriptions of capitalist and developmental theories. This gave insight as to the intellectual background behind the conclusions that Clark drew about the Market, but is unhelpful for the average reader. Personally, this only served to confuse me.

 

The author cleverly illustrates Asanti culture, but again lacks descriptive anecdotes to bring the characters to life. Clark’s language and writing style reduce Ghanaian market women to just that—a category, instead of individuals. Although the book contains many quotes and depictions of market women, she fails to develop personal relationships with any of the subjects. As a result, it is clear that the perspective of the book is from an outside academic, peering in on a foreign world—one about which she has studied extensively, but has not remotely adopted as her own. 

I took this picture to try to capture the vastness of Kumasi Central Market, the largest open market in West Africa.

Most businesses in Ghana are closed on Sundays. Restaurants, stores, offices, etc. are deserted on the day, and people flock to church instead. This is also true of Saturdays, on which funerals and weddings are hosted. Ghanaian culture values weekend time to spend with family and friends, either at home or around local hangouts. Drinking “spots” are popular places where Ghanaians gather and drink Star beer, palm wine, and a variety of strong local brews. Some local men get together for weekend football tournaments. In Labone, the neighborhood I live in, a popular and delicious weekend activity is getting waakye at Auntie Muni’s. Auntie Muni only cooks on the weekend, and is so famous that the junction near her stand is called “Auntie Muni Junction.”

It’s what I tell cabdrivers when I am heading home. Auntie Muni makes waakye (pronounced watch-aay). I am still not entirely sure what the components of this traditional Ghanaian dish are, although I have had it from a number of different stands and restaurants. None make it like Auntie Muni does. Wide bowls full of spicy rice mushed with black-eyed beans, hard-boiled eggs bathed in pepper sauce, spicy shiito sauce, spaghetti, tender fried plantains, and fried chicken legs are tossed around the counter as Auntie Muni and her sisters serve long lines of customers waakye in large metal bowls. Believe it or not, her waakye contains all the ingredients listed above. Groups of friends come together and share a bowlful, usually eating with their hands—I feel sheepish asking for forks. Next to her stand are rows of picnic tables, usually full of Ghanaians devouring the meal.

Once you find a seat and put down your bowl, you mash the ingredients together so that each bite yields you a delectable variety of flavors. (I have not gotten it with chicken—perhaps that would be excluded from the mixing.) Auntie Muni is well known in Accra for having the best waakye, and for having a big crowd. Because of this, people gather there to sell sunglasses, MTN phone cards, fruit, and various other goods depending on the day. Coolers full of sachet water, Fantas, Cokes, Sprites, and bottled water are available for customers to purchase a drink to quell the burning of their tongues, as the spice in Auntie Muni’s shiito is not for the faint of heart. In this picture, Auntie Muni is sitting at her stand.

During orientation we were taken to an art museum. In the lobby was a giant shoe-shaped coffin. The bottom floor of that museum was dedicated to woodwork: more coffins, masks, statues, and beads were piled high in the rooms. The upper floors contained cloth, statues, and paintings. The artwork was so colorful and whimsical and full of movement. Smiling faces, tall bodies, bootylicious curves were depicted on canvases and bright colors glowed from every corner of the rooms.

 

The majority of art here in Ghana is sold in stalls on the street, by vendors walking through traffic, or in markets. Local Ghanaian men carve masks and statues of dancing women to sell in their shops. Some sell bracelets and necklaces made with handcrafted beads. Others walk around markets holding their paintings, colorful works on thick canvas-like material.

 

Another outlet for artistic talent is through drum making. Ranging from keychain-sized to my size, drums are an art as intricate and complex as paintings or sculptures. Some are made using one single tree trunk. Traditional Adinkra symbols are carved into the wood, giving meaning to the instrument. Animal skin is fastened tightly on top, and the drum is struck by a hand or a mallet. Skillful hands can beat out polyrhythmic songs with their drums; at drum circles up to a dozen rhythms are played at once. The primary beat in a rhythmic song is sounded by feet, by dancers stamping on the dirt ground. A well-respected position in Ghana is a Master Drummer, a man so skilled at drumming that he gives new meaning to the craft.

 

I have seen a Master Drummer drum once, I think. There is a nearby market called the Arts Center, where art in all forms is sold. I tend to frequent this market, despite the overwhelmingly enthusiastic and grabby vendors. On my third or fourth visit, I was with a few friends and we were all looking at beads and backpacks. We saw a Ghanaian man there whom we had met before, and he took us to his drum shop. He handcrafted drums in his workshop and sold them here. We sat down and he brought us large drums, announcing that we were going to get a lesson.

 

We began to repeat the rhythms he beat, slowly learning a thirty-second song. After we had mastered that, we asked him to play another rhythm for us. He smiled and began to drum so intensely and skillfully that it sounded as though there were at least five people playing. His hands danced across the top of the drum in entirely different patterns. Each struck a different section of the drum, sometimes venturing to tap the wooden rim. He drummed for at least twenty minutes, finishing after a finale with two men from the next stall joining in for a few beats. I don’t know if he really was a Master Drummer, but it is hard to imagine a drummer more masterful than that.

The picture here is of a small drum bought at the Arts Center. 

At our house meeting last night, an NYU staff member told us, “Some people may say that you are not getting the true, authentic Ghanaian experience because your accommodations are so nice. All the security, the nice facilities, the air-conditioned academic center—well, you know what? Despite what people may think, plenty of Ghanaians live this way.”

 

It is true that in Accra and Kumasi, many people do have climate-controlled houses with fancy kitchens and water heaters. However, the vast majority of Ghanaians live without these luxuries. In the outskirts of Accra, many houses do not have running water or proper mosquito protection. In more rural areas, people live in huts and gather water by hand from a communal pump. Many remote areas cannot afford such water mechanisms, and instead get water from a lake that also serves as the village’s bath and toilet.

 

The cultural differences between the cities and villages in Ghana are fascinating. Residents of the city have careers in technology, banking, and government. The main source of income for villagers is farming. On Friday nights, city-dwellers flock to popular Highlife clubs and bars, while local “spots” and palm wine bars make up nightlife in villages.

 

Religion varies between the two, as well. Although the majority of the population is Christian, they continue to observe some rites and holidays of the traditional religions. In general, the more rural the town, the more traditional religion plays a part. There is also a significant Muslim population concentrated in the North. As a result of these factors, superstitions derived from traditional religion are taken very seriously in villages. For example, widows in Muslim areas and villages are often subjected to traditional funeral rites that can involve degrading or harmful practices. These are illegal, and are virtually never seen in cities like Accra or Kumasi.

 

While these cities have succeeded in banning inhumane rites, they still have many civil rights concerns. Healthcare in the country is seriously lacking since the doctor to patient ratio is 1:13000. As a result, access to healthcare is extremely difficult. In cities, if someone has a health problem, they must go to the hospital and wait for a doctor to diagnose them. Oftentimes, a concrete diagnosis does not come and the patient is just treated for malaria. In villages there is even more difficulty obtaining health services. The primary obstacle blocking villagers from accessing healthcare is transportation. Buses run occasionally, but are costly and slow. Depending on the distance and condition of the patient, some villagers walk great distances to the nearest clinic. The Ghanaian government has set up a sturdy infrastructure to grant basic healthcare to citizens, but it is useless if nobody can travel to the center.

 

I have been living in Accra, and have traveled to other towns in the south of Ghana as well as to Togo. Half of these trips have been sponsored by the NYU campus, and half have been planned with other students. There is a significant difference between the two experiences. On NYU-sponsored trips, I identify with MacCannel’s idea of Staged Authenticity. We drive around on a large tour bus packed with Obrunis. We are taken on tours of slums and speed past villagers who gawk at us. We see and do awesome things, but nothing has the feeling of a truly authentic experience. I think that it is impossible to achieve such a feeling with this conspicuous group. On independent trips, we fend for ourselves to get lodging, food, and activities, which already adds a level of authenticity to a trip. We spend time with locals and try to blend in. We will always stand out, though, and are a constant target for begging children and locals trying to sell artwork or jewelry.

 

The experience that I cite as my most authentic in my time here was the home-stay weekend. I left the group of NYU students and my host brother took me to his house in a small town outside of Accra. We spent time with his friends, who were curious but relaxed around me. I spent three days living in his house and participating in daily activities in a Ghanaian home. I will continue to seek out authenticity and cultural intimacy in my travels, but it seems to me that this goal is inevitably out of reach for a white woman in Ghana.

The image here was taken by me of a typical house in Accra protected by barbed wire and a gate.

“Ghana: Understanding the People and Their Culture” offers a brief and somewhat limited perspective on the lives of Ghanaians. While the factual historical and demographic aspects of the book are accurate, the chapters devoted to the culture and people are very one-sided.

 

One section of the book details the effects of urbanization and Western influence on Ghanaian society. The text argues that Ghanaian customs have been overshadowed by Western practices. For instance, “The number of wives and children as a yardstick of social status has been replaced by conspicuous consumption in the form of fancy cars, expensive clothing and membership of exclusive Western associations such as Rotary and Masons.” From what I have seen of the culture here in Accra, which is the most Westernized city in Ghana, this is not true.

 

Many Ghanaians have adopted some Western clothing, but authentic African prints and styles are still very popular. At events such as weddings, funerals, and weekly church services, there is virtually no presence of Western clothing or decoration. These are held in local languages, as well, although the majority of Ghanaians speak fluent English. As for exclusive Western associations, I feel confident in saying that they have little to no influence on daily life or culture of the country.

 

Rich Ghanaians do like fancy cars, however. These could certainly be seen as a status symbol in the society. The vast majority of cars on the road are taxis and trotros, both of which usually look like a strong wind would shatter their very framework. So it stands out when a sleek black car zips down the street—it is known that this must be one rich Ghanaian.

 

While the book’s description of Ghanaian culture leaves much to be desired, the authors offer an artful description of the practice of traveling.  Discussing culture shock, they write, “These initial impressions, however, fade quickly into the periphery of consciousness as visitors are submerged into the daily life of the community.” This sentiment resonates with me, as I find myself somehow acclimated to life in this city. Things that I used to notice and gawk at, I now find commonplace: children hoisting large quantities of Fan-Ice onto their heads to sell, men openly urinating on the side of highways, lizards dancing behind bushes, goats running alongside the road as taxis speed by. Together, these details form the lovely picture of life in Ghana.

 

In the picture attached to this entry, a Ghanaian boy is wearing a traditional African shirt. (Taken by me)

Americans are known for eating too much. The USA is the birthplace of McDonalds, the world’s most mysterious cheeseburger. Our plates have expanded to twice the size they should be as our obesity rate flies off the charts. So I was quite surprised when I came to Ghana and found that I, of strong American stomach, was no match for the culinary culture of the country.

 

Maybe it is the spice—Ghanaian dishes give new meaning to the word. Perhaps it is the fact that, as a vegetarian, I am not used to eating meat- or fish-based foods every day. But what most likely causes this reaction of foreigners to Ghanaian food is the very composition of the cuisine here.

 

Fufu, banku, and kenkey are all variations of the same popular dish:  starches such as potatoes, cassava, plantains, and maize are ground into a fine powder, which is then fermented and made into a thick, dough-like ball. It is served with a variety of soups: fisherman’s stew, palmnut soup, groundnut soup, and okra soup being the most popular. These are all prepared with heavy doses of oils and fats, which drift to the surface of the bowl in little bubbles. All in all, it is quite a digestive adventure for a foreigner.

 

Ghanaians love these dishes. Eating them from an early age, they crave the decidedly full feeling that one gets after consuming a bowl. Unfortunately it is quite hard to develop a taste for this, a juxtaposition to the unsatisfied feeling that Ghanaians get after eating a plate of American or European food. Two hours later you are hungry, they say.

 

Jollof rice, redred, and waakye are more foreigner-friendly dishes. Made with local peppers, tomatoes, and palmnut oil, heaping plates of the deliciously steaming foods are served to Ghanaians and Obrunis alike. Like American Thanksgiving dishes, each family makes these foods differently, and it is a point of pride to our Ghanaian RA that her mother makes the best jollof in Kumasi.

 

In a Ghanaian home or restaurant, it is constantly embarrassing to leave food on the plate. I am reminded of fast-food Italian restaurants in America—after overfilling your belly it looks as though you haven’t made a dent!

 

The waiter comes to collect the still-full bowl and says nothing, but dons a disappointed expression that speaks volumes. I try to compliment the food but am too stuffed to speak. At the table next to me, two Ghanaian women are slurping fufu soaked with soup out of their fingers, effortlessly eating the whole bowl. What an Obruni I am!

 

“What?”

“Ziggy-Ziggy. Do you like it?” The stout Ghanaian man grabbed my arm and led me along.

“What’s that?” I tried not to trip in the uneven dirt road.

“Ziggy-Ziggy.” The man made a thrusting gesture with his fist.

“Fighting?” I could not imagine what he meant.

“You are a grown woman, you do not know what ziggy-ziggy is?”

“I don’t think that’s a word, sir.”

“With the girls. You give them ziggy-ziggy.” Oh! Ziggy-Ziggy is sex. This old man was hitting on me. Damn it.

“Okay, bye!” I pulled myself away from his grasp and walked towards my friends, who were at the nearby stand where the elderly pervert was leading me.

Sadly, this is a common occurrence here in Accra. I have a desire to think the best in people and to get to know the locals. This causes problems because it is hard to tell when you shouldn’t. Quite often, men whom I talk to for a few minutes do not let me leave the conversation, asking for my phone number or address, complimenting me on my unseen beauty (which he again sees in my friend ten minutes later), proposing marriage to me, or begging me to take him back to America with me. Being a friendly and generally nice person, it results in constant guilt and awkwardness. Further, it means that I have an aversion to indulge any man in a conversation or a dance, for fear of being accosted later.

Last weekend, when my host brother picked me up at the AFS Home-stay office, I had the expectation that we would be spending the weekend pounding fufu, going to Ghanaian events, and doing typical chores around the house. He had other plans: a weekend-long date with his token Obruni woman. How do you politely communicate to your host that you are not actually interested in watching movies with him in his bed? I’ll tell you this from experience: it’s a lot harder to do in Twi.

The vast majority of the people I have met here in Accra speak English. Except for a few instances, communication has been doable. Challenging, and oftentimes leaving me feeling uncertain about the actual subject of a conversation I have just had, but leaving me generally able to perform the necessary daily activities.

“What is this dish?” I pointed out one of the few items in the vegetarian section of the menu.

“Is vegetable with sauce.”

“And this one?”

“Is vegetable with sauce.” The waiter repeated his answer.

“So… what’s the difference between these two?”

He pointed to the first one. “This sauce,” he moved his hand down the menu to the next item I had inquired about, “this balls.”

“Balls?"

“The vegetable balls.”

“What are they?” I asked, curious about what they were made with.

“Is a ball with vegetable.” He mimed holding a ball with his hands.

 “Is it fresh vegetables shaped a ball? Or is it a ball made from vegetables?”

“Yes.” The waiter nodded vigorously.

“Which?”

“What?”

“I’ll just have that.” I smiled.

Ahh, the language barrier. It always makes for an unexpected experience.

The picture here was taken by me in Elmina, Ghana.

When thinking about transportation in Ghana, my visit to the Shai Hills Nature Reserve comes to mind as a quintessential tale in this countrywide game of chicken. We walked out to the main road in North Labone and were immediately accosted by taxi drivers wanting to know if we needed a ride. We told two drivers our destination, referencing the map in our guidebook. They wanted 30 cedis each; after a few minutes of bargaining we agreed on 20.

 

We were seated four each in two cabs. My driver seemed to know where he was going and led the other taxi. An hour later, we were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic, the driver grumbling about the time he was wasting. He turned to me in the seat next to him and told me it was a longer drive than he had thought. Uh-oh, I thought. Here it comes.

 

“You give me dash,” he told me.

 

“What?”

 

“You give me dash.”

 

“Um, we agreed on twenty cedis,” I hesitantly resisted.

 

“Yes, twenty cedi! But you give me a dash. It is a long way. You give me dash.” He gestured wildly with his hands, emphasizing the great distance he would venture for us.

 

“You knew how long it was,” I reminded him. “Twenty cedis is a fair price.”

 

He grumbled and continued driving. When we got out of Accra, it became clear that our driver had no idea where he was going. The other cab had left, gone a more direct route to the reserve. We were stuck on a dirt road, our cab driver stopping every few minutes to ask locals directions.

 

Hours later, when we arrived at our destination, I handed the driver twenty cedis and he yelled at me, a disgusted look on his face, “Not enough! Not enough! You give me dash!” One of my friends threw him another ten cedis and he drove away, begrudgingly placated.

 

That evening, we were exhausted, dehydrated, sweaty, and dirty from our day of hiking in the hot African sun. Sipping water and sodas, we stood by the road and looked for a taxi; there were none to be found. Eager to get home, we allowed ourselves to be ushered into a trotro—a bus or van crammed with Ghanaians, traveling into the center of Accra. We sat on each other’s laps and doubled up in seats.

 

They charged us 2 cedi, 50 pesuas per person for the hour-long ride. We thought that it should have been only 2 cedi, but our group had overloaded the trotro so we were okay with giving a little extra. The van bounded forward, breaking 100 mph on the highway, weaving in and out of taxis and buses. At a police checkpoint, a few people got out so there was the proper amount of passengers in the car; the trotro stopped a few yards past the station and they got back on board.

 

Having successfully evaded the police, the trotro manager asked us where we were going. We told him our neighborhood, and he offered to take us to our door for 10 extra cedis. No thank you, we told him. From the center of Accra to our home is only a 3 cedi cab ride.

 

Nevertheless, we were let out in our neighborhood, North Labone. Appreciative that we would be able to walk home, yet skeptical as to why we were dropped off there, my group climbed out of the van. The manager followed us out: “10 cedis,” he demanded.

 

“We told you we didn’t want to pay extra,” we reminded him. “We said any stop was fine.”

 

He laughed. “Okay, 8 cedi. One for each of you. This not a stop. We stop here for you. You pay us 8 cedis.”

 

“We already overpayed you. We each paid 2.50 cedi when it should have been 2.” We were not going to be fooled.

 

“2.50 cedi for the ride. 1 more cedi because we stop for you,” he insisted.

 

“The other passengers paid 2 cedi. We already paid you enough. We told you we weren’t paying extra.”

 

“This not a stop, we stop here for you!”

 

We continued arguing with him for a while, until—“here.” The same friend who had paid extra to the cab driver that morning, was now appeasing another man with money. “It’s not that much. Just give it to him.”

 

This is the tourist mentality that drives Ghanaians to rip off Obrunis like us. As a result of actions such as these, cabs harass us on the street, drivers are convinced they can guilt us into paying extra, and people blatantly lie to us about the price of things. This is the very nature of the Ghanaian transportation system: know exactly what you’re getting into, because if you don’t, they’ll eat you alive.

 

In the picture here (taken by yours truly), you can see traffic on a main street in Accra.

 

It has been almost one month since I arrived here in Accra, Ghana. As such, I was a little apprehensive when I read the prompt for this week—arrival was so long ago. However, while reading Botton today, the day came rushing back to me. I left the Newark airport on a freezing Sunday afternoon. As I said goodbye to my parents, I handed them my winter coat, knowing I wouldn’t need it for the next five months.
 
Sure enough, after being indoors for the next twenty-four hours, I stepped out of the plane onto African soil and felt as though I had stumbled into a furnace. I found out later that week that this was the cold season, or “harmattan.” From January until about April, the dry season in the north of Africa causes dust from the Sahara to blow south and cover the continent in a cloud of dust. The sky is a haze of brown and the sun peeks through only due to its sheer brightness. Fluffy white clouds, blue sky, and stars all vanish during this season, and any moisture in the air is sucked up by the dehydrated earth.
 
As I was escorted home by our Ghanaian RA, I was struck by the traffic pattern on the streets. I suddenly understood what my travel guide meant when it said that Ghanaian driving could be roughly equated to a country-wide game of chicken. Taxis were zooming in and out of the unmarked lanes, very much uninhibited by the lack of road signs. Buses crammed with locals flew past our car; I later found out that they were “tro-tros,” the primary method of cheap transportation utilized by Ghanaians. I saw women carrying large baskets of goods on their heads, which fascinated me at first but I have now come to see as part of the beauty that is Africa.
 
The next day, I was introduced to “Auntie Marian,” the academic director of the NYU in Accra campus. It is customary in Ghana to address your elders or superiors as “auntie” or “uncle,” while classmates and friends are your “sisters” and “brothers.” While I was hesitant to use these titles at first, feeling unnatural calling people who I had just met my uncles and aunts, I have in fact come to love the unity that this custom promotes. In a weird way, this is a microcosm of my experience in Ghana thus far: although the traditions and ways of life here are entirely foreign to me, they are all part of what makes this place beautiful; a center of love and togetherness, full of the most generous and caring people I have ever met.
 
The photo attached to this entry is one that I took at the Shai Hills Reserve. I went hiking with a few friends in the midday African sun. After a few miles we were all dehydrated; by the time we got to the end I felt like I was going to die. Our tour guide brought us to the staff housing and gave us Fantas and Sprites to ease our pain. The women were entirely welcoming of a group of “obrunis” traipsing into their home, and their children delighted in having their pictures taken.

I have been working at the Human Rights Advocacy Center for about a week now, yet I feel as though I have just arrived. There are a few other NYU students working at the center with me, and we have been swept up in a whirlwind of cases and policies and clients and laws.

Now, please keep this in mind: I am a second-year undergraduate student. The closest I have come to having a legal background is appealing a traffic ticket last year in court. So to come into a city as foreign to me as Accra, with a legal system so different from that of America, and to be asked to research and take charge of cases is to approach a very daunting task. Many clients here at the center do not know English, but rather speak Twi or Ga. Their conflicts involve concepts as foreign to me as tribal rituals, intricate relationships between police and locals, and a legal system in which no citizens place their trust.

I have been assigned a few cases, whose details I am permitted from divulging. I want to give you a general idea of the work that I am doing, however. One case involves a clan in Ghana who is having a chieftaincy dispute which has resulted in police harassment of one family of the tribe. My second case is a prisoner who has been detained in jail without a trial for many years. This is a very common occurrence in Ghana and the HRAC has absorbed many of these cases in the interest of stopping these illegal oversights.

In addition, I am tasked with researching an organization which the Ghanaian constitution mandates will educate citizens on their rights, but which has been inactive for several years. The HRAC wishes to get the organization up and running in order to achieve freedom of information in Ghana. Finally, the other interns and I have each been asked to write articles for the first HRAC newsletter on various human rights issues in Ghana. I will be researching the situation of widows in Ghana, since they are often forced into inhumane and degrading practices. For example, in the North of Ghana, a widow is often made to sit naked on a reed mat for days or weeks after the death of her husband, and is subjected to sexual violence and rape by a man who will then claim the woman as his new wife.

As overwhelming as these cases seem, I am eager to dive in and make a difference in someone’s life. There is much for me to learn here, both about Ghanaian law and from Ghanaians. About five times a day, however, I have to stop myself from calling my third-year-law-student sister and appealing to her for advice!

The image attached to this entry is one which I took of the Kwame Nkrumah memorial.