Kim's blog

 
I can’t believe that this semester is over. I can still remember the first month when I was miserable and wishing I could go back to New York and be with my friends and eat good food and not have people yell, stare and grab at me when I walk down the street. While these wishes still hold true, I have grown to love Ghana and all its funkiness. It wasn’t really until about a month ago that I truly felt acclimated and realized the beauty of being an obruni. Although the attention definitely made me uncomfortable for a while, it also made me break out of my shell and learn to take advantage of the fact I can walk around without any make up, with my unwashed hair on top of my head with crazy fabric tied in it. In fact I really should do this everyday because when will I ever have the opportunity to do this again?
 
Aside from constantly feeling like a celebrity, I’m really going to miss getting to live in a house with my amazing friends and spending a disgusting amount of time together. I’m also going to miss the 100 degree weather (never thought I would say that, but I’m finally used to it) and also all the cheap prices. Or actually, the lack of set prices, and the constant bargaining for things. Also, getting ‘dashed’ gifts from people like my produce lady who ‘dashes’ me three tomatoes every time I buy four from her. O man, and getting the best pineapple and coconuts on the street everyday for like 30 to 70 cents. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to justify a buying a $5 drink at Starbucks when I could feed myself off that for a week in Ghana. I also know I’ll miss people sharing so much. When ever anyone buys food for themselves on a Tro-Tro, they instinctively offer it to everyone around them. This is such a nice thing as it immediately connects people. I totally want to bring this idea to the subways back in New York, but I have a feeling it won’t go over so well.
 
In addition to food sharing skills, I think patience is another quality I picked up in Ghana that I hope to bring back with me to New York. Between 24 hours spent on a sticky, smelly, broken down bus to waiting an hour for a meal, only to find out the waiter had the order wrong, I am confident that I have become a far more tolerant and optimistic person than I was at the being of the semester. I want to also continue to be more globally aware, even if it means placing myself in uncomfortable surroundings in order to discover new people and things. I want to keep being a doer-just because I’m no longer in a foreign country does not mean I don’t have a ton more to discover. This semester had been truly life changing and I know that I will never forget everything I have learned here and all the amazing people I have met. 

image source: photo taken by me of my group of friends chilling at the school yard we always hang out in on one of our last nights

I got my first tattoo last Thursday. A few girls on my program met a tattoo artist a few days ago and my friend Kate, who already has three tattoos, called him and made an appointment for him to come to our dorms and giver her a tattoo. I had a hard time believing that this kind of thing was legit, so I was completely shocked when I came home from class to find Kate, hunched in a chair with her shirt off and back faced towards an unfamiliar Ghanaian man. I sat down next to her to distract her from the fact that Mother Culture Mother Nature was being etched into her back, but mostly I sat and watched in amazement. I had never seen anyone get a tattoo before, nor was I really interested in them. I had played around with idea of getting this little doodle of a sewing needle with a thread going through it (I sew a bunch back home and like to make my own clothes) someplace on my body, but never really considered it seriously.
            Earlier in the semester, I was talking to my friend (the same one who got a tattoo at our dining room table) about my potential tattoo idea. I told her that I was unsure what exactly, but I wanted the thread in the drawing to turn into a formation of something meaningful to me. After getting to know me better, Kate suggested that I get the New York City skyline (I’ve lived there my whole life and it’s an obvious part of my personality once you get to know me).
            Flash forward to the second to last week of the semester. Reaching up to this point, I have had so many unexpected experiences and done so many things that I never thought I would do. So why not add one more insane thing to the list? I decided right then that I wanted my tattoo and I wanted to get it right now, in my living room, in Africa. I had a drawing of what I wanted it to roughly look like, but I’m not really the best when it comes to drawing. Luckily I had art class in a few minutes and had my friend who is an art major help me draw out the building exactly how I wanted it (I guess normally you would have the tattoo artist do this, but something told me the Ghanaian man in my living room who barely spoke English didn’t have the slightest clue what the skyline looks like). After class, my friend Rebecca helped me fix it up a bit and added two little stitches to the right side.
            I watched three of my classmate get tattoos and it only made me more pumped to get one. My original hesitance had nothing to do with the artwork or the meaning behind it, but whether or not I wanted it on my body for life. Do I want to be a mom with a tat? Yes! I got it on my back, to the right of my spine. It hurt for the first second and then my adrenalin distracted me from feeling anything. It came out smaller than I had expected, which I am pleased about. It’s super dainty and delicate. It’s perfect. I figure if someday sewing and New York City are no longer important to me, at least I will have the memory of the four months I spent in Africa, the people I met and all the crazy stuff we did together. 

Image source: myself-sorry for the weird myspacey photobooth pic, no one was around to take one for me!

I don’t think that studying abroad in Ghana is for everyone. However, if you are thinking about it ever so slightly, DO IT! Living in Ghana for the past four months has hands down been the most life-changing experience of my life and even though I feel like and advertisement whenever I describe my semester to someone, I just think it’s an amazing place and highly recommend it as a study abroad site. That being said, there are a few pieces of advice that I wish someone had shared with me before my arrival in Ghana:

1. Do not come with any expectations. That is not to say that some will not be met or even exceed your expectations (like my experiences traveling out of state, the people I met etc) but a lot of things will not meet your expectations (i.e. the internet, transportation, and a lot of things that you normally wouldn’t think twice about in America) When you don’t have any expectations for how things will work in this country, you will be pleasantly surprised when they do!

2. Integrate yourself into the culture. This can be anything from getting some clothes made, trying the local cuisine, going to any cultural even (movie premiers are way different in Ghana than in the US) or even just talking to some locals when your out instead of just your peers. This was probably the hardest thing for me at first, but looking back I’m so grateful for having the opportunity to do things in Ghana that I know I could never do (or get away with) anywhere else in the world. Also make sure you learn a few basic terms in Twi- people will really respect you for it and you’ll probably get ‘dashed’ a few vegetables from the produce lady, or she’ll just like you more.

3. Take advantage of NYU’s resources while you’re here! Go on as many of the excursions as possible (esp. Cape Coast, Tamale and Wli Falls!!). They are technically already paid for and show you all the different aspects of Ghana that anyone would suggest you visit when coming to Ghana. And NYU organizes everything and carts you around everywhere to make it super easy! That being said, don’t over extend yourself. It’s totally fine to stay back from a group trip on a weekend when you need to catch up on work/ sleep/ alone time.

4. Figure out all your financial stuff before you get here! How much are willing to budget per month? Take out the maximum you are willing to spend per month and keep in your safe to avoid withdrawal fees (the more you take out at the ATM at once, the better the rate) Don’t plan on using a credit card anywhere-no one accepts them. Also, don’t forget to call your bank before leaving America! I go lucky, but I know a few people who had their cards eaten by the ATM because they forgot to notify their banks they were going to be out of the country.

5. Walk around and get to know the neighborhood right away! Labone seems confusing and doesn’t make any sense at first, especially coming from New York where everything is built on a grid, but soon you will figure it out and learn all the short cuts (**hint** when walking to the academic center from Church Cresent, turn right just before the Crystal Rose Hotel and then follow that path until to get to a gutter. Walk along the gutter and you will come out right in front of the academic center with a few minutes shaved off your commute!)

6. Talk with other NYU in Ghana students! They are feeling the same discomfort as you in the beginning. While it can be easy to isolate yourself, your peers are really your best resources for advice and support because they are also missing the same things and feel like they’re going to crap their pants 24/7 too! Also, everyone (for the most part) who goes to NYU in Ghana is the chillest, most down to earth people at NYU and you will all feel like family at the end of the semester. Plus you’ll have a bunch of new circles of friends to hang out with in New York

Hope that helps! And if you just arrived in Ghana and are reading this, know that I am extremely jealous and also get ready for the most amazing and insane semester of your life!

(image source: my own. Women at a shea butter cooperative in Northern Ghana that we visited on an excursion to Tamale)

This year I celebrated the most amazing Thanksgiving I have ever. It was first time celebrating outside of America or without any of my (blood-related) family members. Seeing as I have been a vegan for the past year and a vegetarian for most of my life, I had never been stuck on the traditions that are typical to a normal American Thanksgiving (i.e. overindulging in copious amounts of dead bird) One tradition that I’ve always stuck to is being surrounded by people that I love and this year I definitely stayed true to that.

November 25th was not just our big Thanksgiving dinner, it was also one of my closest friends that I met on this program 20th birthday, so we had extra celebrating to do. NYU didn’t cancel any classes, but my Thursday schedule is pretty amazing; African dance in the morning followed by a sign painting workshop during my studio art class. After showering and putting on my finest garb which, considering I didn’t really bring anything very nice to Ghana combined with the fact that I hadn’t done laundry in close to a month, it wasn’t the easiest task. After I was dressed, I walked outside to courtyard area in the middle of all the houses at Church Cresent. I almost didn’t recognize it. They had brought in a huge white tent and three long tables, which seated all the NYU in Ghana students, staff members and a few community members, scattered throughout.

I sat down at my table and my friend immediately handed me two gin sachets. These are kind of like oversized ketchup packets filled with…you guessed it…gin! This was accompanied in my glass by some Whispers of Summer juice. So good. Then the food started to pile out. I had my usual heaps of salad and vegetables and someone even made squash for the vegetarians! I had forgotten about fall foods.

After eating an amazing meal, we all passed around a microphone and said what we were thankful for. Then the dance party began. All of NYU in Ghana including the CRA’s and staff, even our two amazing drivers, got up and showed off their best moves. We demonstrated all the African dance techniques we’re acquired over the semester and just how much of out minds we have lost along the way. After eating, cha-cha-sliding and sweating the night away, all my friends went into my house and we all brought our beds out into the living room and had a giant sleep over. This year when we went around the table and said what we were thankful for, I had a moment of clarity. I wasn’t just thankful for the usual surface level stuff; hummus, my metabolism, fun parties with friends etc. I realized just how truly thankful I am for having everything I am fortunate enough to have and to be able to do the things that I am doing with the people I love.

(image source: my own: Kate and Max breakin' it dowwn)

Before coming to Ghana, I had very little interest in traveling abroad or even leaving my native home of New York City. I still can’t remember exactly why I decided to come, but I did and the first week blew by way to fast for me to absorb what was happening and where I was. By the second week, when classes started and my new routine began to fall into place, reality set in. I realized that my life for the next four months would consist of sharing a bedroom with two people I did not know, sweating, trying to decipher English language that I don’t believe qualifies as English, and sweating some more. Needless to say, I was homesick. I won’t lie I cried to my mom many a times on the phone, begging her not to go and to just talk to me about nothing just so I could hear her voice. I had never experienced this feeling ever before in my life! I didn’t feel anything close to this my first summer going away to sleep away camp and I was only nine years old then.

On page six of the text On Habit, De Bottom stated “It seems inconceivable that there could be anything new to find in a place where we have been living for a decade or more. We have become habituated and therefore blind to it.” I don’t really agree with this statement. New York City, which has been my home for all twenty years of my life, intrigues me everyday that I am there. There is always something new to discover. In high school (actually I still do this every so often) when I felt bored, I would just get on a random subway and get out at a stop I had never been to before and explore a new neighborhood, or better familiarized myself with one I rarely visit. Even after living Ghana for three and a half months I still find new things everyday-a new chop bar or a shortcut to the academic center that could have shaved 5 whole minutes off my morning commute.

I guess I would call myself a creature of habit-I like to know what to expect and feel in control in my surroundings. Upon arrival, I felt like I was coming to Ghana completely blind sighted, and every day I experienced something foreign. Some of the trickiest things to adjust to was time. Ghana has its own clock and everyone seemed to tell time on it with ease except me. Restaurants close by 7pm and you won’t find anything open on Sundays. I could imagine myself making it through the entire semester like this. What would I do without my corner store if I needed a snack at one in the morning?! Tomorrow we are having a “re-entry workshop” to discuss what it will be like to adjust back to life in America. even though I’m excited to go back to my friends and family and the fast pace of New York, I’m going to miss this place a ton. I’ve grown to love Ghana in all its wackiness, but in doing so have developed an even greater appreciation for my life in New York.

(image source: my own)

One person I encounter nearly on a daily basis, who I think accurately embodies a true Ghanaian, is Uncle Tego. Uncle Tego is one of the many lovely security guards who work at the NYU academic center. Everyday I am greeted by a joyfully exclaimed “Kiiiim-Kiiiiim” or a nice, long, “Kiiiimbeeerrrrleeeeeeee” accompanied by  a high-five-finger-snap that is a common greeting by Ghanaians. In fact, Uncle Tego has taken on the liberty to create an individual  nickname for almost all of the students. I can’t help but smile as I walk through the gate and reciprocate with a “how are YOUUU, Uncle Tego?” in my best Ghanaian accent. He generally response “I am fine” but mostly just laughs. Even if I am in a bad mood, I can’t help but feel smiley after seeing his big, toothy grin.
 
Even though I haven’t exchanged many words besides our names for one another, I feel as though I get a complete sense of his character and know that there can’t possibly have a mean bone in his body. I Ghana, your call elders Uncle or Aunte out of respect, but I wish I could say Uncle Tego was my real uncle.
 
As I mentioned before, he is very much like a typical Ghanaian in that he is very friendly and simple in his interactions with others, but Uncle Tego strikes me as being shyer than many of the other locals I have encountered. It is not uncommon for me to be walking down the street and get approached by a Ghanaian who declares “I like you. You are my friend.” Just as simple as that, done I have a new friend, whether I want one or not. I imagine Uncle Tego to be friendly to everyone he encounters; on and off the job. However, I once say him walking down the road by school in normal clothes (as apposed to his security uniform) and I nearly walked right passed his. If it he hadn’t opened his mouth to reveal his adorable smile, I would have mistaken him for just another Ghanaian. 

Labone, the suburb where the NYU in Ghana dorms are located, is kind of a weird place. From an architectural standpoint, it can be described as sterile, cold, uninviting and exclusive. Walking down my block, I feel like I am in an endless maze. The dirt roads are lined with open gutters, which also double as public restrooms. The circumference of each house has thick, white, uninviting walls, which are lined either with rusted nails, shards of glass, or barbed wire, or sometimes a combination of the three on the top. Most of the homes, which appear to be pretty big from what I can see over the six foot tall barricades, also have a security guard outside. I have never felt personally threatened by Labone (maybe aside from the architecture and intimidatingly huge guard dogs that jump above the fence to bark as I walk by- one dog in particular that I am convinced is conditioning itself to hop over the fence one day and rip me to shreds) So, seeing all this high-tech security everyday is more confusing and concerning than it is comforting. Back in New York I live in Bushwick and I always joke that the amount of security we have here would be more appropriate if we has NYU in Bushwick as a study abroad site (that would be amazing, right?)
 
Another strange thing that I wrote about my blog post in response to the first book I read  for this class is that no matter how long I stay in Labone, I will never not stand out as an obruni. What is even more bazaar is that our blatantly awkward transplant to this place does not go unnoticed by anyone. During orientation we were informed that our arrival in Labone had been highly anticipated. Apparently, the permanent residents of Labone know all about us. From the students who attend the local universities (some who have made a name for themselves as “obruni-chasers”) to the security guard who stop me and make me show him my entire photo project on the way to the academic center for my critique. We are famous here.
 
I don’t mean to sound so complain-y every time I describe Labone either in a blog post here or when I talk to people back in New York. I will admit that I know I will totally miss these feelings of fame when I get back home. Today for example, I went to a big market and while walking around, every woman working in the stalls called out “Obruni! Obruni! What would you like?” I’ve never had a personal shopper before-someone who literally grabbed my hand and walked me through the market ensuring I find every little knick-knack my heart desired. I know I will never experience this much attention again and it kind of scares me. I can’t help but think about how I will feel when I walk down the street or sit on the subway and I am not longer the obvious minority. As someone who has always valued the level of anonymity one can have in New York, this has definitely been the most obvious change I have seen in myself since moving to Labone. 

(image source: my own)

Photo taken by me,  of Trevor and the kids in Kuma Konda

I was surprised at how much I could relate George Packer’s book “The Village of Waiting” to my own experience in Africa. The book chronicles the author’s time as a volunteer for the Peace Corps working as an English teacher. After staying in Lome for a bit, he is stationed in Lavie, a remote village, in Togo. I really enjoyed the fact that Packer did not romanticize what life in a rural village is like. Although he is describing his time in a Togo almost thirty years before my own visit, it appears that there has been little change.
 
I have been to Togo twice since I’ve arrived in Africa. Once just to stay in Lome, the capital city for one night and the other time to a town called Kpalime. During the my second visit, which I blogged about before, my friends and I hired a tour guide to take us to a village on the top of a mountain called Kuma Kanda. Our wonderful tour guide, Jerome, met us at the chop bar we were having breakfast at. We talked for a while our food cooked. We found out that Jerome is from Kuma Kanda originally and moved to Kpalime to work as a tour guide. He also informed us that he has recently fallen in love for the first time and is getting married in January. Similar to how in the book, Christine lived in the capitol before finding her husband and moving back to his home village to produce children an do domestic work, Jerome told me that he and his bride-to-be will most likely move back  to Kuma Kanda when they decide to start a family. Jerome also told us how he had tried to get a visa to leave Togo and go to the U.K. but even after filling out all the paper work and paying the $100, his application was rejected. He was stuck. 
 
Jerome lead us on took moto-taxis to the top of the mountain. We stopped to meet two artists who have studios at the base of the mountain. Then we continued up the trail and Jerome pointed out cool stuff- ripping coffee beans and different leaves out of the trees for us to eat along the way. He cut a piece of bark off a mango tree  and told us about the many healing properties the bark contains. After the beautiful and informative trek around the mountain, we arrived back where we started at the village center, and sat down to enjoy our packed lunch.
 
A group of little kids gathered on a log about ten feet or so from the table we were eating at. Trevor, being goofy, started making funny faces at the kids. They of course found this to be hilarious and the next time I looked up from my lunch, Trevor was sitting on the log swarmed by little ones. It started off as a group of boys who where playfully laughing at Trevor. Then a little girl, no older than four walked over and sat down between two of the boys. She realized that as a result of the boys flailing their little bodies with laughter, she would not be able to avoid getting pushed around where she was sitting. She quickly rose to her feet and confidently walked right over to Trevor and plopped herself down on his lap. It was the most adorable thing. She was holding a little plastic purse that was ripped on every seam. She proudly opened it up to show Trever what was inside- a broken plastic compact mirror. When I walked over to see what all the commotion was about, Trevor has been calling out the names of Ghanaian food and pretending to eat the kids hands and arms.
“Ahhh, Fufu! Gobble, gobble, gobble". "Banku? Nom,nom,nom!"
The kids roared with laugher. It was only after we left the village that we realized the kids didn’t know a word of English. They probably spoke Ewe or another local dialect and had absolutely no clue what we were saying the whole time. Regardless of our crazy jiberish and white skin that they persistently tried to rub off, they instantly accepted us. It was great, but at the time, I felt a little bit guilty stomping into their home, and being toured around like it was the natural history museum.  
 
Just like Packer made a mental inventory of all the items he saw in the Agbeli’s yard, I too made a note of the objects around me. The children’s toys for the entire village consisted of a deflated soccer ball, two wheels connected by a metal pole that had obviously broken off of a cart or something, and the much desired plastic purse and compact mirror.  At first I felt sad and guilty about how little they had and how the cyclical nature of village life appeared to end with no way out. In the book, Packer points out that poverty isn’t as obvious in the village as it is in a city. Everyone lives in a mud house, wears tattered clothing from Goodwill and shares all the same dilapidated toys. This was a new perspective for me, but one that will definitely not forget as a visit many other villages on this continent. 

My view from the back seat of a three hour long packed Tro-Tro. Photo by me

The weekend I spent in Togo was probably the chillest weekend I’ve had in Africa. I woke up at 7am the day of and told the other people I was going with (a girl named Yasmin who up until then I didn't know very well, her boyfriend Nikkil and my friend Trevor) that I wasn't going (I just woke up and had a weird feeling about it.) After laying in my bed for about five minutes, I mentally slapped myself across the face for even contemplating the trip, got dressed a second time and hopped on a Tro-Tro (African form of public transportation, basically a big sticky van) We drove for about three hours to the Ghana-Togo border. I honestly don't even know how long it took because I have completely lost all concept of time and never know how long things take or what day it is (they call this "Ghana time") I’ve definitely started to notice how much more patient I've become here. Before arriving in Africa, I don't think I would have ever survived a long, ipod-less, un-airconditioned car ride on an extremely bumpy unpaved road. Or at least not without plenty of complaining. But the ride just kind of blew by really quickly.
 
Then we crossed the border and were in Lome, the capital city. I had been there before in passing when I went to Benin a few weekends earlier. It’s pretty shitty to be honest (like literally, human fecal matter everywhere) but the beach looks really pretty from afar. We went and had a nice lunch and some beers at this Lebanese restaurant some friends had suggested we try out. The owner was talking to us (for three hours! whoops) and showing us pictures of his trips and stuff, again, the type of thing that would NEVER go down in New York. I asked him where i should go to exchange money and in one second he had a money-exchanger at the door. When we asked him how we get to the next Tro-Tro station to get to Kpalime (pronounced pal-E-may) he went out and just sat in his car and then when we asked him again, he told us to get in, and then drove us to the station!
 
The next Tro-Tro ride from Lome to Kpalime took about two hours. Since we took so long eating lunch, the sun started setting while we were driving, which was maybe the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen. I swear it was straight out of The Lion King. However, once the sunset, driving was a leeetle bit terrifying. At one point our van was trying to pass a motorcycle, and well, lets just say we heard a loud thump and then didn't see the motorcycle anymore. The driver slowed down for a second, and then just floored it. My friends and I just looked at each other and nervous-laughed because we didn't know what else to do. I may be a murderer??
 
We finally arrived in Kpalime and our Tro-Tro dropped us off at our hotel, a nice place just a few minutes out of the town center. We put our bags down and then wandered down the dark, unfamiliar street to find some food to eat and beer to drink. 

 Photo by me
Coming to Africa with very few expectations, the notion of “authenticity” did not really cross my mind until I left the bubble created by NYU in Ghana that is Accra. During one of our first weekends “off” (of being a group of 42) I traveled with some friends to Benin and briefly stopped through Togo. When we finally arrived in Benin, its beauty totally blew me away. Clean sidewalks (wait actually just excited about the real sidewalks in general!) and closed sewers! What I was most shocked about was even though this was blatantly a French colonized country (it looked really similar to where I stayed with my family in the South of France), it still had a vivid African flare. Almost everyone on the street was dressed in traditional African print outfits and headdresses.
 
What was most pleasantly shocking was that unlike Accra, I felt like I could actually walk down the streets alone in peace. There was one point when half of our group walked ahead and the other half straggled behind and I was left somewhere in the middle. I was nervous at first as I was in a strange country at night, but not one person came up to me to try and sell me anything or even propose marriage!
 
The single conflict that arose among the group was whether or not we should go on a boat tour of this stilt village not too far from where we were staying. Half the group argued that this activity would be the “touristy” thing to do. The other half contended that we are in fact tourists and rather than aimlessly wander around an unfamiliar city we should check out what the guidebook suggested. A short moto-taxi ride later we arrived at a table in front of a body of water. The man at the table told us (in French, which was then translated by one of the two travelers who took French in high school) a price per person for the boat tour that differed from what the guide book said, but with little options, we agreed to pay the price and all piled into the boat.
 
About ten minutes into the boat ride, the tour guide announced that if we wanted him to give us information about the history of the village and if we wanted to get out and walk around when we arrived (he assured us there would be a place to get a drink and a snack) we would have to pay an additional fee. After much debate, we agreed that although it was sneaky for the tour guide not to inform us that we had only paid for the ride there and back, we were already in the boat so it would be silly to not just shell out a little bit more for the full experience, after all, it’s not everyday that you get to take a boat ride around a stilt village in Benin. We also agreed that the French speakers would translate what the tour guide was saying to the rest of the group.
 
We should have seen it coming when everything the tour guide mumbled was basic information we easily could have read straight out of our guide book. When we finally arrived at the stilt village, there were no stilts in sight. Do to an extreme rainy season, the water level of the village had risen and the entire village had been flooded. This happened three weeks prior to our visit. Uhhh thank you for the warning? Our tour guide had obviously taken advantage of us because we were tourists. We desperately tried to see a glimpse of “real” culture in this foreign country, but it proved much harder when its very own inhabitants are so discouraging. 

Me looking at photographs of my "host family" in a freakishly oversized living room Photo Credit: Kate Stockhecker 

Like most of my peers, I was really nervous about doing my first homestay. When we got our family assignments at the pre-homesay meeting, I was relieved to find out that I had been placed with the same family as my friend Kate. Atleast that would take the edge off. Or so I thought…
 
The host families were supposed to pick us up at the AFS (the company that organizes the homestays, apparently the longest running program and most renown) center at 3:00. We were told we should get a ride with our friends host family who lives close by to where we were staying for the weekend. At 6:30pm, Nikil, Kate and I, along with an AFS representative were dropped off at Friday’s (a restaurant in Spintex) Soon after, Nikil was picked up by his host brother and Kate and Iwere assured that our host brother was just stuck in traffic on his way to get us. About an hour or so later, food and beers were ordered and a male friend of the AFS rep showed up. About another hour or so passed with these two older men, and the AFS rep said that he would just drive us to the house. In the car ride over, we were told that our host mother would be so happy to see us, and that we will have three host brothers and a possibly a host sister.
 
When we pulled up to the house (which was about a ten minute drive, not the distance the AFS rep had told us before) he pointed out our home stay house and then lead us into another. There we met his “Serbian friend” and we sat uncomfortably on his couch for about a half hour while he watched a movie in Arabic and chain-smoked. We finally questioned the AFS worker  about our home stay and were lead into the house. It was really big and not too furnished (the living room legitimately looked like a ballroom with a couch shoved in the corner). The three boys, about ages 20-25, seemed surprised to see us. There was no dinner ready (it was now around 9:30pm) and they told us our room was not ready yet. The AFS rep and his friend were still there hanging out with our hosts and told us we were going to go back to Fridays, where two of our friends were going to be with their host family. Kate and I both went to the bathroom and when we returned, they told us that we were tired, and should eat some pasta and go to sleep. The boy who showed us to our room did not know where any of the light switches were located, which lead us to believe that he didn’t actually live there. He showed us to our room that took a long time to “put together” but there was only a bed with a cheetah carpet on top in it and a curtain on top of that. The entire night Kate and I laid in between a curtain and a carpet as we nervous laughed about out eminent death.
 
We woke the next day to find that there was in fact no host mother, or family for that matter. Only one of the boys (not sure of his name as he never really introduced himself) and some friends lived in the house. He eventually revealed to us that he travels for work every week and most weekends. He sat with us while we ate our breakfast and questioned us about veganism (the diet that we both follow) He seemed open-minded about the topic, but then proceeded to take out his cel phone and show us a video of him and his friends sacrificing a cow in his backyard the week before. We asked him to put it away and he did. He then asked us about our religions and prayer practices, even though he said he could sense our discomfort about the subject. We told him we had a lot of homework and couldn’t stay another night. We left right after breakfast.

In West Africa, art is not separate from everyday life. Marketplaces and to the side of the road, everyday has been like looking into a kaleidoscope. This image is a result of numerous expressions of individual aesthetic preferences through the use of cloth. Having a background and interest in fashion, I came to Ghana with the intention of studying textiles. Before my arrival I had only really seen pictures of these brightly colored and busily patterned fabrics. I quickly learned that these seemingly meaningless designs are actually adinkra symbols which originated with the Asante people. These symbols are found all over Africa, from architecture, to furniture and in Batik. Batik fabric is primarily produced in Northern Ghana. Large stamps are carved from calabash (guard) into these various symbols. The stamps are then dipped in boiling hot wax, pressed onto a cotton cloth and repeated over and over again until the entire cloth is covered in symbols. Almost all of the individual patterns have an associated proverb that conveys important messages about the social world.
 
During a weekend excursion with all of NYU in Ghana, I had to opportunity to go to Kumasi and participate in an adinkra printing workshop. To make just two yards of fabric was a three hour process that included tons of heat exuding from the hot coals which warmed the wax and even more patience from my peers and myself. I chose to work with two stamps; one which was an adinkra symbol that means strength and wisdom, and another one that I don’t think actually means anything, but I thought it looked cool. I wanted to make alternating stripes of the two symbols. This proved to be far harder than I could have imagined. Between waiting for the wax to be the correct temperature (not too hot that it boils down to a too liquidy of a substance, but not too cool that it won’t adhere to the stamp) trying to keep from dripping all over the rest of the fabric while simultaneously trying to do it fast enough for my peers to go. After the wax was all dried, we mixed our color die (I chose dark purple) and submerged our fabric in it. I was so surprised how intense the process was, especially considering the outcome. Lets just say I wouldn’t expect anyone to buy the fabric I made in the market.
 
One of my favorite things about traveling around Africa has been seeing how vastly different the fabric is depending on the region it comes from. Kumasi obviously had an abundance of amazing batik fabric, but even the patterns of printed fabric in Cape Coast was like nothing I would ever come across in Accra. Not only do the patterns differ from place to place, but I’ve also noticed the way in which it is worn varies as well. I can’t help but feel envious of this one woman I saw on the streets of Northern Ghana who looked gorgeous with nothing but a piece of fabric effortlessly draped around her body. I’ve seriously contemplated trying to rock this look back in New York, but something tells me that between my lack of curves and all the bright colors it just wont have the same appeal over there L

Living in Ghana, or Accra I should say, I am confronted with contradictions and new glimpses of realities I never knew existed on a regular basis. Take my house for example; you walk in to an enormous marbled living/ dining room with two huge air conditioner units, floor to ceiling sliding doors and a personal washer-dryer for my housemates and me. Yes, I too was stunned by all this when I first arrived here, having had expected to live in a mud hut for the duration of my semester abroad. I did not think I would live in a house so nice and luxurious as this one appeared. However, I quickly learned to lower my expectations about my daily life in Ghana. The shiny marble floors soon became so covered in dust that I rarely let my bare feet graze them. The air conditioners are nice…when there isn’t a power outage and the sliding glass doors don’t really do much sliding with the metal gates they have locked on to prevent people breaking in to our home.
 
My house, which I have grown to love despite its handicaps, is just a 10 minute walk to the NYU academic center. I like how simple the center is; a computer lab and one classroom downstairs and a library, photo printing room and a second classroom upstairs. Ashesi University, a small Ghanaian college where I am taking a class, is the equivalent of two blocks away from the center.
 
Just around the corner in the other direction is Central Point, my favorite spot to grab a beer with some friends. I had never seen any place like Central Point before coming to Africa. It is literally a slab of pavement on the side of a road with some plastic chairs around a few plastic tables. You simply hiss (a customary way of getting someone’s attention in Africa) and Mary, a girl around 15 years old will run to our table from the shed across the street with beers in her little plastic basket. A 24oz Star or Club beer costs 2 cedi (about $1.40) which makes me very happyJ
 
For food, I heavily rely on the abundance of produce stands/ women with baskets of food on their heads walking around. I’ve already talked about the fresh coconuts for 50 peswas (less than 50 cents!!) and the amazing Ghanaian pineapples that are so sweet and cost around 1 cedi for a big one (that’s like 70 cents) I’m not even really sure what the prices of these would be back home because I try to eat locally but I can only imagine the ridiculous New York prices. That being said, I am loading up on my share of pineapples and coconuts (and soon mangos!) while I can. Aside from the fruit I eat pretty much the same cheap, basic things (oatmeal, vegetables and tons rice) as I do back home. There are a few substitutions, like instead of kale I’ve been getting yam leaves, which cost 50 peswas for a huge bunch. Also, if I’m in a hurry I pick up some grilled yams or plantains from the side of the road which cost anywhere from 20 to 50 peswas depending on the size. NYU has eat on a mandatory meal plan for dinner Monday through Friday. We eat at Tante Marie which serves traditional Ghanaian food (lots of rice, plantain and yam based food, a ton of oily deep fried things) Two nights a week we eat at Sunshine Salads which has really good salads, Lebanese/ Indian/ African-take-on-American cuisine. Ok, now I am hungry…

Saidiya Hartman’s Lose Your Mother: A Journey Along the Atlantic Slave Routeis both comforting and terrifying. It is comforting in that it conveys a story that is relatable to almost any individual traveling abroad to an unfamiliar place. It is reassuring to know that anyone who is foreign to a country, regardless of whether or not it is made obvious by their immediate appearance, experiences sentiments of isolation and loneliness.

At the same time, this very idea is terrifying. It is scary to think that even as an African-American woman, Hartman so obviously stood out that even a young child could point her out as an abruni.Does a pale, little white girl with big curly hair even stand a chance here? Is there enough traditional kente-cloth apparel to conceal this identity? And despite the physical differences, will there always be an air of resentment because of where I come from and what I have? In the Prologue, Hartman states “In Ghana, it is said that a stranger is like the water running over the ground after a rainstorm: it soon dries up and leaves behind no traces” (p.8) This raised questions of hopelessness- no matter how many houses I build or children I sponsor, I will still be remembered as just another American student, if anything at all.

Hartman discusses the resentment the Ghanaians felt towards the African Americans who infiltrated their homeland, presuming they knew what would make Ghana a better country more so than those who actually lived there. “They loved Ghana from a comfortable distance.” (p. 44) and this forced me to question my own existence in Ghana. By living in one of the more affluent neighborhoods and attending one of the top universities, am I getting the real Ghanaian experience? Does one actually exist? And if so, is it possible to detach oneself from preconceived notions in order to gain an entirely new perspective? It was interesting to contrast Hartman’s approach to familiarizing herself to Africa by immersing herself in all the painful historical aspects, while Maya Angelou consciously avoided the locations that illustrated the “ugly history of slavery” (p. 42) This made me realize that I hold the power to create my own image of the Ghanaian experience, which is what ever I want it to be.

Hartman questions herself about memory and slavery; “What is it we choose to remember about the past and what is it we will to forget?” (p.15) The only thing John instructs Saidiya to do is not to lie when she goes back to America. I agree that it would be inappropriate and untruthful to go back to New York and tell everyone that Ghana was absolutely perfect and comfortable, because that is not at all the case. What I do believe is that there is a balance between false advertising and also depicting a situation that will send my mother into tears thinking about how could she have sent her little baby to a place like that!  I wonder what pieces of my experience in Ghana I will bring back to New York with me, and parts are best left in Ghana. 

Last Thursday, I glanced at the syllabus for my “Post-colonial Practices in Studio Art” class which read “workshop with visiting artist Akirash. I was excited, thinking that would finally have the chance to do some hands-on Ghanaian art-maybe some beading or basket weaving.
 
At the beginning of class we all pilled into the NYU van. It pulled up to a house, and a man with a paint-splattered shirt opened the door and before even introducing himself as Akirash, passed around a bowl with little scraps of paper in them. The paper I picked out of the large basin read “local drink vendor”. As I stared at the paper, while simultaneously peering at my fellow classmates getting their faces covered in black swirls and dots through the van window, I felt utterly confused.
 
Not long after, I too was covered with black face paint and dropped off at a stand on the side of the main road in Nima (a busy market place in Accra) where I was told I would be selling juice with the other vendors for the next hour. None of this information actually hit me until I was standing there and my “employer” began speaking to me English, but not at all the same English that I speak.
 
She told me to sit down. Shortly after, many of the neighboring vendors called “Obruni! Obruno!” trying to capture my attention and show me the goods they had for sale. I had to tell them that I was sorry, but did not have any money, as I was there to work. Judging by the looks on their faces, they did not understand that I was the one selling the juice. This sentiment was shared by most of the people in Nima that day. When people wanted a juice, they looked straight passed me, trying to find someone to exchange their coins for a bag of the artificially-colored stuff. I felt completely invisible.
 
At the same time, I felt like I wish I could crawl behind the stall I was working at and hide. Entire busses of people would laugh, point and wave at me, like I was some kind of mascot at a sporting event. I think this constant reminder of how ridiculous I must have looked, combined with the chicken slaughtering going on to my left (I truly tried to put my vegan beliefs in the back of my mind at this point) contributed to my struggle to feel remotely secure in my own skin for that one hour. As much as I tried to pretend that I was just an average citizen, trying to make an earning selling some juice, I don’t think I convince anyone in the whole market place, or myself, the slightest bit. Although a little scarring, it was overall an amazing experience. I feel as though I am building up a tolerance for discomfort and can handle being dropped in almost any situation.