OllySong's blog

I don’t really know if there is a way to prepare yourself for this program adequately. There are the surface level and obvious things you can do, such as buy a ton of bug spray and sunscreen, and those little travel packs of tissues are nice travel toilet paper (something you’ll learn to ALWAYS have on you, just in case.) I wish I would’ve packed American snacks, because it’s crazy how comforting they are after only a week or so. As far as emotional preparation, my advice would be not to prepare at all.
            Obviously living in a third world country is not comparable to living in New York City, but the NYU in Ghana facilities are beautiful. This doesn’t mean however that there aren’t daily blackouts, water going out, toilets, doors, fridges and A/C units constantly broken. These however aren’t the things that make the experience uncomfortable. These things are the small adjustments that you get used to pretty quick and have actually become a source of bonding amongst the group (If having the one house of boys be the only house with water for 2 days, with 15 girls having to use their shower isn’t bonding, I don’t know what is…)
            Probably the most important thing I would have liked to know before coming was to not underestimate the difficult moments and cut myself some slack. As a child of divorce, I’ve always considered myself pretty adaptable. While neither of my parents live in a third world country, I figured I would be fine with exploring and living in a new place. This caused me to not allow myself an adequate adjustment time, which only made me frustrated at myself for not feeling comfortable right away. I had to constantly remind myself “Ok, this is not like anything I’ve done before. Most students do not choose this site for a reason, I didn’t sign up for a 4 month party in Europe, it isn’t meant to be easy, but that’s why I’m here.”
            I would recommend living in Church Crescent, because it is twice the size of Solomon’s, and incredibly, incredibly social. We refer to it as “The compound” and joke that it is as close as any of us will ever get to being in a sorority. But I love that every morning I make a giant pot of coffee for anyone who’s around, and I know I’ll be fed with pancakes, oatmeal, eggs or whatever else anyone is cooking that day.  What is mine is everyone’s, but what is everyone’s is also mine. I don’t think I will ever be in another situation where I am living, studying, partying and traveling with the same 32 people ever again. The level of intimacy that we have all reached with each other gets a little scary sometimes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. The generosity and genuine care that we have for one another is so comforting. We’re a family, and I can’t imagine this program without our own little community that we built.
            I would definitely recommend to anyone to go to Ryan’s Irish Pub happy hour on Thursdays (3 Cedi Jaeger Bombs approximately $2!) Then stumble next door to Duplex to dance. Also Bojo beach can only be described as majestic, only reachable by ferryboat, and only about 35 minutes outside of Accra.

I’ve been sitting in front of a blank computer screen for a few minutes now, stuck as to what my epiphany is. When I asked a friend what she thought her Ghana epiphany was she laughed and asked “What isn’t?”  I think the word epiphany for me implies a radical change in my world-view in a single moment. I know that my world-view has been altered by this experience, but looking back in retrospect it’s easy to glide past the difficult months at the beginning in order to arrive at where I am now. I guess this in a sense, is my epiphany. But the problem I’m having is that none of these things happened in a single moment, rather over the course of the three and a half months.

One of the main issues I have been struggling to process is my personal reaction to the extreme poverty we are so often smacked in the face with. One of the worst examples of this happened on a program trip to the second largest city in Ghana; Kumasi. One minute you are engaging and excited to indulge a child’s natural curiosity towards you, and the next minute they are grabbing at your clothes, asking for a pencil, an empty water bottle, your shirt, your hair. I rationalize that even by giving them the things they are asking for, it really does no good in the long term, so you are forced to walk away. We get back on our bus, sanitize our hands, take a sip of purified water, and we’re back to thinking about what is for dinner or how far we have left to drive. I then immediately skip to the thought that, “Well, this is why I’m studying abroad here, to be exposed and to see things like this. It’s not supposed to be easy and simple. It’s incredibly complex and awful. ” While I’ve realized that I can’t feel guilty for the life I was born into, it’s been really difficult for me to accept someone else’s life and entire being as my personal “learning experience.”  We’re talking about another human beings life. At times this has felt so incredibly self indulgent, but I have no idea how I can otherwise help the society that surrounds me, except to learn and expand because of it. Many of the things I’ve seen make you just want to throw your hands in the air and give up.

We had a somewhat disheartening and all-too-honest presentation from an NYU Alumn and Peace Corps volunteer in Mali a few weeks ago. After this experience in Ghana, and the presentation, many of my peers who were initially considering service or internationally oriented jobs have reconsidered. I sat through the entire meeting and came out of it thinking, “Well I think I could survive that.” The helpless feeling I felt in Kumasi finally had a solution. I may not be able to donate massive amounts of money to this community, or institute a trash-recycling reform, or influence politics at all, but I believe I can help via international service. I realized it’s not that you have to give up on finding a solution, but rather you must give in to the situation. My pre-Ghana self had a very romanticized idea of the Peace Corps, as I believe many of my peers had. Now that I’ve gotten closer to what the actual experience might be like, I know more what I’m getting into.

My epiphanies have been many and gradual. Because everything around us is unlike anything any of us have ever experienced, it takes time to process everything. I’m certain that many of the things I will “get out” of this experience won’t be realized for months to come, once I’m back to my normal life in the States. I’m interested to see what change others perceive in me as well.

Small talk is not a thing in Ghana. While I initially attempted to laugh about the heat with the fan ice man, or joke about the Kardashian divorce with the waiters at my favorite lunch spot, I quickly learned from the blank stares and complete and utter confusion that polite quips were less than appreciated. It’s not that Ghanaians aren’t friendly; it’s just that they completely bypass the usual niceties that American social standards call for. This might explain how a man walking down the street will profess just how much he loves and cares for you and that he plans on marrying you without even asking your first name. (Note: I said explain, not excuse this behavior.) In this sense it can be a bit difficult to grasp the level of sincerity of a stranger or local acquaintance.
 
One partial stranger that I have found insightful is our seamstress Marjorie. While she is more familiar with my body proportions and measurements than I will probably ever be, she really has no insight to who I am as a person. And that is refreshing.
 
One day, like any number of other days, I found myself on the way over to her cubby-hole of a shop to drop off fabric and sketches. Before I could get anything out of my bag, she told me to take the seat nearest her sewing table and proceeded to ask me some of the most personal questions any Ghanaian has asked me. It seemed to be coming out of nowhere, but I have a distinct feeling that my opinion was being used to settle a pre-existing argument between her and her two assistants. Whether it is due to the language gap or not, Ghanaians are incredibly blunt. (Again, as mentioned before, screw the small talk!)
 
She wanted to know why it was that obrunis such as myself feel the need to dump their boyfriends/girlfriends before they move somewhere else (i.e. Africa) for 4 months, 9 months or even 3 years. She wanted to know how much time it took for you to see a man and know that you were going to marry him. She wanted to know how long we wait before having sex with someone we’re dating. She wanted to know how much you have to love someone to marry them. Now as you can imagine, I was trying to do my best at skirting the real questions by giving half-assed replies of “Ohhh well it depends on the individual. It depends on the circumstances…” etc. But Marjorie wasn’t having any of it (The Ghanaians are also a very relentless group of people, not to mention very persuasive speakers/guilt trippers.) I eventually gave up, and attempted to honestly answer her questions, but on one condition: that she answers all of the questions too.
 
Walking out of the shop that afternoon it finally hit me how bizarre it was that I just had a 45 minute in-depth conversation about sex, love and marriage with the seamstress. But beyond the initial confusion as to where the questions were coming from, the discussion seemed natural and was actually very absorbing. I have yet to come across another Ghanaian who would have given me answers to the questions she was asking, or so candidly debate what is seen as a taboo topic in this country. While sometimes the Ghanaian bluntness can be a bit off-putting, I’m glad that for whatever reason Marjorie was unabashedly asking me questions. She continues to be a source of clarification if I struggle with aspects of the society, and for that I’m grateful. Maybe when I leave, she will remember more about me than just my measurements.

Almost every stereotypical African image can be seen at Makola Market. West African markets are legendary, and with good reason. Virtually unchanged over the past 500 years, the marketplace is one of the most quintessentially “African” places you can find.
 
So here is Makola summed up in 3 sentences: It is always crowded (even at 6:30 in the morning!) It is always smelly. It’s always overwhelming.
 
Outside and all around the perimeter, set up in parking lots and any vacant space big enough to fit a crate of tomatoes, are the food sellers. My stomach usually churns a bit walking through this part. The first time I was there, I made the mistake of letting my disgust be easily readable on my face, and was quickly intimidated by the tough market woman who took offense and began making threatening gestures. Now I know better, and remind myself while approaching this section to breathe through my mouth.
 
My vegetarian self screams a little each time I make the journey, dodging half-cows dangling from the ceiling, live crabs clawing their way to the top of gasoline barrels, live chicken with their feet tied sitting peacefully in giant metal bowls, hundreds of tilapia halfway between fried and rotting, pig’s feet with the hooves still intact as well as slugs too big to fit in my palm. And I thought Chinatown was bad.
 
Once you have passed the food, and after dodging hundreds of hawkers selling chocolate, used (probably stolen) shoes, jeans and cell phones and women balancing what seems to be 75 purses on their heads, you have made it to the coveted ceilinged section.  The market itself consists of both an indoor section, with multiple floors of cubby shops, impossible to navigate and almost as impossible to locate to begin with. Here you can buy fabric in bolts of 6 yards each, toiletries, used shoes, beads, hair accessories, sewing kits, Shea butter, pots and pans of all sizes, laundry hampers, blenders, school supplies and basically anything else you might need.  We usually go straight to the rows and rows of head-ache inducing color that constitutes the “fabric warehouse.” Here we feebly haggle with the tough-as-nails market women, even though we know fabric is the one good where price is pretty standardized. The women always ask us where we are from and if we can take them back with us. They also usually enjoy grabbing my wrists and marveling at my “fleshy” skin, almost violently stroking my bare arms.
 
Something about the constant bustle seems to sum up this region. You feel as if you are always in the way of someone trying to get through the dirt alley, carrying an impossible amount of supplies on their head, screaming “Ago!” (Basically translated as, “pay attention!”) Beyond the economic activities that take place, the market serves as an important center of cultural and social activity. Many people get their news and gossip by going to the market. Others are said to find husbands.
 
I think the main reason that Makola seems to sum up Ghana’s spirit for me is the fact that it remains entirely free of western influence. It is almost stuck in time, and operates as it would have centuries ago. The other aspect of the market that allows it to be a good representation of the community is the fact that everyone goes to the market for something. Even the oldest members of the community are out buying groceries, while young children run in between stalls playing games. Markets are also very universal around West Africa, and are a good leveling point for different communities and countries. I think I could continue writing for hours and still not entirely sum up what it’s like to go to Makola on any given morning. It’s overwhelming, sure, with people constantly yelling and grabbing at you for attention, but if anyone came here to visit me, I know I have to take them there, just to see and understand what it is like. As intimidated, nervous or put off as I was at first, I still believe that Makola was the first place I went where it hit me that “Ok, I’m living in Africa.”
 

It’s almost embarrassing how many pages I dog-eared while reading my book for this week’s assignment. After several positive endorsements from classmates I settled on George Packer’s The Village of Waiting. This book ishis memoir about his time as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Togo, a tiny little sliver of a country and Ghana’s neighbor to the east. Several things about this book overtly relate to my life (I want to join the Peace Corps and I literally got back from a trip to Togo a few hours ago…) while other aspects relate more subtly. I felt in reading this book that the exchanges and difficulties Packer was having were almost verbatim transcriptions of the daily conversations I have with my peers. These conversations serve as an outlet for our frustrations, or an informal attempt at processing everything that is happening around us, which I believed were unique to our experience here as exchange students. So you can imagine how strange it was to see these same ramblings in print coming from a complete stranger.
 

My initial thought upon completing this book was a bit hopeless. The book was written in 1984 and yet it seems as though absolutely nothing has progressed. While I know this is probably a bit of an overstatement, it’s upsetting to think about West Africa’s flailing attempts at change over the last 30 years. I’ve heard it said here that traveling 20 minutes outside the city transports you back 500 years. All the evidence I have seen easily supports this idea. Villages function in another world, with a different set of priorities, beliefs and concerns.  As Packer explains “Day after day, men under trees, women in yards…Babies were born squalling, the old shrank up and died; time wasn’t going forward, it rehearsed the same small circle.” (150) This is the waiting that is alluded to in the title and throughout the entire book. Speaking about the people of his village, Laive (which roughly translated means “wait a little longer”) he continues: “[They] put up with drought, bad food, no money, and a litany of disease; but what awed and intimidated a Westerner more than this was the feat of doing the same thing, or nothing, day after day, without the hope of anything ever changing.” I’ve seen it first hand in Ghana too; the woman who has sold plantains out of the same shipping container for 45 years or the young boys in the village of our rural home-stay who start farming when they reach adolescence and finish farming when they die. One of the daughters that lived in the same household as Packard summed up this sentiment with a simplicity only a 5 year old could conclude: “You get up, you work, you sleep.” (148) Packer describes the dark expression on the 3-year-old daughter’s face as she is sweeping the yard at dawn: “She already knew in her bones what drudgery her life was going to be.”
 

It’s exceedingly frustrating (not to mention depressing) to be exposed to this type of monotony on a daily basis. Even before coming to Ghana I would not have considered myself to be an idealist, but I was genuinely hopeful that change was possible. Before Ghana I had the naïve belief that West Africa was slowly dragging itself out of misery. Now I’m not so sure.I have seen myself fall further and further down the path of discouragement, and then I remember yet another disheartening fact: Ghana is West Africa’s golden child. It only gets worse. You want so badly to be able to do something, to help in some way, but it’s like where do you even begin? It seems as though the continent is stuck in a perpetual cycle, the cycle of poverty.
 

A description of the book considers that “those who fastened their hopes on “development” find themselves trapped between the familiar repetitions of rural life and the chafing monotony of waiting for change.” While the problems of Africa are obviously more complex than what I can get into in this 700 word post, I need to be clear that I still believe that good things are happening and that some progress is being made, even if it is disproportionately small. I continue to struggle with the fact that because the issues are so vast and complex, are doing small things really going to make anything better? So we painted a school, great. But that doesn’t solve the ridiculous education disparities. We constantly hear how aid does more bad than it does good, but then how do you solve that… Do you get rid of foreign aid altogether? A friend told me tonight that 50% of Ghana’s national revenue is foreign aid… you can’t just cut that off in hopes of implementing self-sustainability.
 
At what point do you throw up your hands and just give in to the idea that these places are beyond help?
 
Packer seemed to reach this moment during a trip to Europe when he impulsively (or desperately or unintentionally?) ended up on a plane back to New York, cutting his service short by 6 months. The villagers had assumed that he died.
 


The photo is a PSA for the Millenium Development Goals from http://kivafellows.files.wordpress.com/2009/05/img_millenium-goals-hdr.gif?w=445&h=234

Now before I start writing this blog post, I just want it to be clear that I actually really like Accra and Ghana. It’s obviously not the easiest place to live in, but I do genuinely like it.


That being said, I almost laughed out loud when I read the prompt for this week, specifically the sentence including the list: “cafes, bars, corner stores, parks, street corners, bookstores, study halls, libraries…” It took me all but 30 seconds to tick off each suggestion, ruling out writing about it because they simply do not exist. Let me elaborate. The two things on that list that physically exist in Accra (as far as I know) are libraries and bookstores, except that no one hangs out in them. To check out a book from the University of Legon library you have to leave your student ID the entire time the book is checked out. Except that you need your student ID to get into the canteens (dining halls) and your hostel (dorms), so you basically have to read everything you can while you are still in the library. You also aren’t allowed to bring in bags, so when you enter the library you have to empty out all the stuff you might potentially need in the time you are there and lug it around with you. Bookstores exist in the sense that I have found only 1 in all of Accra, and that is on the University of Legon campus. There is nowhere to hang out, it is sweaty and crammed and sells only textbooks and about 10 “classics” along the lines of Oliver Twist or Hamlet. I impulse purchased Crime and Punishment because I have never read it, and bought a folder for some papers once, but that’s about it.


While Bobst is near and dear to me, I can deal with no libraries or bookstores and have just found other places to study either in my house or at our Academic Center. The thing I really miss however is cafes and coffee shops (not to mention coffee!!) I joke that I was basically raised in a coffee shop because both my parents are professors. My sister and I spent countless hours accompanying them while they were grading papers and what not. Not to mention that I am a barista in New York, lived in Italy, worked in a coffee shop all throughout High School and am just totally addicted on all levels. Espresso doesn’t exist in Ghana and drip coffee is expensive and hard to come by. It is a culture based on Nescafe (just add water!) which I’m sorry if this offends anyone, but it just doesn’t cut it. I could honestly live here for an extended amount of time except for the fact that they don’t have coffee, (and cheese, but that’s off topic.)


Because of the lack of “great good places” in Ghana, we’ve tried our best to carve out our own. There is a new restaurant that specializes in pastries and has Nescafe on the menu seems to be the closest thing to something “great good.” While it isn’t a coffee shop by any means, we stubbornly monopolize a table in the corner for hours typing up papers and reviewing for midterms. It seems a little strange for people to be eating fufu and jolof at the table next to me, but I just plug into my computer and zone out because hey, this is the best it’s going to get. Another place we have turned into somewhat of a tradition is Thursday night happy hour at the Irish Pub. It is definitely a “great good place” as we’re friendly with the bartenders and know the regulars, but it is by no means Ghanaian. The epitome of an ex-pat bar it is crowded in with volunteers of all kinds and sustainable construction contractors. We even ran into the doctor from the Department of State who gave us a presentation during orientation week. You’d be lucky to find one full table of Ghanaians on any given night.
While Ghana may not boast any sidewalk cafes, piazzas or parks to hang out in, it doesn’t mean there aren’t awesome places to be. I love our “compound” as we affectionately refer to it as (I’ve talked about it before, but in case you don’t stalk my personal entries I’m referring to our series of 4 houses, surrounded by a 10 foot cement wall with barbed wire and electric fencing on top.) We play soccer, do yoga in the courtyard, smoke hookah on the balconies and relax and enjoy one another’s company. While it is in the comfort of our own home, the 20 of us who live there are free to do whatever we want. Maybe I shouldn’t be upset about the lack of public “great good places” and realize that the best place of all is where I wake up every day.

West African Art is easily identifiable to most audiences. While they may not be able to tell you what region, tribe or the purpose of the piece, there is a strong and noticeable aesthetic. This aesthetic is limited however to a discussion on traditional African Art. Traditional African Art’s influence can be seen around the world and in artists as prominent as Pablo Picasso. I’m lucky enough to be enrolled in an African Art History class, which helps contextualize the works I am exposed to at the market or walking down the street. While we have been focusing on the functionality of traditional African Art (as all traditional art started as something practical or functional) we have also explored the flip from functionality to purely aesthetical. This led us to take a class trip to the Artist Alliance Gallery, located a few minutes away from our Academic Center.
 
 
Strangely enough, we had all already visited Artist Alliance as a part of our orientation week. As I have noticed more and more living in Ghana, variety of options is not the usual. There is one history museum, one mall, and one art gallery. While there is nothing wrong with this, it just allows you to get more familiar with particular places. I was happy to have a second visit however, because this time the owner Ablade Glover showed us around the gallery. A charismatic and approachable older man, he led us through the first two floors to a circle of chairs to begin our discussion. In one of our first classes we spent a good portion of time debating whether or not African art can be evaluated with the same criteria as Western art. We came to the conclusion that it is best to judge non-western art with a different set of parameters because oftentimes a western approach to composition, form and style might impose meaning onto objects that are simply representational or naturalistic. Sitting in the middle of a vast gallery overlooking the ocean, intellectually analyzing the art around us, it was hard not to feel completely westernized. Even in New York art galleries frequently intimidate me, as I often feel unqualified to actually “appreciate” the art I am standing in front of. This usually being the case it was only amplified at Artist Alliance, as now I was being asked to examine and discuss something through a different lens. But how was I supposed to know to OK “parameters” to apply, or the right vocabulary to use when discussing these foreign objects? Luckily Mr. Glover didn’t hold it against us, and helped illuminate what he considers the differences to be.
 
 
He reiterated points made in our class about African art developing around the practical, therefore making the art itself active. This “art of the practical” eventually turned into modern art, with the help of outside influences. He described contemporary African art as having the same motivations as traditional African art, only using materials and conventions introduced to Africa during colonization. He defines contemporary art as “Alien tools we have picked to express the same things as traditional art.” It is this idea that he based his gallery off of. He hopes to promote contemporary art and artists who would otherwise not have any exposure. As I previously explained, this is the only gallery of its kind in Accra, allowing it to be an invaluable space for artists and art lovers alike. Mr. Glover hopes that his gallery can show the rest of the world that African artists use all mediums, including what are typically thought of as western techniques like painting. I was very impressed by the depth and variety of pieces found in his gallery, and while my opinion might not matter to many people, I definitely thing these African artists can compete with the European masters found in MoMa or Pompidou. I’m glad that I was exposed to contemporary African art in an academic environment so as to fully understand the struggle to be taken seriously.
 
Mr. Glover himself is an artist, untrained yet nonetheless talented. The picture is one of my favorite pieces of his. 

            I have always considered myself fairly adaptable, I’m not a picky eater and I can deal without creature comforts. These were just some of the reasons why I began to get extremely frustrated with myself the first few weeks I was here, as I still felt like I was in a funk. I couldn’t figure it out; I had always been good at showing up in new places before and fitting in. Slowly I began to realize that maybe it wasn’t the obvious things that were making me uncomfortable, but instead the difficult social nuances that I hadn’t yet grasped. Maya Angelou felt this too. I read her book “All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes” at a critical time in my stay. What I couldn’t quite figure out how to put into words, Angelou had already established on the page.
            To put it simply, she explained how “Ghana was beginning to tug at me and make me uncomfortable, like an ill fitting coat.” (147) Now while I wouldn’t openly admit that I was unhappy (because then it would be real) I knew that I hadn’t yet found my place. I was adapted to the first string of Ghanaian differences but not yet comfortable in my life. This was an awkward place to be, as I was desperately attempting to fix a not yet describable problem. Angelou continued saying “I had to admit that I had begun to feel that I was not in my right place. Every moment in Ghana called attention to itself.” While I wasn’t able to come to that conclusion on my own, this felt like something I was going through.
 Something about being constantly looked at and watched, the object of endless attention. There are certain things I can’t do here, certain streets I can’t walk down, and that frustrates me. But coming into this experience I knew I was going to stand out, so that wasn’t what was bothering me. What was bothering me was the constant reminder of just how much I don’t belong in everything I do.
            While Angelou struggled with this, she also eventually found her place. It helps that she was able to master a local language. While I feel secure in my own neighborhood and gain confidence in my interactions with Ghanaians, it does not hinder the attention I receive one bit. To be honest, I don’t really think anything will.
The most difficult thing is that I really want Ghanaian friends, but it is so challenging to meet Ghanaians who do not have an agenda for meeting you. Men and women can never be “just friends” and you can’t hang out with a guy without giving the wrong impression. Dating white women is considered by some to be a status symbol, while many people in the back of their mind see me as a walking Visa or ticket to the States. College age Ghanaians also do not go out regularly as the society is much more conservative. This fact alone has dwindled my potential Ghanaian friends down considerably. I am still working on meeting people through classes and mutual acquaintances, but have almost resigned to the idea that I will have lasting and important relationships with my fellow NYU students, and casual friendly relationships with the lady who sells me fruit and egg sandwiches.
Although I’m even a little reluctant to resign myself to that just yet, I am still optimistic that I’ll find my place. I hope Angelou is right when she says it will just take some time.
 

A day in the Ghanaian life? Well needless to say things are a little bit different than my life in New York. To begin with, I have actual time for myself. I’m used to having a studio schedule (meaning class Monday, Wednesday, Friday 9-6) as well as academics on Tuesday/Thursdays, then between rehearsals for shows, A Cappella group, part time job, homework and occasional necessities such as laundry/eating/showers etc. my day is over. This is not Ghana. I have class 3 days a week and interning 2 days a week. You would think I would relish in this newfound freedom, but to be honest it was quite an adjustment. I love being busy, and don’t really know how else to function if I’m not constantly going onto the next thing. But this is the only time I will have to do what I please, so I’m learning to make the most of it. Not to mention I’m in a foreign country that needs exploring! So my day usually begins around 7 or 8 (I know. When have I EVER naturally woken up before noon?) with a cup of awful instant coffee and some toast to make sure my malaria meds don’t make me nauseous. While I eat I usually read for class, upload photos, play music and browse nytimes.com. Then I get ready for the day, pack my bag and mosey to class. The walk to class is always full of interesting characters, as it is obligatory to greet everyone you pass on the street, which oftentimes escalates into a street side Twi lesson or general inquiries of my marital status and what not. Then if I have class that day, I roll into the academic center, BS with my classmates for 5 minutes and check my email (again, pointless I know) on the “fast” Internet at school. (If it is a Monday insert tro-tro ride to my internship in place of strolling/class.) After class is over, if it is a Tuesday we have group yoga in the courtyard taught by one of my classmates (who will remain nameless, but also might happen to be in this class…) who is a certified Yoga instructor. If it is a Wednesday I do some homework before going to “Body Pump” at our gym, or if it is Friday I get ready for spinning class. Atleast once a week (usually 2 or 3) we have programs between class and dinner. This week for example we had the director of Peace Corps Ghana and some volunteers serving in Mali come and talk to us about possible careers in foreign service. These are always fun because we get served fresh fruit juice and little pastries (mini apple pie!) immediately before we are bussed to dinner. Score. Other programs include; overviews of trips we are taking over the weekend, movie screenings and discussions, plays at the University of Legon, “House Tea” discussions with the director of our program etc. etc. We then all get shipped to one of two restaurants for dinner, which is always a nice 2 hour ordeal and excuse to not be doing homework, while we watch the same 10 music videos looped on the TV’s and recap our days to one another. After dinner I usually come home and pretend to be productive for about 20 minutes before I cave and head across the courtyard to one of the other houses. Everyone congregates with a beer or some wine for ukulele playing, watching Skins or Misfits (there is a girl from London in the program who has an affinity for British teen dramas) birthday celebrations, bananagrams or whatever else we have all decided to partake in that particular evening. This is usually accompanied by some Ghanaian chocolate, frozen pineapple and Michael Jackson. We peter off eventually, coming back to my room to write in my journal, read another couple Times articles and then fall asleep reading. Weekends when we are not traveling or on Homestays (which has only been 1 1/2 weekends so far) we go to the beach or the market, and then go out to wherever there is live music that evening. To sum it up, this is pretty sweet living. I have gotten busier as classes and my internship settle in more, which is great, but I also have time to do all the things I’ve been meaning to do for a while but never had the time. Because the Internet is faulty/slow I am forced to instead read a ton, arrange music and write. This semester is my chance to relish in all the things that I couldn’t do in New York. I am able to take time for myself and really allow the sometimes-overwhelming experience process and sink in. Not to mention I’m getting to know some incredible people. The photo is my own. The crew in the courtyard.

Communication is a tricky, nuanced and (to me) endlessly fascinating topic of discussion. All human interaction is boiled down to how we communicate our thoughts, ideas and concerns to one another and in turn how they are interpreted. Cross-cultural communication is a whole other story, that some PHD’s and scholars spend their entire life trying to decode.

While the official language of Ghana is English it is usually not the language in which Ghanaians choose to communicate with one another. They choose to converse in local languages, which could be any combination of Twi, Ga, Fante, Ewe or the dozen or so other tribal languages. While we had two introductory Twi courses as a part of our orientation, I unfortunately missed the second of the two because I had “Ghana Gut” as it is affectionately titled, meaning I stayed home sick. While I was later taught basic greetings and phrases that is where my Twi skills end. I do feel guilty that I am not making a bigger attempt at learning the local language, but my experience is chock full of learning moments that I feel as if I might reach a saturation point pretty soon.  I also rationalize that I’ve done the “foreign exchange to learn a language” thing already, as I am bilingual in Italian from studying there in high school.

Most importantly, it is important to realize that while we speak the same language as Ghanaians, we don’t always speak the same language. What I mean by this is that besides using a slightly different vocabulary, Ghanaians have a tendency to alter sentence structure and verb tenses, making it difficult to decipher meaning without a strong context. One of the most fascinating things I have learned about the tribal languages is that there is no intonation. Because all of the indigenous languages in Africa are tonal (except for Swahili and one other dialect spoken in South Africa) emphasis on subtext and implicatures are completely lost. Sarcasm is not always realized, leaving you to be entirely misunderstood. I have noticed that many times when I add the intuitive upward lilt towards the end of the phrase to indicate a question it is not always answered  and sometimes regarded as a statement. I am naturally a very excitable and expressive person and have always spoken with my hands (although I must say, sometimes this is regrettable.) With gestures it is easy to understand specific emphasis, and by speaking distinctly and slightly slower than usual, most people get what I mean. At least I think they do. Jokes however are another story. As with any cross cultural experience I believe that humor is the biggest sign indicating belonging and mutual understanding. When I can get Ghanaians to understand my humor I will consider it a major accomplishment. For the time being, I will continue to laugh at myself and at the inevitable awkward moment immediately after no one understands that you were making a joke. Also a note to Ghanaian teenagers; I apologize, but no, I do not understand Pidgeon, no matter how slowly or loudly you pronounce the words.

The picture I found online. It is a Pidgeon, as I enjoy puns every so often.

So finding out where you are in Ghana is pretty much impossible. While the streets have official names, no one actually knows them or uses them. People get around using the “landmark system” but being a newcomer to the neighborhood we don’t always know what the landmarks are, thus rendering them useless. One of the first weeks, a friend and I were trying to get to the gym, and in order to avoid the “landmarks” issue we printed out a map that we were planning to give to the taxi driver, showing him (what we thought was pretty blatantly) where it was. Our Community Resident Assistant basically told us we shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble because most people do not read maps, so we gave up and called the gym to ask what landmark we should tell the cab driver. We finally got to the general neighborhood of the gym, and started asking people where the specific street was. This didn’t end well, as no one we encountered could tell us the name of the street we were actually on.
While this was frustrating in the beginning, I have now come to take it for granted in a sense. I no longer need to know exactly where I am in relation to everything else. As long as I know if something is “near the water” or “past Koala” (the grocery store) I am fine. Relative directions are good enough for a cab driver, who will never admit they don’t know where something is even if they have no idea. Once you get to a general area the driver will ask others around, or if I know where it is I can direct them where to go. It’s almost liberating in a way, to just give up knowing, and accepting the ease of jumping in a cab and vaguely explaining where you want to be.
Something else I hated about the cabs initially was that there are no meters, so you have to barter a price before you get in. Now that I know about how much things should cost, I usually know when someone is totally ripping me off. Now I enjoy seeing how much I can get the priced knocked down, something I will probably miss when I return to New York. Another thing that is great about the cabs is the fact that they will allow you to fit as many people as you can. Our group has only managed up to 6 so far.
One thing I have yet to master is the Tro-Tro system. These are the mini-vans that run on set paths with people constantly jumping in and out at various points along the road. I walk to the “junction” to catch the one Tro-Tro I know how to take to my internship, but other than that simple journey and back, I’ve only taken them in the company of Ghanaians taking me somewhere. The plus side to the Tro-Tro’s is that a typical ride is about 30 peshwa (about 20 cents?). This is my next transportation goal. Slowly but surely right?

I was very weary of forming opinions about Ghana before arriving here. It’s impossible to tell someone you are moving to Africa without a surprised and shocked “Why?” It seems as though everyone has a cousin, sister or co-worked who had been to the Great Continent at some point, and was insistent on giving me the “inside scoop” on some particular aspect of the culture. While I tried to listen politely to all these helpful tidbits, I also discarded most of them. It is impossible to know what to expect when moving to such a foreign place, therefore I chose to actively not expect anything, which I realize in absolution is impossible. Nonetheless I attempted.
 
De Botton’s article touches on this idea of under anticipating, yet with a slightly more realistic view. One of the moments in the article that stood out for me was when he discussed how expectations are never realized. “We are familiar with the notion that the reality of travel is not what we anticipate…It may be truer and more rewarding to suggest that it is primarily different” By anticipating something, we are predisposed to judgment, whether we are trying or not. While I believe it is important to gage an experience in order to maintain a perspective, it is hard to integrate into a society when you have already made your mind up about it. This reminds me of the motto of AFS, with whom I did foreign exchange with in high school; “It’s not right, It’s not wrong, It’s just different.” This seems slightly obvious, but you would be surprised how many times in my life I have found myself internally reciting those three sentences.
 
I guess it was easier for me to pick up and leave at the end of this summer because it was such a whirlwind. I was traveling for the better part of it, and so I really didn’t have much time to actually sit down and focus on my looming semester abroad until about 2 weeks before departure. Even then, I chose to go away for the weekend and came home about 20 hours before my flight. My friend who was traveling with me over that last weekend looked at me at a certain point and said “Jeez, I have never seen someone so relaxed and blasé about moving to Africa in a day.” It wasn’t that I wasn’t nervous or scared, it was simply that I hadn’t really allowed time or space to think about it. I purposefully did not allow time for expectations to be made. I kept saying how calm I was, saying how those around me were making me nervous, not the actual experience. It wasn’t until I went through airport security, and was truly alone when the gravity of this experience hit me.
 
All in all, thus far I’ve been surprised, let down, overwhelmed, underwhelmed, eager, rejuvenated, lonely, shocked and excited. How could I have anticipated that?
 
The photo is what one might stereotypically anticipate upon arrival in Africa.

Hello everyone! My name is Olivia and I am a junior in Tisch studying Theater, but I am also double majoring in Anthropology and Linguistics in CAS. I was born in Boulder, Colorado but grew up in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I absolutely love Ann Arbor, and had an overwhelmingly positive high school experience at the alternative high school (which reminds me a lot of Gallatin’s create your own style of studying.)  Considering the fact that both my parents are college professors, I consider myself lucky to have grow up in a college town, yet decided that for my own college experience I wanted something different. Hence New York City and subsequently NYU.
 
While I was a sophomore in high school I studied abroad in Genoa, Italy. This changed many things about my life. As a result of that study abroad experience I was bit with the travel bug and knew without a doubt I would be studying abroad in college. Again, looking for something drastically different, I chose Accra, Ghana. I have been here for almost 2 weeks now, one of which was orientation, the other the first week of classes. I am excited about all of my classes, most of which focus on the humanities (Non- Western Art History, Play Analysis and African Popular Music.) I am taking one anthropology class about modernization in West Africa. In this class we are going on a weekend home-stay to our professor’s village to learn and experience first hand his culture and how it differs from the city life in Accra. All but one of my classes are at the NYU academic center in our neighborhood, Labone. The non-NYU class is my play analysis class, which I am taking through the University of Ghana Legon.
 
After hearing many horror stories from the other students who elected to take Legon classes, I was very nervous about mine. The classes tend to be gigantic lecture style courses, with virtually no student participation taught in three-hour blocks (note: classrooms are more or less massive pavilions with open sides, creating a constant battle against the inevitable lethargy that will ensue due to the heat.) I hesitantly went to the first day, forcing myself to keep an open mind. Even though my class was pretty large, I was pleasantly surprised by the professor’s accessibility and incorporation of the students. He did however call me out for being an abruni, or foreigner, asking where I was from and what my name was. With my red curls and pale complexion the phrase “fish out of water” does not even begin to describe how much I stood out. After I got the full once-over from all 150 of my classmates, class resumed as before, except now I sat there more self-conscious than I have been in recent memory, bordering on humiliated. While the overall experience was stress inducing, I remain optimistic at the opportunities and valuable friends that I will gain by studying at an actual African university. After all, getting out of the NYU bubble for one day isn’t going to kill me, right?
 
The photo is my own, taken at the University of Legon campus.