Akua Yevu

Akwaaba to Kwaheri

2011-08-05T11:47:00.001Z

"So many people have tried to define the feeling the French call mal d'afrique …It is a constant vertigo you will never get used to. This is why one day you have to come back. Because once you have been out here, hanging loose in the Big Nothing, you will never be able to fill your lungs with enough air. Africa has taken you in and has broken you away from what you were before. This is why you will keep wanting to get away but will always have to return...When you leave Africa, as the plane lifts, you feel that more than leaving a continent you’re leaving a state of mind. Whatever awaits you at the other end of your journey will be of a different order of existence.”

This time tomorrow I will be on a flight to Heathrow, concluding my two month adventure in Africa with a tray of processed foods and a B-rate movie on a seat screen. I am ready to go and terrified to leave, heaving a heavy sigh of nostalgia, relief, and wonder.

We talked about how
much he loves California.

Wonder: If this trip were a movie, it would be a conversation between me and a taxi driver. I must have met almost 100 of them. No matter where you are, taxi drivers are like telemarketers - erratic, a bit smelly, and a definitive expert on the most unique subjects. Once the car gets going, the initial power play between driver and passenger frequently fades into an exchange of ideas between two unlikely friends that can last a minute or three hours. I have been outwitted by many a cab driver, amused by their taste in music, and humbled by their keen perspective and understanding of the city in which they live. They know the shortcuts and back alleys, what the mayor was doing last week, where to take tourists looking for something a little sordid (not me, I promise.) My time spent side by side with these men will stay with me as a highlight of my summer.

One highlight of many. What an amazing thing it is when you discover you’ve put yourself in a completely foreign situation with people you don’t know and no idea of what’s around the corner…and you’ve survived. Grameen offered me a reason to be here but so much of what I experienced this summer was outside the office walls. For everything that I loved about it (the work), there was something I did not (potato belly), and I think I have yet to really understand what this trip has taught me. The problem with being a capacity builder is that there’s always more capacity to be built. There is always more work to be done, whether it's on a new highway, a nonprofit program, a government project or....yourself. As I leave here I wonder about it all. Will it get done, and will I be a part of it?

Part of a Nairobi National Museum exhibit.

Relief: When I was growing up my parents had a saying for our itinerant family: "Home is where the dog is." As I grow into my own peripatetic ways I’m developing my own version - "Home is what you miss." You learn to identify the things you love and take them with you wherever you go. Loved ones' faces cross my mind when I close my eyes at night. I salivate at the memory of a deliciously stuffed California burrito and daydream about the closet of dresses in my apartment. When I finally get back to all that familiarity, however, I know that my senses will long for what I love here. Creamy avocado, hot summer nights, sitting on the roadside in a plastic chair with a cool Star beer. The notion of “home" encompasses a huge world when you feel you could belong anywhere. But the Bay Area is a shining star in that huge world for me, and for now I know I belong there. I am eager, eager, eager to get back and hug my loved ones, amble down Telegraph, get yelled at on the 57, and start my final year of graduate school.

Nostalgia: I’m sorry to generalize but there’s no place like Africa. It is magic and loss and vitality and history and it is rough and real and striking. You don’t ever forget watching men hack the grass with machetes in their right hand, left arms folded carefully behind their backs. Babies tightly wrapped against women’s backs who remain quiet even when their mother bounces them around as they violently pound cassava. Beautiful, big skies and the wet smell of soil. The sound of rain showers or of tro-tros whizzing by and whipping your skirt up because they’re so close. The generosity of strangers. The crowds of city markets. It's all either maddening or breathtaking, and you know it cannot be found anywhere else.

There's an Enid Blyton book I adored when I was a kid about a magical tree that is home to an entirely different world atop its branches. Three children happen upon it and discover that the land changes every single time they visit, and they can never stay too long or they'll be trapped there forever. Africa is certainly my Faraway tree - just enough out of reach that I find myself longing for it, but always providing something new and wonderful when I return.

"This is why one day you have to come back."

Mobility

2011-08-03T19:01:00.011Z

Exhibit at the National Museum in Nairobi.

Many find it difficult not to be condescending about Africa. Some might argue that referring to 54 diverse countries with thousands of cultures as “Africa” alone is demeaning, and yet it happens every day (just look at my blog address.) Footage of kids with big bellies and stories of corruption seem to be the only stories to travel across the ocean, and they are typically only salvaged by some agency telling the world not to worry, they’re working on it. No, I am not immune. I’ve been known to lament the inefficiency of “Africa” while sitting in Nairobi’s unbearable congestion or one of Accra’s power outages. At the same time, I feel fortunate to tell a story that I hope will travel across these borders and demonstrate that “Africa” is indeed a place of innovation and hope.

Nairobi is one of the continent’s star children: the one who may place third in the spelling bee but won’t mind because she has a good shot at winning the science fair competition. The region serves as a lab for innovative ideas and the microfinance sector here is a great example. Like Ghana, each MFI in this region has varying models of delivery and a unique portfolio of products. Unlike Ghana, every MFI in this region has a website. Is this a key indicator of success? Surely not, but it indicates that microfinance is a visible and competitive industry here. Microfinance institutions here are not asking “what can we do?”, but “how can we do more?” For them, it’s not just about lending money. It’s about finding ways for that money to create things that generate a larger return for the community. Two trends have emerged here to ensure that microfinance is doing just that: mobile services and partnerships.

Nairobi's city centre.

Millions of Kenyans are able to hold, send and collect money with their mobile phone through Mpesa – can you do that where you live? An article in the Guardian recently highlighted how mobile money is an impressive force for good. One Kenyan MFI I met with just received an award for its innovative use of mobile services - quite a feat, considering their official launch isn’t until this Friday. Every MFI I’ve met wants to work towards providing mobile solutions to those who need it most – the farmers, the entrepreneurs, and the mothers who work hard every day to improve their livelihoods.

Directors of MFIs here also know that the greatest impact is made in tandem with focused expertise. One microfinance institution partners with an agricultural agency to make sure that their products are transformational for their farmer customers. Staff at many Kenyan MFIs are trained to deliver financial literacy tools to clients, frequently a requirement for microloans. My assignment here has been to partner MFIs with professional expertise from the global private sector and not surprisingly, my job has been easy. Companies, educational institutions and development agencies recognize the pivotal role that MFIs play in increasing income generation and improving the quality of life for Kenyans living on less than a $1 a day, and they’re eager to take part.

Sunrise at Nairobi National Park

I can’t forget that this revolution is taking place less than 300 miles away from a record famine. With foresight, planning and investment, these tragedies in “Africa” can be avoided. The magic of microfinance is that it grants citizens the capability to make a difference for themselves. Things are moving fast here, and it’s been a pleasure to help establish partnerships to catalyze that movement. In this day and age, I think access to financial services is a human right. A big thank you to the Grameen Foundation for allowing me to help us get one step closer to ensuring that Africa's poor, in all their diversity, can exercise that right.

Traveling In and Through Solitude

2011-07-24T16:48:00.001Z

Think he ever thinks
about being lonely?

Contradictory to the weather report it is a beautiful Sunday morning in Nairobi. I am sitting outside my flat on a little bench surrounded by greenery, and I begin this post with the realization that I haven't had a conversation of more than two sentences since Friday. Traveling is a funny thing. It is at once a hectic interview with humankind and a quiet introspective journey. What I have seen and felt over the past 7 weeks can't truly be described in a blog, but I will admit a little something to you: amidst unpredictable magic and proud accomplishments, my summer has also been challenging and lonely.

Most of the people I met in Ghana were expats who shrugged their shoulders when I suggested it must be hard to uproot a comfortable life at home to adjust to the craziness of Accra. Surrounded by people who embraced life in Africa so naturally made my challenges with mosquitos and power outages seem silly and childish. But along with lizards and bugs, loneliness eventually crept into my apartment and made those trivial trials even harder to bear. Read a book, play an instrument, ride a bike, visit a sight, sit with a stranger...sometimes these are things you have to force yourself to do to forget that not a single familiar face is within 3,000 miles of you. In those moments, the tiniest gestures saved me. On a particularly rough day in Accra, a taxi driver laughed so heartily when I told him I loved the hiplife song playing on the radio and asked him to turn it up. So we danced in our seats to a shared love of music for the remainder of the ride, and that taxi driver, who I will never see again, saved me that day.

I am not granted many opportunities in Nairobi to meet people outside the office or to explore the city. What a disappointment to the fun-seeking adolescent within me! I want to dance with strangers to ridiculous pop music until 5 in the morning, I want to bike around the streets to hollers of "white girl! how are you?", I want to befriend someone who will remain a lifelong souvenir of my time here. Not all trips are adventures, though. My priority here is to help Grameen establish a strong presence here, not to have all my touristic desires fulfilled. So I spend most of my time here alone - attempting to cook edible meals with a pot and a table knife, avoiding the temptation to throw things when my internet goes out, and aggressively pursuing conversations with taxi drivers, the only locals I have contact with.

I think of my dad who traveled weekly for business for over a decade. To this day I still get teary when I see a man with a mustache eating alone in a restaurant. How hard it must have been for him to eat meal after meal without his family, or even any companion, all those times. I'm missing home. My apartment, the ability to walk around with navigational confidence, cheap burritos, my hairdryer...The hardest part is knowing that when I arrive back home, I'll find myself missing precious alone time, chats with foreign strangers, Tusker beer and the smells of Africa. Oh, the contradiction.

Oh look! It's a picture I took of myself.

Opportunists make the best travelers. Those who are willing to say yes to even the most bizarre circumstances will be invited into stories they will tell for a lifetime. At every moment possible I have tried to be this person, and while it has led me to the best parts of my trip, going with the flow can be incredibly exhausting. And then there's patience, the necessity of which pops up almost everywhere. Even yesterday, as my driver and I sat waiting in silence feet away from a lion buried in the grass to stand up, I got bored after about 10 minutes and insisted we drive on. What a mistake that would have been. The lion eventually stood up for a brief majestic moment when a herd of buffalo passed by. That's right, I saw a lion yesterday, and here I sit blabbering like a kid writing a letter home from some third-rate summer camp.

A double G&T at Lord Delamere's Terrace in Nairobi.

Traveling alone is largely learning how to be patient with yourself, for not understanding the language, for not knowing your way, for wanting to be somewhere else when most people would give anything to switch places with you. You're a different version of yourself, changing from moment to moment to survive whatever you're given. From day to day, I am shy/outspoken, funny/offensive, professional/drunk, respectful/respectfully yelling at a taxi driver. In those introspective moments that have punctuated every day of my summer, I find myself questioning which versions make up the real person that is me.

Naturally, I appreciate the romance of it all. I get a kick out of being alone at fancy hotel bars and local food spots. I imagine (quite narcissistically) that amidst the multilingual buzz of fellow foreigners, they all take turns speculating about that girl sitting in the corner reading a book and sipping on a G&T. I only wish my suitcase had been big enough to fit in accompanying costumes - I could have been a photographer on an urban stopover before the next safari, or an over-worked World Bank employee, or a Western trophy wife tired of the developing world. Alas, I'm left with just me.

The lesson in it all, I believe, is learning to trust the unexpected. When I left for work on Friday morning, two staff members rushed to me to give me hugs because I was wearing a blazer and heels (quite the departure from my usual sloppy flip flops and wet hair). They gushed over me! Their brief hugs were sweeter than the Berkeley ice cream sandwiches I'm craving, and I squeezed them back so tight my shoulder bag fell onto the ground. I don't know their names - I haven't even met one of them before - but it was their surprising and affectionate acknowledgement of me that made me feel like a real person again.

Of course, the most unexpected delight of it all is learning to trust the unexpected within yourself, and watching that shy outspoken funny offensive professional drunk get through it all somehow.

Worship at a Nairobi Gym

2011-07-21T08:39:00.001Z

Watching the World Cup Final at the airport gate

It certainly takes leaving a place to appreciate the beauty of it. While I was in Ghana I daydreamed of the magic of Oakland (three words you won't find together often), and ever since my departure out of Kotoka airport on Sunday, I have found myself counting all the things I miss about Ghana. Even those little nuisances that tested me daily have somehow formed a big cloud of nostalgia for a place I know I can't visit again easily.

I remember feeling exactly this way last time, and trying to commit to memory every Ghanaian acquaintance of my five senses: the sour smell of my kitchen, the particular call of a bird that was always outside my bedroom window, the infectious smile of my security guard Adams, the men peeing with abandon on the streets, the ever present "you are welcome!" when entering a restaurant or shop or home. As I write this I am actually trying to imitate the sound that Ghanaians make to emphasize a point or to indicate that they understand. It's something like "eh-heeeeeh." Not quite the same in a conversation with yourself in a Nairobi office.

The driveway to my apartment in Nairobi

I arrived here bright and early on Monday morning and was taken by a nice but quiet taxi driver to my flat and then the Grameen Foundation office. Like a character from a Pinter play who has just woken from a coma, I am trying to remember everything I see in order to understand this new world around me. I live in Rosslyn Hill, I work in Kileleshwa. I'm not allowed to cross the street while talking on my phone, but drivers are allowed to talk while driving. Illegality doesn't stop street vendors from selling papers and baskets and puppies on the median. There is no shortage of malls or vegetables or foreigners. A devastating famine is taking place not too far from here. Hosts on the radio banter about sex and play songs with profanity at 8:30am. This is what I know of Nairobi so far.

I have three short weeks in which to understand how microfinance is working in Kenya and what challenges MFIs have in delivering their services, and what companies and organizations are engaging their employees in skilled volunteer work. A pleasant discovery was that most microfinance institutions actually have websites here - quite a change from Ghana - and I am taking it as an initial indication that this region is ripe for Bankers without Borders.

Mosquito Bites: No fresh ones, only scars. Thank you, high altitude.
Best "only in Kenya" sight this week: I began my temporary membership to the health club near my place by attending an aerobics class. Once you've been traveling for awhile you get used to expecting anything, but always with questions in the back of your mind about what awaits you. Would the class be packed? Would it be difficult? Will people stare at me? I opened the door after the class had started but the class continued without so much as a glance in my direction. Which was surprising, considering the tiny size of both the room and class. Three Kenyans were bouncing around to the commands of an instructor wearing khaki shorts, Converse and some t-shirt saying something about X-rated. We lifted weights, marched around, threw our hands in the air, kicked our legs up, and groaned through ab exercises for an hour while we listened to techno gospel music. Pumping my arms to "I will worship you" and "your Kingdom is worthy" was definitely a first for me. I will absolutely be heading back tonight.

The New Adventures of Old Tamale

2011-07-13T12:05:00.001Z

On the road to Tamale

I’ve been counting down the days to this. Not that thunderstorms, tigernut cocktails and weekend stays at oceanside eco lodges haven’t kept me busy – my stay in Ghana has been a fascinating combination of experiences both new (opening a coconut with a machete) and surprisingly normal (watching too many episodes of The New Adventures of Old Christine while dogsitting for a friend). But I’m not here just to drive around with locals to chop bars with dancehall music blaring out the open windows to join in the cacophony of Accra streets. Certainly part of the fun, but not the goal.

I’ve been talking up the Bankers without Borders program to MFIs across Accra, and this is finally my chance to watch it in action. The Grameen Foundation asked me to shadow a BwB project for a partner MFI called Grameen Ghana in the northern city of Tamale (surprisingly no affiliation despite the shared namesake.) A volunteer from an investment bank in NYC, Noah, is delivering training on a new financial model over a 4-day assignment. This is only the second time this Grameen Foundation model has been passed on to another MFI, but BwB hopes this will eventually lead to a standard for financial projections across the industry.

Donkey by the Swimming Pool -
now the working title of my first novel.

My role on the project varies depending on who you talk to. BwB would like me to evaluate the project from both volunteer and client perspectives with an objective third eye. Not having a chance to introduce myself during the kick-off meeting with the MFI, however, gave the director the opportunity to task me with a different role. “And Noah has brought this pretty woman”, he announced to the team, “so everything we do will be prettier”. Challenge accepted.

Tamale is a wonderland of NGOs, motorbikes and donkeys. Okay, I’ve just seen the one donkey, but stumbling upon him and a massive turkey lounging near the swimming pool as I walked to my “hotel room” was noteworthy. Londoners and New Yorkers would immediately understand what it’s like to leave the stress of Accra and feel the welcoming arms of the countryside. The sky is bigger, the air easier to breathe, the day easier to enjoy. The Northern region is predominantly Muslim and host to over 30 different ethnic groups, yet Tamale easily maintains the friendly and laidback life so characteristic of Ghana.

Four days is a short amount of time for a complex project like this, especially when the employees gleaned that Noah is a goldmine of information and asked him question after question about Excel. While Noah was showing them a few shortcuts, I felt like I was at a party watching the popular guy do card tricks. You really don't hear “oohs” and “aahs” or laughter during Excel presentations at home. Early tomorrow morning we will travel three hours north to Bimbilla to meet with Grameen Ghana borrowers in the field. Apparently the distance is only an hour’s drive, but the potholes really slow you down. It will undoubtedly be an incredible day, even if my butt is bruised at the end of it.

As I write this, I’m watching the donkey from my little hut. He’s using one of the pool umbrellas to scratch his head, making it look a bit like he’s wearing the umbrella as a hat. It’s 5:30 in the morning, the sun is coming up and I can hear trucks and motorbikes passing by on the road from Kumasi. I keep asking myself: in a few weeks’ time, will I believe I was ever here?

Mosquito bites: Still in the twenties. Got a nice fresh set of 9 up and down my back. Seems I'm single-handedly feeding the population here.

Waiting 10 hours for the flight to take off was surprisingly fun.

Best "only in Ghana: sight this week: I showed up for my Antrak flight to Tamale at 4:30am as I was warned that the 6am departure could actually mean 5:30 (perpetually late Ghanaians manage to get flights off the ground EARLY??). Sat in the departure lounge until about 5:30 when we were all shuffled through security (the pat down was so thorough I blushed). After about half an hour in the gate, a man in a neon vest announced to the group that the flight had been delayed until about 1pm because of storms in Tamale. Noah and I headed back to town, got some breakfast, went to the mall, and got back to the airport around noon. We had a quick beer at the airport bar but made sure to get back to the gate in time for departure. An hour passed in the departure lounge. Then another. Around 2:30pm, like sweaty cattle, we all made our way through security to the gate. And sat for another hour. Finally around 4pm, almost 12 hours after the departure time, we took off. The most amazing thing about this whole process is that apart from the announcement I mentioned, not a word was said. Noah and I were cued only by the sudden rush of people from one place to another. How did they know? What did I miss? The views from the flight, however, were stunning. Felt like I was in the back of Denys Finch Hatton's plane, looking down on the glorious greenery.

Green Means Growth

2011-06-30T14:38:00.002Z

Ghana moves slowly. Meals at restaurants can take an hour to arrive and the mud sidewalks are crowded with ambling pedestrians who stop to chat frequently. Last night a friend told me about checking in on an item he had ordered from a vendor; when he asked when it would be ready, the response was, "for sure maybe tomorrow." This is at once the most wonderful and most frustrating characteristic of Ghanaian life. Something I really wanted to do on this trip was meet at least one microfinance client to see for myself if a small loan really made a tangible difference. Recognizing the sluggish speed of life and acknowledging my short time here, I wasn't too optimistic that I'd get the opportunity. But as those who have come to know Ghana understand, things have a way of working out in ways you can't anticipate.

The view from Hillburi, Aburi

The first MFI I met with last week was impressive from the moment I entered the office. I did not expect them to be in a five-story office building with glass walls and cubicles, nor did I think that my flip flops and sundress would render me embarrassingly underdressed. A team of three men in sharp suits, including the CEO, ran me through a well-prepared Powerpoint on their background and operations. They base their banking on mobility; that is, their loan officers each have a mobile phone and a mobile printer through which they can serve hundreds of customers in remote villages throughout their target regions. Customers receive a printed receipt while their information is sent from the phone back to an impressive information management system (that the company developed internally) so that the head offices can keep track of individual balances, outstanding loans, and agent collections. This model is limitless, especially in terms of reaching customers in remote areas who lack access to financial services the most. After an hour or so I thanked them for their time, and left the meeting more than satisfied.

The next day I received an e-mail from the CEO who asked if I would accompany him on a day trip outside of Accra to visit the branch there and observe their interaction with customers. This, as it turns out, barely begins to cover what we did on that day trip. The two hour drive began with traffic and dust and potholes but ended in the beautiful mountains of the Eastern Region. Our first stop was to meet the branch manager in Nkurakan, a smart young woman who oversees a number of villages in the area. The three of us then moved on to the next village, where I was introduced to Emmanuel. Emmanuel owns a business called Greenfield Spare Parts ("why greenfield?" I asked. "green means growth.") and has taken a total of approximately $1,500 in loans. When the warehouse he buys his parts from increased their prices, he was worried he wouldn't be able to complete his stock and business would plummet, but this loan ensures that he is able to continue serving his customers the way he needs to to stay afloat. When I asked if he would continue to take out loans, he grinned and said "of course, of course. I am so grateful."

Wish this picture had captured how incredibly hot it was.

From there we moved from village to village to meet with people, finally ending at a huge trader market. Huge. Everything you could imagine was sold here, from dried Tilapia to toenail scissors to second hand trousers. The MFI hosts a stall with a DJ and computers, and volunteer agents walk throughout the market to visit with existing customers and invite new ones to register at the stall. One staff agent grabbed my hand and led me through the market, introduced me to clients (all women), invited me to try fruits I'd never seen before, and told me how much he loves his job. I could go on and on about this trip - about how one customer whose business in a wood shack had been robbed and a loan allowed him to buy a more secure tin shack, about how the CEO is incredibly smart and sees only growth for their company, or about an amazing lunch in the mountains at this place, but there are other stories to tell.

The next day, a different MFI invited me to attend a group lender meeting and a group leader training. This MFI aims to serve the urban poor, referring to their clients as partners, and while they lend to individuals, these partners must be part of a community-formed group. These groups hold weekly meetings to discuss any issues and ensure everyone is paying back their loans. The group I visited with was named "God is Good" - which also served as a chant the leader shouted out multiple times to the group's collective response "all the time!" As the leader went through the agenda, the treasurer of the group collected everyone's payments in a lady's purse hung around his neck. On a personal note, I love watching group interactions like this. They teased each other (a conversation I thought was a serious discussion on the tardy policy was actually one guy asking the group if the ring on my finger meant I was married or available), and laughed and clapped when I said thank you in Twi (Medase!), and prayed in earnest to start and close the meeting. This MFI's customers are 98% women who typically borrow about $80, and each client must undertake mandatory training before leveraging the MFI's loans or savings products.

Anthony, a customer, in front of his business.

These stories have been encouraging. Microfinance certainly has a place here and seems to be in a state of development. But a hard fact remains: the number one challenge facing all of these institutions is the lack of funding and financing. Some are donor dependent, some rely on investments from personal contacts, some seem to have no long-term sustainability plan. I have also noted a lack of collaboration among these organizations, which ultimately means that the sector suffers from a lack of best practices and self-regulation. Looking forward, many of these MFIs hope to tap into new sources of income and explore how technology can expand their operations. Previously ignored by the Bank of Ghana, MFIs will be boosted by the launch of a new Central Bank microfinance division by the end of the year. Will this be a catalyst for MFI sustainability and growth? For customers like Emmanuel and the members of "God is Good", I certainly hope so.

Mosquito bites: 22 (mostly on my feet)

Best "only in Ghana" sight/sound this week: Last Friday I had my first tennis lesson at the courts behind the National Stadium. Sule, my Nigerian instructor, is patient and calm and I love hearing him say things like "Keem, we will work on your foh-hond" or "Let me be moh cle-ah, you must bend yo kneees!" What was not as calm, however, was the swarm of little kids on the court who were desperate to be our ballboys (or friends?) Innocently obnoxious and desperate for some action, they were prancing around the entire perimeter of the court so loudly I could barely hear the balls hit my racket. After the lesson I made friends with an 8 year old boy wearing an Oakland t-shirt. I taught him a high five low five, and he taught me a fist bump. Fist bumps on the tennis court...Wimbledon, this is not.

KKT's Ghanaian Rules of Thumb

2011-06-27T12:35:00.012Z

You're welcome.

wait...which way?

Getting Around
Planned to go to a restaurant the other night, got these official directions in the guidebook: "If coming from the airport area, cross the railroad track, follow road as it turns, take the 2nd left. This road will go over a small "river", then take first left - opposite a signboard that reads "cape 3 office". The restaurant is in a house, on right side, painted mustard yellow. There is no name on the house." I skipped dinner.

You can sit anywhere you like, really.

Taxis are a pretty convenient way to travel if you don't mind haggling with the driver for a fair price (minus what my friend calls the "white man tax".) Sit in the front seat and put on the seatbelt, if there is one. The driver will honk throughout the speedy journey for no apparent reason; he may be saying "Get out of my way, pedestrian!", or "I'm available for a passenger", or perhaps just "look at me! I'm driving!" If it seems like the car is falling apart, it is. One of the doors or something on the bottom of the car is sure to be rattling loudly, hopefully in time with the driver's honking to make up for the ominously missing radio. If the door doesn't open from the inside, half of the time it won't, just act cool and open the door from the outside. And always be friendly - drivers are happy to share directions and talk about their favorite football team. If you don't feel like chatting, enjoy them singing along loudly to hiplife or a skipping CD of the greatest hits of Celine Dion.

Electricity
If you are taking a cold shower at 3am, because your body temperature hits an unsleepable degree, and the power goes out (usually a very dramatic whirr into silence) - do not panic. Enjoy the shower in the darkness and most likely, by the time you are done, the security guards will have figured out how to turn on the generator after a few loud arguments and many mysterious banging sounds. Why does the power go out so frequently here? Grossly deficient infrastructure. It's the same reason that the streets are lined with tunnels of dirty water pouring into the ocean. Which brings me to another point - open defecation is practiced often here, even by women. Watch where you're walking. And please don't take part.

Sounds of the Night
Loud banging to fix the generator will be only one of the nighttime sounds you'll hear while laying in bed in a pool of sweat. Church services take place in the middle of the night and worship is just as loud as it would be at a more appropriate hour. Funeral processions will clang past your complex at 5 in the morning with chanting and drumming and bells that seem to follow no particular rhythm. Frogs and crickets and birds and something making a sound that can only be described as Michael Jackson's signature "ee-eeee!" will also join the chorus. It may seem like you'll never get to sleep, but don't worry, the heat will eventually ease you in to a soundless coma.

Food and Cooking

bug free breakfast.

Some of the juiciest mangos, passionfruits and papayas can be found in Ghana. Adequate vegetables can also be found at stalls on the street, and yes, they will be covered in little bugs and flies. You can get vegetables without inhabitants at the grocery store if you're willing to pay $3 for an onion (turns out, I am.) Before you put everything in the fridge - forget everything you've learned about avocados and tomatoes and bananas not needing refrigeration - slice them all up to make sure the bugs have an escape route. The simplest meal at home will take you twice as long to cook here because you have to inspect everything, cut out the questionable bits, and wash and cook every piece. Or, if you feel confident in your ciprofloxacin medicine, go ahead and live dangerously and bite in to that fresh tomato. What's the worst that could happen?

Marriage Proposals
Women with low self-esteem could use Ghana as a sort of rehab. The catcalls of construction men in the Western world don't compare to the charm and persistence of Ghanaian men. Men will tell you they love you, tell you they want to be close to you, offer to do anything for you and take you anywhere, ask you to be their wife or their Facebook friend before you've even had a chance to say hello. Responses like "I have a boyfriend" or "But you don't know me" won't put them off, but don't be rude. If two men in a car are driving slowly alongside you as you walk, stop and chat with them and firmly tell them that you are on your way somewhere. I conveniently leave my phone at home and refuse to memorize my phone number. Getting their information ends the conversation (if you're lucky) and leaves it in your hands. If you do give your number out, expect to receive phone call after phone call from men asking repeatedly "how are you?" They are not being sleazy, they just really want to know how you're doing.

The Fun Things
You can show up late to meetings and you'll probably be the first one there. Handshakes here are almost as fun as high fives (with a clicking of each other's middle fingers). Jollof rice is tasty. Big beers are cheap. The clothes are wild. Life is lived out on the streets. And everywhere I go, I am welcomed.

Kokrobite

2011-06-20T08:23:00.003Z

any guesses?

From tequila shooters to Rastafaris to Ghanaian police officers, the first weekend here was exactly what I hoped it would be. Left the office early on Friday and roamed around the Artist's Alliance with Lynda and some other volunteers - a three story building with some fantastic Ghanaian art and crafts. What followed was, thus far, the highlight of my trip. David, a Ghanaian Grameen employee who just moved back here from India, invited us out to a dinner at a seafood restaurant with a few friends. About 12 of us finished 9 bottles of wine and 9 platters of various (some unidentifiable) seafood dishes, including swordfish and clams and octopus. As a girl who turns her nose up at fish I have to bone myself, I am proud to say I tried every single dish, lobster was the one exception, and I really enjoyed the meal. Afterwards, we sat outside at Venus, a hookah bar in the Osu district, where a South African taught me how to do tequila shooters. From there we moved to Bella Roma, a nightclub populated with locals, and danced the night away. I returned home around 4:30 and went to sleep feeling totally confident that I'd make my 8:30 yoga class.

Big pile of bikes in front of police station.

I did not. But by noon or so, David, Lynda and I made our way to Kokrobite. For an 18 mile distance, the journey was long. Funeral processions, commonly held on Saturdays, only added to the perpetual traffic in Accra. We finally picked up speed, but my tired eyes perked up at the sign pointing to Kokrobite just a little too late, and David had to make a debatably illegal u-turn to go back to the turning. What a mistake. A young police officer standing on the road pulled us over, motioned for me to move my backpack over so he could get in the backseat with me, and nonchalantly demanded we drive to the nearest police station. I was told the night before (by an Australian) that this is simply how it's done here. Bribes are common, but we were too good hearted for that. Earnest Lynda asked the officer for forgiveness, but the officer just chuckled. Apparently you have to buy forgiveness here. We waited for 15 minutes at the police station while David worked his Ghanaian magic, and soon we were back on the road without having to pay a fine. David guessed that the police officer most likely just needed a ride back to the office. Terrible system, but fun to observe.

The nets on the fishing boats at Kokrobite

Our journey's surprises didn't stop there. A recent storm had created crater-size potholes in the long red mud road to the ocean. It was slow going, but we finally arrived about 3 hours after we had set out. Our destination was Big Milly's Backyard - a little enclave on the beach with a pervasive Rastafari culture and the perfect set up for relaxation. Milly's was kind to us. We ate traditional dishes like Red Red (bean stew and plantains) and groundnut soup while observing fishermen pull in their boats and women with babies tied to their backs sell pineapples and biscuits. We took a drumming lesson and the three of us each bought drums to continue our vocation independently. I also bought shaky balls - the Ghanaian version of maracas, but much harder to play. We stayed at the Dream Hotel in a room with a doorless bathroom and a flooding toilet. We drank a white wine called Obama of Africa and we danced to a Reggae band with the locals. Ghana at its finest.

I am writing this now from my apartment just behind the Grameen office. I have hot water, various foods in the fridge, a mosquito net, and semi-reliable internet access. I really couldn't ask for more. I am eagerly awaiting the week ahead, when I finally get to start meeting directors at microfinance institutions in person! I'm also hoping to dedicate some time to my drumming, take my first Ghanaian tennis lesson, and persuade some of the people I've met to join me at a pub quiz night this week. Getting settled certainly takes some time, and I imagine there will be ups and downs along the way, but tonight I am content.

Mosquito bites: 7

Lynda, Stephan, and said smoothie

Best "only in Ghana" sight/sound this week: A Ghanaian man named Stephan kindly offered us a ride back to Accra from Kokrobite in his Jeep. Stephan runs an organization called Foundation of Hope, and talked excitedly about what he does, how much he has learned from his volunteers, and what he would like to see changed in his country. When he heard I was looking for a bicycle, he offered to drive one down to Accra for me today. Refusing to let us pay him for the trip, he allowed us only to buy him a smoothie to say thank you. Only in Ghana can you get in a stranger's car and end up getting a free bicycle delivered to you at the end of the ride, all for the price of one smoothie.

Microfinance: Not a cure-all

2011-06-16T09:40:00.001Z

While I'd love to bore you all* with stories of questionable foods, house lizards and Ghanaian taxi drivers (and promise to do so very soon!), I'm choosing instead to get the ball rolling by sharing a bit about what I'll be working on this summer. I've begun two out of five projects this week - one is researching current linkages between mobile technology and agriculture (to inform a pilot Grameen Foundation initiative) and the other is researching the state of microfinance in Ghana.

Compared to other African countries, Ghana has a relatively developed field of microfinance with over 40 institutions providing loans of $130 million to about 350,000 customers. As expected, I've encountered arguments, some bitter and some worthy, over what works and what doesn't. High interest rates, inclusive and short-term financial models and an immense funding gap threaten the livelihood of the sector in certain areas. Some critics go so far as to say that microfinance even perpetuates poverty by offering "second-rate" financial services to the poor. The problems with arguments against microfinance, as I see it, are as follows: 1. Microfinance cannot be viewed as a cure-all for poverty, and 2. critics tend to examine microfinance in its current state and fail to acknowledge the evolving nature of financial services for a complex group such as the poor.

Ever since Mohammed Yunus made that first $27 loan thirty five years ago, microfinance has burgeouned into its own professional field accompanied with declarations that this is the solution we've all been looking for. Critics who warn that microfinance isn't all it's cracked up to be are usually reacting to blanket claims made by professionals in the field that microfinance is the only way to solve poverty effectively. (They do this in part to attract donor money, and you can't blame the players in the tricky game of fundraising.) But to state that microfinance is having little impact on conditions of the poor is ignorant at best, and these black-and-white generalizations - on either side - do nothing to further positive development. It's like saying that the eradication of AIDS will not lift all people out of poverty. Clearly that is the case, but does it mean that agencies dedicated to seeing the end of the disease should just quit their jobs and head to the beach? Of course not. The truth is that poverty is a deep, complex problem entrenched in history and societal standards, and no one thing could ever blot out the horrific conditions of the poor.

Because of this, microfinance cannot exist in a vacuum. The sector is well positioned, especially in well-developed markets, to serve as a tool to enable all other functioning models of development, like healthcare, education, food security and access to water (saw a great Austrian film on water at the Goethe Institut on Monday: Uber Wasser.) MFIs need to have the capacity to create strong ties across sectors to develop a sector worthy of investment in order to penetrate massive societal challenges.

There are several cases of pioneering models. Companies seeking to strengthen their value chains have partnered with microfinance organizations, as Unilever has done in India. MFIs and development organizations can team up with established banks, like the partnership between CHF International and HFC Bank or Barclays Banks' work with susu collectors here in Ghana. Governments can assist microfinance sustainability by not placing ceilings on interest rates and promoting competition. Innovation, technical expertise and technology will also push the sector into addressing more than just the financial needs of the poor, and that is where services from organizations like the Grameen Foundation come in. Microfinance will not save the world (can anything really?) but it is certainly one big and helpful step in the right direction. As I begin to conduct in-person interviews with MFI staff and customers on the ground here, I look forward to sharing their views on what microfinance has accomplished, and what the future of the sector looks like here in Ghana.

(*or just my mum, since she's most likely my one reader. Hi mum!)

Announcements, Emergencies and Fumigation*

2011-06-12T20:49:00.002Z

My journey yesterday started at 4am. One car trip, boat ride, train trip, taxi ride, and a flight later, I was sitting on the floor of a gate crowded with Ghanaians at Schiphol airport in Amsterdam. When the KLM agent announced business class boarding for the flight to Accra, almost everyone stood up and crowded the entrance to the airplane. "Business class only," she reminded them, "everyone else please sit down. Please sit down!" A few stepped aside, but no one took a seat. Every time she announced a specific section of seats ready for boarding, she would have to repeat the announcement to restrain the travelers crowding around her. I was annoyed. Why can't they follow directions? I recalled a recent situation that had irked me similarly: I was waiting in line in a small grocery store in Barcelona only to watch customer after customer cut in front of me to pay. "Oh yeah," my traveling companion remembered, "they don't queue in Spain."
My German upbringing has left me with a need for a great amount of personal space and little patience for inefficiency. The English part of me apologizes profusely for the most harmless bump into a stranger, and the Bay Area girl in me loves to talk about what the weather's going to be like tomorrow. When I observe cultures where people do the opposite of what I do, my Dutch inclination to live and let live gives way to quiet resentment (or loud, as I share this in a public blog entry) as I think about how much better things would be if everyone did them the way I do.
What attributes would we want to emulate from each culture in a perfect world? Certainly not the Ghanaian laissez-faire attitude that had me hunting down my 24 hour visa when it hadn't shown up 6 days later. Probably not whatever prompted the German at Frankfurt airport to look at me in disgust when I attempted ordering a Bockwurst in his language. I for one could do without the English tendency to smother sunblock on like white paint, and abolish any culture in which foul body odors go unnoticed. Am I being insensitive? Absolutely, and that's my point. Clearly it's easier to see what we don't like about other cultures rather than what we do like. So, to get in the traveling mindset, I'm reminding myself that each culture is a national personality, and a celebration of history and tradition and identity. Most importantly, whatever they're doing works for them. If it doesn't work for me...why on earth am I traveling?
We landed in Accra and within moments, while the plane was still moving, people clicked off their seatbelts and started opening the overhead bins. I was horrified. "The seatbelt light is still on! Come on people!" How I wished the flight attendant would berate them for not following protocol. But she didn't...because this is not her first time to Accra. In the airport, before I found my roommate, I heard a familiar sound. Taxi drivers were hissing at me (tsssss! tssss!), a culturally acceptable way to get someone's attention in Ghanaian culture. The American in me thought "how rude", but the Ghanaian in me just turned and smiled. Time to get acclimated.

(And yes, this is all a long way of saying I've arrived safe and sound. Accra is marvelous, and I will write more when I've soaked it all in. For now, I will leave you with a picture of my impromptu drumming lesson at a market this morning.)

*Just a few fun little anecdotes from my journey. A public announcement was made by the train driver upon our arrival into Waterloo: "The American girl who's napping may want to wake up now." Then there was a medical emergency requiring a doctor on my flight to Accra, which ended with some kind of fumigation that is apparently now required on all flights to Ghana by the World Health Organization. Sure smelled nice, though.

Second Time Around

2011-06-09T14:48:00.001Z

Almost three years ago, to the day, I was returning from my first trip to Ghana. I left there with a big hole in my heart because I knew it was unlikely I would ever return. Life certainly is full of surprises! In under 48 hours (if my visa arrives tomorrow...) I will be on a noon flight back to the land of pygmy goats and Star beer. This time I'll be joining the Grameen Foundation in Accra, the nation's capital, to conduct landscape analyses of microfinance markets in Ghana and Kenya for their Bankers without Borders initiative. This program is designed to utilize private sector resources - namely volunteers with professional expertise - to build the capacity of microfinance institutions in order to help the poorest people throughout the world move out of poverty. Their program stood out to me when I was researching corporate engagement at the Taproot Foundation. They are clearly pioneers in leveraging volunteer resources effectively and innovatively for poverty reduction, and I feel incredibly lucky to work for them this summer.

I deliberated on reviving my blog for the sole reason that what I'm doing just isn't that extraordinary. Every day, hundreds of people are volunteering throughout the African continent - and the globe - sacrificing the conveniences of home and time with loved ones to hopefully make a stranger's life a little bit better. My story is no more interesting than theirs. While I will no doubt be sharing personal anecdotes and my perspectives on the day to day Ghanaian life, I'll also be seeing things through a newly refined policy lens (thank you, graduate school). Having researched corporate engagement and skills-based volunteerism for a few years now, I've had to wade through countless arguments over better practices and efficient models of service delivery. Does microfinance work? Can volunteers make a difference? Is anything we're doing really lifting people out of poverty? I hope to find out, and I hope that anyone who is interested will join the conversation.

I also hope to fall back in love with a land that has seemed so far away since I left! A lot has changed in the country since 2008 - now a middle-income status nation and currently tapping in to newly discovered oil - and a lot has changed in me. Will I still be greeted with shouts of "yevu!" and "I love you!" on the streets? Will tiny little goats follow me wherever I go? Will I get used to people showing up at 4pm for 1oam appointments? Will strangers invite me into their home and share their food and life stories with me?

Let's see.

Only in Africa

2008-06-12T08:57:00.000Z

This will be my last blog from Hohoe. The last week has flown by, and my time at the school has been wonderful. I regret thinking I hadn't made left a mark here; for my last few days they have been baking me cakes, making me my own batik fabrics, giving me beer at lunch, and every minute demanding that I return very soon. Most of my work (research and application) will actually begin when I get home so I know that I will remain in close contact with them. Still, I find myself trying to ingrain even the smell of the school in my mind.
A huge storm hit us in the afternoon on Tuesday. I have seen all kinds of storms but the ones here are breathtaking. In the mornings it is always so sweltering you think the sun has a personal vendetta against you and then, around 2, the whole sky begins to change. The white puffy clouds come in and slowly start to move closer. Then the wind picks up and the air changes - always my favorite part. When I felt the breeze come into the house on Tuesday, I knew that I had to be outside. I walked down the main dirt path and dust kicked up in my face while the bushes on either side of me started to sway in the wind. The lightning and thunder always happen before the actual rain; lightning every 30 seconds and deafening, frightening thunder. It is always a small dark cloud, almost black, that brings the rain. As I was walking aimlessly, children were scurrying past me trying to get to shelter before it poured. And then, drop by drop the rain began to fall. It happens so slowly you can barely contain your excitement, but then it finds its groove and really begins to pour. The drops are so loud but always soft when they hit you. And so I stood in a field in the middle of nowhere for the next 20 minutes and got absolutely drenched. It was amazing. I remember Monique telling me that the sky in Africa feels bigger than it does at home and I couldn't agree more. The other night staring at the stars (all of them twinkle here too!) I felt as if I were either in the world's largest planetarium, or a picture ripped out of the book Le Petit Prince. The sky may be what I miss the most.
Every time you greet a Ghanaian, you shake hands and during the release, you snap your middle finger with the other's middle finger. I love this. They also have annoying habits, like asking me "Are you back?" every time I return to the house. Yes, I'm back, don't be stupid. They are a kind, generous, content people who do work hard, but in their own unique way. I find it frustrating that they do adapt to Western ideas, but always the wrong ones. They don't have working toilets and if they do, you have to throw the toilet paper away in the trash can instead of flushing it. Yet every single one of them has a cell phone. Their trash and irrigation, education, healthcare and political systems are all progressing bit by bit, but most of their time is concentrated on emulating the latest American fads (well, sometimes not the latest - R. Kelly is a big hit here). I can't tell if the best way to assist is to change American priorities at home or to join the African system and help them refocus their priorities. The U.S. has paved the way for so many developing countries but capitalism does hit a harmful tipping point. Developing countries like Ghana that have left corrupt politics behind them, should they strengthen their economies, are positioned to make a huge leap in the sustainability movement. As Ghana continues to grow and to decide what its personality really is, I hope it will leave R. Kelly and tight jeans behind, and think more of the social welfare of its citizens.
I can't really articulate how I feel today. I walked through the buzzing town last night with the overwhelming worry that perhaps, just perhaps, I will never see these sights again. And in a way that makes it all the more beautiful; Hohoe will always be in my mind as a sort of trippy dream, a haven, an escape worlds away that I can never return to. It's a reminder that we can never hold on to a moment; the more we try to, the quicker it passes us by. Living that way ensures that every moment is really enjoyed. No thinking, just living.
Tomorrow I will take the 24 hour journey back to the Island, where the Isle of Wight Festival is taking place, and then Tuesday I'm off to Puerto Rico by way of Madrid. I do believe I will continue writing, as I am sure Puerto Rico will be a whole new adventure.

Last weekend in Ghana

2008-06-09T10:51:00.000Z

We started our weekend as we usually do; at Boondocks with a Star beer in hand. Three hours and more beers than I can count later, our driver showed up around 4 (I tell you, if I get home and I'm not perpetually late it will be a miracle). We ran over and killed two large goats on the way and no one batted an eye. Lori and I cried a quick tear, but at the same time appreciated the sentiment that seems to pop up every day: Only in Africa.

We passed out when we got to Kizzi's, and woke up at 3:30am to make the 3 hour trek to Kakum National Park. Alas, no elephants or monkeys were spotted, but we did enjoy the 'canopy walkway': 7 rope bridges all connected as a path high (so high!) above the rainforest. Not for the faint of heart but absolutely breathtaking. Fred, our guide, was a hoot - he was the black version of Fez from That 70's show, and was adorably disappointed in us when we didn't ask questions on the nature walk (the highlights of which were a large tree and a huge millipede...not much to write home about.) After the rainforest, we drove to the Cape Coast castle. The architecture of the castle is stunning - a large white building with beautiful blue shutters on each window, situated right on the beach overlooking boats and palm trees. It was a little hard to really grasp the horrors that happened there with so many tourists around, but I was able to steal away for a few quiet minutes alone in one of the dungeons. The dungeons are damp and small, completely dark save for a tiny window that allows for one beam of sunlight. Thousands of slaves were held here for days, sometimes weeks, as they awaited shipment through the Middle Passage. It's amazing to think that the slave trade is not only such a huge part of American history, but global history as well, seeing as it was actually the smallest portion of slaves that were sent to the US (most went to the Caribbean). I was amazed when I read the entries in the guestbook, and one African American woman had suggested that they separate white and black people for the tours of the castle. Very powerful stuff.

We stayed at a resort in a town called Elmina Saturday night and I can't tell you how superb it was to take a hot shower. I felt clean for the first time in weeks. After another amazing weekend, I wasn't expecting much at school on Monday morning, but I was pleasantly shocked at how much work they had done for me. The headmaster and secretary provided me with all of the appropriate budgets so I am now one step away from completing my proposals. I appointed a Project Evaluation team (the headmaster, the secretary, the accountant and myself) to assess the progress of the projects should we secure funding, and they are all so excited and, as Jimmy would say, G2G (good to go). And then...very ceremoniously, they walked me over to the new dormitory and pointed to the front door. At the top, written in white, are 8 wonderful letters: "Kim House". They named a dormitory after me!!! Yes, I cried a little and took picture after picture like a Japanese tourist. With only 3 days left here, I'm running around trying to get everything done that I want to, trying not to think about how much I will miss it here. I know though, that this is the first of many trips to Africa for me.

How do you sign 'you're blowing my mind'?

2008-06-06T09:27:00.000Z

*(This was meant to be posted on Friday but the electricity went off in the town just as I was clicking 'publish'.)
People here are dropping like flies; three volunteers in the other house have malaria, Ashley had to go to the hospital for an IV last night, and on any given day someone's throwing up in the bathroom. I have a grand total of 17 bug bites on my feet alone, so every day that I wake up without malaria I am so thankful! Knock on wood.
I have found inspiration from surprising sources since I last wrote. The first is everyone at home - many of you responded to my last blog with an incredible understanding of the universal trappings of people. The point that most of you made was that this trip is for me, and as much as I want to help, I should offer what I can while continuing to learn from the cultural exchange before me.
So with an open heart and less frustrated mind, I accompanied Lori to the School for the Deaf yesterday to watch their dress rehearsal of a dance performance. I cannot wait to share pictures and video of this experience. We sat around with twenty or so of the kids, ages 5 to 16, who taught us the alphabet in sign language with incredible patience (my man hands were not built to communicate gracefully). This collection of deaf students is the most amazing group of young people I have ever encountered; almost like a tribe, they take care of each other and are so gracious to outside visitors, and watching them speak to each other is absolutely beautiful, with forceful hand gestures and such dramatic face expressions. And just when I thought I couldn't be any more impressed, the drumming began. Five boys (one of which may be the love of my life, in 4 years when it's legal...) began to beat against drums they held between their knees - in perfect rhythm. And then 4 boys and 4 girls ran out and danced effortlessly and expertly. They performed dances that told stories about love; boys offering their belongings to women, women shunning them, men fighting over the same woman, etc. They performed for about 2 hours and not once did they skip a beat. I am tempted to make an analogy here, somehow relating their ability to dance with only a vibration to lead them, to enjoying life's very basic and simple pleasures. If life is a dance, sometimes we don't even need music to lead us. As I reread that, I'm slightly embarrassed, but I'm leaving it there anyway. It's impossible not to be cheesy about such resilient, laidback people.

Now I am off to Accra for the night (back to Kizzi's house with Lori, Ashley and Jimmy), and tomorrow we will wake up at 4am to drive to a nearby national park, with the promise that we will see elephants and monkeys. After that, we'll drive to Cape Coast, a coastal town in the central region that houses the largest slave fort in West Africa. There will be much to tell on Monday, I am sure...

Moving slower than a sick turtle...

2008-06-04T09:00:00.000Z

First, let me start with a very big YIPPEE for the news of Obama's nomination. One of the volunteers received a text message with the news this morning, and every single person in the house has been celebrating (even the ones from the South!) Tonight, we will party at Boondocks with many of the locals who are also excited that Obama is one step closer to being our president!

On a very different note, yesterday was a very frustrating, unhappy day for me. I finally had a chance to use one of the school's computers to begin typing my grants (so far I've handwritten the 30 or so pages) and I was so motivated that any disturbance was simply irritating. And disturbances were aplenty yesterday. Several locals came by to visit me and I had to turn them away because I was working; a concept I'm beginning to think they don't fully grasp. I tried to explain to several of the teachers what exactly it is that I am doing here, and their response is always "is okay, is okay", and they smile at me like they wish I would just stop to chat with them. I even yelled (politely) at Fred, the Batik teacher, "Don't you care?? Don't you want more money?" He just smiled. That was the first time I've wanted to smack a Ghanaian.

I am worried. I am worried that I won't be able to do anything for this school because I can't rely on anyone here to follow through when I leave. I am worried the Director is never going to give me his budgets, or actually believe that I really can secure funding for him. I am worried that the teachers here are not invested in the Institute. And to feel helpless like this, in a country that needs help in development like I need a boob reduction, is unbearable. I read that Ghana's government expects the country to be a first-world country by 2020. I know that to be absolutely impossible.

Later in the morning yesterday, I noticed Level sitting under an umbrella painting the pictures of the school for me. I asked him how much he wanted for the paintings and he said that all he wanted was my friendship. Level is a very kind, handsome, nicely dressed and well spoken 23 year old and yet, I am saddened every time we speak. He mentions coming to the States often because he knows he would learn so much more there, but we both know he never will. I told him that when I get home I will send him more paintbrushes (he only has one) and better paints, and books on art. The thought, however, that this is all I can do for him is overwhelmingly sad. He came to visit me at the house in the afternoon without notice and I told Vida, one of our housekeepers, to tell him I was sleeping because I knew speaking with him would make me feel worse. And I feel horrible. I am working so hard to secure funding for the Institute but all these people seem to want from me is my address and a promise that they can come visit me when they "get to America". Accepting the status quo and dreaming of an escape to the US seems to get them through the day. I want to grab them by the shoulders and tell them that they must save themselves from the conditions they are in.

I spoke with Lori (who is quickly becoming a close friend) and told her of my concerns; she said it must be hard because my initial impression was that they are all so happy, and reminded me that we can only do so much and that we have to believe that any step we make here, no matter how small, will make some kind of impact. She taught me how to meditate, and she is also bringing me along to a dance celebration at her school (School for the Mentally Challenged) tomorrow to lift my spirits. I think it's only natural that I feel this way. I have been told many times that I would feel overwhelmed by all the things I would not be able to accomplish here.

I have called a meeting for next Monday with a select group of staff members who I have elected to be the Project Evaluation and Monitoring team. I also plan to share the proposals with all of them, and toteach them a few things about grants. I half expect that none of them will show up at the meeting. I also have an appointment with the local District Assembly to access their records and to discuss the feasibility and logistics of acquiring money for the school. Things are chugging along...and of course, I will feel better after dancing tomorrow. I promise the next blog will be more entertaining and inspirational!

You are an African!

2008-06-02T20:02:00.002Z

It is 8pm here and the town of Hohoe is alive. Taxis are running up and down the main street, on which petty traders are still selling their goods, and several fires on the side of the road are cooking corn or egg or grasscutter (a large rodent). On the 25 minute walk to the internet cafe, I ran into several of my new friends: Snakeman, one of my 'suitors'; Level and Carobene, the 23 year old art and engineer students (respectively) - I met them on the street one day and Level is now doing 4 paintings of my school for me to take home; the headmaster of my school; and Rambo, the guy who drove me from the airport. They all call out my name or hiss at me to get my attention (hissing is not rude here) and it is such a warm feeling to be a part of this community, and to be 'home' after a very eventful, incredibly bizarre weekend.
On Friday afternoon, Lori, Jimmy, Ashley and I walked to Boondocks (our local bar) to have a beer and to wait for our driver. The ride was about 3 hours to Accra, with both good elements (air conditioning!) and bad (a CD of sermons and gospel music replayed 4 times). We arrived at Kizzi's house (Lori's nanny's cousin) in a suburb of Accra called Roman Hill around 8pm, after which his wife cooked us an amazing meal while we watched Ice Age with her little kids. Being in a house with a TV, and being served apple juice, and taking a shower with no dirt on the ground felt like such luxuries! Kizzi woke us up at 3:30am to start the 2 hour drive to the tiny village of Kwamu Obo, where the funeral service took place.
Funerals are always held on Saturday here - on Friday evening the body is taken to the spot, the burial and ceremonies take place on Saturday, and everyone makes donations and attends church on Sunday. The day was hot and sticky, and we all wore black with red cloth tied in our hair and around our wrists. The coffin was placed in the middle of a courtyard and for most of the morning, we sat and watched as prayers and goodbyes were said to the dead body (her name was Comfort, and she passed away at 60 from cancer). There was a disco ball on the coffin, and next to the coffin was the kind of speaker system that you would expect at a football game. Take note now; I will absolutely expect a disco ball to be perched upon my coffin. While some mourners sobbed and wailed, others would dance and laugh just feet away. An odd combination, but beautiful to watch.
After lunch, hundreds of us followed the coffin down the street to the burial site, and watched the coffin lowered into the ground. In the afternoon, we returned to the center of town for the donation ceremony: each family makes a donation which is announced on the microphone, and the donors then dance with the chief grievers of the deceased. While all of this was going on (hours and hours!), the four of us whities were welcomed so warmly by everyone. Lori got to put some woman's baby on her back for awhile, I was video'd by the funeral photographer for a good ten minutes and chatted with the local kids, and some guy let Jimmy wear his traditional robes for the service (Jimmy, a 6'3" white Alabaman, looked like Jesus all day in his robes and untanned skin because the villagers followed him everywhere and he stood about 6 inches taller than all of them). At the end of the donation ceremony, our names were called so we got up and danced with the family. While we were dancing, some woman said to me "You are an African! I can tell you love Ghana. You won't want to leave. Stay with us!"
Saturday night, we went to the local bar and then met up with the whole village in the courtyard for a big dance party. We must have danced for four hours at least. I have to say that Saturday night was, without a doubt, the most amazing night of my life. There were hundreds of us dancing - never stopping, never thinking, never feeling anything but the music. I danced with one 5 year old boy for most of the time and he blew my mind - he would have kicked Justin Timberlake's ass in a heartbeat. I feel like perhaps the woman was right; I am an African. It is impossible not to feel happy here when you are surrounded by people with such love in their hearts.
Sunday was an adventure in itself (met monkeys, immigration officers and a man from Wisconsin) but there just isn't time to go into it all! Arriving back at the house was overwhelming after such a perfect weekend. Lori, Jimmy, Ashley and I get along perfectly as a group - we are all confident enough to either be by ourselves or to experience this trip together, and it's such a pleasure to get to know people who lead such different lives from me. But the house does feel like a frat/sorority house and there is never any peace between the hookups and drama. Lori and Ashley were especially bummed upon our return, so we took some time for ourselves to remind us why we are here, and that what goes on in the house does not have to get in the way of enjoying our adventure.
Now that I am settled here, I have had a chance to ruminate on life in Ghana. There is so much of their culture that I am envious of; they break out into song several times during the day, they are so relaxed and happy, they are hospitable and generous with the little that they have to offer. I do feel like I could stay here forever. But then there are times that I am disheartened by the life here. They know so little of the outside world (hence the reason they treat us like celebrities), and they have no options in their lives. At first I marveled at their ability to sit for hours and do nothing, but I have since seen a sadness, or boredom, in their eyes. I returned to work today and I am so energized by this opportunity I have found for myself. I hope that as I continue to get to know the locals, I will see that I have been wrong about their sadness.
You know those days when something amazing happens to you; an eye-opening conversation with a stranger, an introspective moment, a joke shared with a friend? Every single day is like that here.

Funerals and Blackouts

2008-05-29T13:57:00.000Z

Ndo! (Good afternoon.) Last night it stormed for 8 hours straight. The rain on the tin roof and the thunder is so loud it almost hurts, and the lightning so frequent that any epileptic would have been seizing like there was no tomorrow. The electricity went off in the entire town while we were eating dinner, so most of our evening was spent by candle and torchlight. Absolute, simple bliss. Life at the Homebase is quite pleasant - we eat three big meals a day, and sleep four to a bedroom. I am sleeping on the top bunk enveloped in my mosquito net, above a girl named Caitlin whose first words to me were "I don't think I'm going to last here very long."
Working at the school has become very comfortable and exciting. I bought a bike in town and now ride to and from work (about a 10 minute ride through tall bushes and muddy paths). They gave me my own office with a ceiling fan which overlooks the main building with the classrooms. When I arrived on Wednesday morning, all 70 of the students were in one classroom learning an Ewe song. I don't know how they do it but every single one of them has a powerful ringing voice and they learn harmonies in seconds. I joined the classroom (anytime I sit down on the floor or one of the students' benches, a student is ordered to fetch me a nice chair - I constantly feel like I'm being served but they are happy to do it!) I discovered that the women were rehearsing a song to be performed at a funeral this weekend for a student who died last week. She was 20, with a 3 year old boy. I stuck my nose in just enough to find out that she was ill and taken to hospital but I do not know how she died. The girls are all wearing red ribbons on their blue uniforms in honor of her passing, but they are not sad. In fact, they were so giggly during music practice that a few of them were taken out to be caned. Corporal punishment is common here, but too difficult for me to watch. They treat it so lightly - Stanley, the English teacher, came into my office this morning and said "I'm looking for a cane. I want to punish someone." I asked him who, but he said he was just 'getting ready for class'. And then he asked me to marry him.
There are 8 teachers and they have all warmed up to me quickly. In fact, I can't get them to leave my office so I can do work. I am not teaching, as I have decided to write 4 grants: 1 for a library, 1 for the completion of the main building, 1 for the completion of their dining hall, and 1 for the needed equipment (computers, sewing machines, chemicals and dyes for batik). They are incredibly grateful but they work so differently here: I asked the headmaster for his 5 year plan and he laughed in my face. I've asked him for budgets several times and he just smiles and nods, "I will get them to you".
The one challenge is the students; they hate me. At least they seem to. I went up to one girl the other day to ask her name in Ewe, and she just kept walking. I tried to speak to another in English and she just laughed and responded (in perfect English) "I don't understand you". I'm hoping to profile a few of them for the grants, and I would hate to leave the program without getting to know them. Fred, the Batik teacher, told me he would put in a good word for me.
We did
The town is slowly getting used to the bruunnies (whities) but continue to stare, and the children always ask for my water bottle so sweetly I can't say no (carrying a water bottle here is a sign of wealth). I am constantly sweaty and muddy and dusty and stand in awe at the women with bowls of 8 watermelons on their head, walking their bone dry bodies with grace and ease. I had two Batik dresses made for me at the market that I will pick up on our way out of town tomorrow. Lori's childhood nanny was from Ghana, and her cousin lives in a town about 6 hours away. He will pick Lori, Ashley, Jimmy and I up tomorrow and take us to his town for the weekend. On Saturday we will attend his brother's funeral (yes, funerals are sadly common here) and see the town, and on Sunday we will stop in the capital of Accra before heading back.
Please keep staying in touch - I am not homesick but it is nice to know that I can share this incredible journey. Jon, I will absolutely do my best to bring one of the little goats home. They look like My Little Ponies. Love!

White lady!

2008-05-27T15:47:00.000Z

I am here!!! Ghana is more wondrous and beautiful than I could have imagined. I am forcing myself to be brief because the internet here is sketchy at best, but the sights and people I have seen over the last few days could fill a novel. As I write this, I am surrounded by Hohoe teenagers who are singing along to Boyz to Men's "I'll Make Love To You".
After a few quick and easy flights, I arrived in Accra on Saturday night with two other CCS volunteers. Lufthansa lost their luggage, but mine arrived just fine! A man named Sylvester (I promptly decided to call him Rambo) drove us four hours north to the town of Hohoe. The drive was amazing; through forests and towns filled with people and little kids and taxis and the smallest goats you have ever seen. We stopped halfway at a roadside bar for a Star beer and to go to the bathroom. That was my first induction into peeing with lizards and bugs buzzing all around you. I'll skip ahead because there's just so much!
I am staying at HomeBase B, on the northern side of town, with 22 other volunteers who are mostly college students from the midwest. I have to say that the biggest culture shock has been dealing with these volunteers. There are, however, a few wonderful people who are becoming fast friends: Lori, the 28 year old dance therapist/psychologist from Los Angeles, Carrie, the 33 year old health administrator who served in Iraq for four months, Ashley, the 23 year old recent college graduate from Tennessee, and Jimmy, the surprising liberal from Alabama.
Hohoe is the capital of the Volta region in Ghana, and one of the largest towns I've seen here (apart from Accra). The town is constantly buzzing with activity - the locals spend all of their time outside. As I walk through town, most of the villagers stare at me but also yell out the greeting "Weozo" - which means "you are welcome". The response to this is "Yo", my favorite part being that you can make the Yooooooo as long as you want. The more welcome you feel, the longer the Yooooo! Every day I receive marriage proposals from complete strangers and they're so sincere it almost makes you want to say yes. The children are absolutely beautiful and so loving and happy - I can't walk down the main road without being waved at or group hugged by the kids. I have been learning Ewe, the tribal language and enjoying trying the local foods.
Today was the first day at my placement, the Women's Institute. It is a vocational school with three different programs: business, dressmaking and catering for its' 66 students. The headmaster and I talked for a good two hours today (Ghanaians like nothing more than to sit and chat for lengthy periods of time, and they are constantly late). I will be assisting with the business program, specifically the computer classes, but I have also promised the headmaster that I will write a project proposal for the school. The headmaster has tried over the last 5 years to secure any type of funding but has been disappointed every time. The main building's second floor is just concrete and moss, as the building development was to put to a halt when funds ran out. The dining hall is also just a concrete shell, and they have no library and hardly any books. Imagine learning economics with no books! I am so grateful for the opportunity to help this school, and that my non-profit background is coming in handy! In the mornings I will be teaching some business and computer classes, and in the afternoon I will meet with the girls and research and write grants to secure funding for this amazing, yet underappreciated, school. The school promises its students self-sufficiency and an escape from poverty - I hope I can help.
Tomorrow, after work, we will hike up to the Wli waterfalls. Apparently, it is the largest waterfall in West Africa, but no one can tell me exactly what the term 'largest' means. Tall? Wide? Regardless, it will be beautiful.
I will write more as I continue to get settled. There is so much more to tell and I fear I have not portrayed just how magical being here is. It is more than I could have imagined.

Hop, skip and a big scary jump

2008-05-22T22:11:00.000Z

I saw my grandmother yesterday. She was excited to hear of my trip to Ghana because my grandfather was stationed there for 3 years (length of time somewhat questionable, bearing in mind it may be hard to keep all the facts straight at her age of 96) leading the 29th General Hospital in Kumasi. She assured me that this trip is "going to make a real woman" out of me. Let's hope so.

Despite the cold I picked up in SF (thanks Chez and Melis!), being at home has been rejuvenating - see picture of house etc. above. I have thoroughly enjoyed stuffing my face with all the English necessities: sausage and chips, fish and chips, salt and vinegar chips, custard creams, lucozade, home cooking and lager. As soon as my passport arrives with my visa today (we all know I'm a last minute kind of person), I'm off to London. I'll be staying at one of the airport hotels and getting up at 4:30am tomorrow for my flight. Going through Frankfurt and Lagos, I'll arrive in Accra around 5:30 in the evening. From there a bus will take me 3 or 4 hours into the Volta region where I will meet my fellow volunteers and crash at the homebase, to begin a two day orientation on Sunday.
Earlier this week I received my volunteer placement: working at the Women's Institute of Development Studies. Apparently, I will be teaching french (haven't spoken it for years), business (don't have a job), dressmaking (my grandmother almost spit out her tea) and basic hygiene (I may have that one covered) among other things.
I'm a little speechless at this point. Everytime I think about what I've gotten myself into, I want to pee my pants. Perhaps I won't be the best hygiene teacher after all. Next time I write, I'll be writing from the internet cafe in Hohoe! This blog is about to get 100% more interesting.

Ode to the City by the Bay

2008-05-19T15:35:00.000Z

On this, the first official day of my trip, I am surprised to find that I will really miss this city. Even as I took a shower last night I was thinking "I love you so much, showerhead. I can't wait to come back home to you". (The water pressure in my apartment would blow your mind). The weekend was a perfect combination of part-ay and relaxation; out of town guests arrived for Sunday's festivities, I finished packing and got to spend some quality time with my family. On the penultimate day before my adventure I was fortunate enough to enjoy an annual SF event. And by enjoy, I mean party my ass off.

Bay to Breakers, for anyone that doesn't know, is a drunken street parade from one end of San Francisco to the other. That's 7 miles; not a marathon by anyone's standards. In true SF form, the 'race' was just like the biggest block party ever planned. Naked Elvises, keg stands, women in diapers, people shouting "I love you!" to passersby, lesbians making out against trucks (Gay's Anatomy, for those of you that were there.) Our group, a hungover mixture of Jem and the Holograms, Star Trek and Mario Brothers, stumbled along the route with paper bagged 40s and Jaeger shots, stopping only to pee and to dance during a bottleneck to Journey's "Don't Stop Believing". If there is a heaven, and a God interested in luring me there, he will know to provide beer, a classic rock soundtrack, and 60,000 strangers who just want to dance. You know those moments when everything aligns and all you can think is...happy?

The fog arrived in the afternoon as we Muni'd our way home to put a close on the insane heat wave the city's been having. Watching the fog roll in is one of the magical things about San Francisco - if you haven't seen it, book your flight now.

Other magical things:

1. The city is 7 square miles - you can walk anywhere. And I do.

2. The Chinese ladies on the bus who have no sense of personal space and have no qualms about using their elbows to get where they want to go.

3. The local slang and ways to behave: Divis, Tendernob, livin' in the cuts, hella...Noe Valley is No-eeh, not No. You don't have to yell "back door" every time you want to get off the bus, just wait for the green light and pound the door. Learned most of these the hard way.

4. The bridge. Ah, the BRIDGE. Just catching a glimpse of the red towers over the green hills makes me want to yell 'yippee!' every time.

5. The people. Everyone is a friend, everyone wants to help you out. Even the bummies are polite. I can't imagine a better place for me to have come to start anew.

I'm ready to go. And I am so incredibly happy that this is where I get to call home when I return. On to the Isle of Wight this afternoon (my British home) for a little time with my parents before I head to the Ghanaian village of Hohoe (Ho-way - it's not pronounced ho-ho. Sorry guys, I was disappointed too.)

And so it begins...

2008-05-14T05:23:00.001Z

I went to the airport today to purchase my ticket from Ghana back to London. (Apparently they want to look you in the face when you buy it so they know you're serious). Without proper research prior to leaving the house, what was meant to be a quick trip to SFO resulted in a two hour wait for the ticket counter that never opened. Yeah...I'll be going back tomorrow.

Surprisingly, that little trip to SFO this morning changed a lot of things. The last week has been a confusing mess of emotions. Like waves of nausea or the bouts of traveler's diarrhea I'm sure to get in Ghana (the first but not the last time I'll mention it), I have been afflicted with momentary crying spells. When you're standing at the beginning of a life changing adventure, your brain can get crowded; mine just exploded. This trip was planned in haste and in the haze of a break-up, a move to a new city and the pursuit of a new career and I have just now had a moment to realize what I've gotten myself into. The initial plan to volunteer in Ghana for 21 days quickly became a 7 week journey including stops in England, Germany, Nigeria, Spain, Puerto Rico and Mexico. Phew.

I have seen more of the world than most of my peers and yet...I've never seen it alone. And it's Africa! My doctor told me to make sure I don't change a baby's diaper while I'm there (oh, you're sneaky, Hep B), my sister-in-law told me her friend was shot in South Africa (just your average Cape Town mugger), and I will be living in a fisherman's village with no hot water and only well water to wash my clothes in (did I mention the 20 college kids I'll be living in a house with?) When I got my yellow fever shot, I threw up for three days (perhaps they put a little too much yellow fever in the vaccine?) and I cursed Africa every time I ran to the bathroom.

But my wait at the airport changed all that. An hour reading Eat, Pray, Love and the quiet observation of people of all shapes and sizes heading who-knows-where reminded me that I am in for a much needed adventure. And I am thrilled to be doing it alone - this experience belongs to only me and the things I will see and feel during this sojourn will always be part of who I am. How I wished I were getting on a plane today! I can't wait to drum with the locals, ride the tro-tros, eat fufu, visit slave forts and monkey sanctuaries, and to work alongside strong, happy, resilient people.

I expect this trip to both simplify and complicate my life. I predict being so far away from home will both depress and comfort me. I think my idea of what 'home' is will change. I hope to return to San Francisco healed and ready to continue the happy life I lead. I may write here every day, or you may not hear from me until I get back. I am still terrified, but I have never been so sure that I am finally living the life I want to live.