Sartorial pleasures and a visit to a school

We used to have a saying here: “The days go slow, but the weeks go fast.” Having been here just shy of a week now, I can say that this is still the case.

It is a supreme pleasure to have this private room with private bathroom at Hopeful Way House. I’m free to spend my mornings dressed (or not) as I like, drink coffee, and move between reading, writing, and thinking as much as I like without interruption. (Though I should have brought two pounds of coffee rather than just one!)

In my last update, I wrote about the role of being an observer, and it makes me consider my role as the observed in new light. This can be a real issue for a foreigner, and I note how relieved I am to have this abundant privacy.

I’m usually lying in my bed awake before a neighboring mosque gives a call to prayer at about 4:45 am, accompanied by the roosters who have been crowing already for some time. My window faces east, giving me views of the sunrise. The sun rises at about 5:45 am and sets around 6:15 pm here, near the equator where the length of daylight never changes much. The adjoining property includes chickens and at least one large boney dog, who barks often in the night. The first night I was here, I heard something that sounded like a chicken being attacked, and the dog barked for hours.

Later in the day, I typically enjoy the luxuries of being in an urban area, making it far different than my stay here a decade ago. On Thursday, Adwoa takes me to visit a seamstress she had found near her home—in her own car. She is an utterly fearless driver. To imagine driving here, imagine that every intersection is a four-way stop, but without the stop signs; that vehicles and pedestrians share the roadway; add huge rain-filled potholes of unknown depth.

We are trying to complete our tasks before it rains again, but the usual small obstacles appear. The first ATM is not dispensing cash. We have better luck with the second. I had thought I might visit a telecom office to try again for some local data, but quickly tell Adwoa that we should cross that off our list. I’ll pay the Verizon overages and try to limit my data use as much as possible. You probably won’t be seeing more video from me, at least for now.

We stop at a fabric seller where I have the treat of picking out fabric for new dresses. This is one of my favorite things in Ghana. I find three patterns that I like—one is only available in a 3-yard piece, but I get it anyway, thinking I will just take it home as a gift or to use for something later. I want 6 for each dress…more than will be required, but better than having too little (seamstresses find it challenging to make a long dress for this large white lady with just four yards.) 

Every fabric pattern has a name—hopefully I will be able to find these names before leaving. I ask about a funeral cloth I saw once in Kabile, red and covered with crying eyes—the fabric seller tells me “it is finished”, which probably means it was discontinued. I was never able to find it while I was here, either. The blue “eye” fabric I loved and had a dress in before is not available here, either—there is a multi-colored version that I pass on. It’s best to approach fabric buying with an openness to chance—I’ve never gone looking for a specific pattern and color and been able to find it.

A quick downpour happens just as we are passing a modern supermarket, so I dash in to get some snacks. To get out of the parking lot, Adwoa has to maneuver carefully with the direction of the lot attendants, seemingly coming within millimeters of other cars but successfully making it out without any dents. On the streets, people wear thin plastic raincoats that look like something out of Blade Runner.

The rain subsides as we arrive at the seamstress at our appointment time, but she is not there. Adwoa discusses my Kente dress with the assistants; I’ve brought it in the hopes that they can let it out to fit me better, as I am larger than I was at the end of two years in Kabile. They set to work on this right away. Fortunately, as is the case with many Ghanaian-made garments, the seam allowance is large to accommodate this somewhat embarrassing situation. But it’s important to be able to wear the Kente when I visit Kabile

We look at magazines with dress patterns while we wait for the seamstress. The patterns shown are quite beautiful, showcasing the work of amazing designers who mix patterns artfully in traditional silhouettes. This is not, however, what I’ve after; I’m hoping to get “straight dresses” that I might also wear back home. When the seamstress arrives, she helps me select two patterns that we can adjust for my needs. One is a straight dress, but I’m taken with another more traditional pattern and decide to ask for it. 

The seamstress suggests that she make a top out of the 3-yard piece, and I agree. Because we are asking for “express service”, I did not think I should press my luck to ask for it. For the alterations, two dresses, a top, and the fabric, I end up spending about 680 GHS or $85 US total. The number of cedis I am handing over raises my pulse until I do the conversion—during my Peace Corps Service, I was given 330 GHS per month for expenses. I think fabric plus a dress at that time would have been about 80 cedi, very roughly $40.)

Adwoa tells me that my Kente dress will be ready for me to take now, a lucky break because I am going with Father Nick on Friday for a presentation to Junior High students on addiction. “You can wear it when you go tomorrow,” she tells me. In Ghana, it is always better to dress up much more than you might in America. Ghanaians notice every speck of mud on your sandals, every wrinkle in your cloth, and while I have never known them to be judgemental about it, they will sometimes go out of their way to help you correct these defects that you never noticed.

We get in Adwoa’s car and prepare to leave just as a young boy comes up to speak with the seamstress. His manner is grave; I keep expecting her to rush off somewhere. Then he puts the back of his hand on his head and I realize he is probably sick. There is some exchange between her and Adwoa, and we continue to Adwoa’s home. “I have something for this boy,” she says.

Adwoa gives me a tour of her beautiful home. She spent several years in the United States with her husband and children, first going with him as he pursued a higher degree at Iowa University, then getting degrees in the United States herself. I kind of marvel at her story; knowing how difficult it must be to navigate all of these things, I can only imagine the level of persistence and resilience it must have required.

The seamstress arrives at Adwoa’s home while I investigate ways to get back to Hopeful Way. I don’t imagine Uber will work for me—I deleted my account in disgust months ago. But the app is still on my phone, so I tap it. It asks for my info, and I enter it, expecting some obstacle at any moment. Not only are there no obstacles, but Hopeful Way House is actually listed as a destination. I book the ride, using the “Pay Cash” option, and a drop taxi meets Adwoa and I at a hospital near her home. We watch the miraculous process of the car coming to us, and soon I am on my way back.

It won’t be easy for the driver, though. The streets are jammed. He needs to stop for petrol, causing a re-routing that at first seems to be faster but lands us on a severely damaged street. It takes about an hour. I am content to watch the passing scenery and listen to the radio. A DJ is broadcasting scandalous jokes and aphorisms.

“Sister, if you can’t cook, get a big ass and big breasts. They will do the cooking themselves. Welcome to Africa!”

The rate for my car goes up 10 GHS to 49 GHS total during the drive—with a dash to the driver, it comes to about seven bucks. It is unimaginably convenient.

I have mixed feelings about this (including the feeling of gratitude that we did not break an axle, which seemed to be a real possibility at times). The apps that I rejected in the US because of their detrimental effects on the greater good are incredible conveniences here. They are being absorbed into the fabric of the culture, leap-frogging my own experience of a very different internet of the past—one that held dear a mature concept of freedom and privacy. And I realize that it has been another privilege to have the freedom to pick and choose who I am willing to be a product for.

On Friday, I prepare to go to the school presentation with Father Nick, and am relieved and happy that my Kente dress fits fine now. It is made to be tight, but I can actually breathe and not worry so much about splitting a seam.

I go downstairs to the lobby and the staff exclaim over what I am wearing. I can’t say I didn’t expect—or necessarily dislike—this attention. They know it is to honor them an represent them well.

Wearing this dress is an experience. The fabric is very thick, made of hand-woven strips. My Kente has unusual colors—light blue, bright green, bits of orange, shot with silver thread. The colors and patterns weave meanings into the cloth, but I don’t know what they are. The tightness and stiffness of the fabric requires me to walk and stand in a more dignified manner. It is one of those kinds of garments that is capable of transformation.

Wearing this dress in the United States would be fraught with social peril—a faux pas in almost any situation—but here I am free to wear the gift of my community with joy and pleasure. It’s a long way to go to wear a dress…but it might be worth it. This dress was a gift from Kabile to me. Wearing it, I feel enveloped in their love—and responsible for at least trying to live up to the impossible responsibility it represents. 

We arrive at the school; Father Nick cautions me that they are the noisiest kids he’s ever encountered, and I see his point as soon as we enter the building. It’s deafening. I think it’s partly the space that contributes to this; it’s a small multi-story building with a central courtyard which seems to funnel all of the sounds of the kids on their lunch break. During the course of the day, they sometimes need to move their desks and chairs to different classrooms or into the hall, which further adds to the din.

In the classroom, Father Nick walks the students through a presentation about the facts of alcohol and drug addiction. In Ghana, drug addiction seems to far outpace “simple” alcoholism. As these are junior high students, the presentation focuses on the dangers of drugs and how to avoid situations where there may be pressure to try them.

The presentation runs long, but Father Nick hands me the microphone and asks me to speak. I tell the students a little of my own struggles and subsequent recovery, and try to describe some of the help they might seek in Ghana if they find themselves in this situation. I don’t know how much of any of this is actually understood by the students until the presentation ends and they are allowed to ask questions. Their questions are very good. 

A student is invited to close the season with a vote of thanks, and she speaks with grace and poise. Then the students are free for the day. At first, none of them talk to me, but then a few do. On seeing this, the others crowd around to take selfies or ask questions.

While getting photos, some ask for help getting copies of the photos or help in using them to make their own music videos. I tell them I cannot (but maybe I can find a way to send the photos to their teacher at least).

“How did you recover?” another one asks—it is even more difficult it is to give a quick, concise, yet helpful answer to that. It is clear that these issues are touching their lives, but I am encouraged by their mature outlook and interest.

Settling into Ghana with Yeli Ama Teresa, the luckiest woman in the world

The plane descends through two distinct layers of clouds. Far to the west, perhaps over Côte d’Ivoire, is an immense towering cumulus. I think about how the sky has its own particular colors in different places, and wonder if the blue-steel color I remember of Ghana’s sky comes from cloud layers like this.

The first thing I notice after landing in Accra is how much Kotoka Airport has modernized. Instead of taking stairs down to the tarmac—and getting the full force of heat and humidity right off the plane—we are ushered through a jet bridge into a climate-controlled 1st-world warren of immigration and customs stations.

Before getting my luggage, I go to use the restroom, noting a sign saying that extortion is not tolerated. There is a woman sitting outside the restroom door and I wonder if she is an attendant but, she returns to her phone after pointing me to the door. After I wash my hands, I try to use the towel dispenser just as she walks in. She waves her hands in front of it herself, also not getting it to work, as I use the air dryer. “Give me something,” she deadpans, revealing that she is in fact an attendant. “I haven’t got any money yet,” I tell her.

Probably I should have just given her a US $5 and left without a guilty conscious.

Then I use the ATM to get some cedis. The exchange rate is quite different now than it was nine years ago. Instead of roughly 2 cedi to one dollar, it is now eight. Here is how the US Dollar has done against the Ghana Cedi (magenta) and the Swiss Franc (red) during the time since I was last here:

I retrieve my luggage and go through customs; I’m not sure I even had to stop here, but I do. The young man asks me a few questions about whether I’ve been here before and what I’ve brought with me. He asks about electronics—are they new? No, I tell him.

“What have you brought for your son?” he asks. I’m confused at first.

“I don’t have a son.”

He repeats the question, then his smile widens, “Me! I am your son!”

“Ask your father what he has brought,” I laugh.

Dan is planning to pick me up in his car, but the flight arrived a little early. Several taxi drivers are working the terminal entrance. When I say I have someone coming, they offer to call them for me. One comes up to me, “Teresa!” and at first I think he was sent by Dan, then I realize he’s just reading my luggage tag. But they soon give up, and Dan appears, and we are on our way through Accra traffic, to Dan and Agnes’ house where I spend a restful night with warm hospitality.

The next morning, Dan takes me to Hopeful Way House, where I meet the staff and discuss possible projects for me to contribute to while I’m here. Hopeful Way is making my visit here possible by generously supporting me with lodging and assistance in the Accra/Oyarifa area.

When they take me to my room, I can hardly believe it. It’s beautiful, very different from the places Peace Corps was able to provide for us in the cities. I have a private bath, hot water, clean electricity, and all manner of comforts. No air conditioning (yet), but luckily for me it has been raining so it has stayed relatively cool.

After arriving here, I got a sudden apprehension about visiting Kabile, the small town where I lived for two years. There is a real physical toll—and risk—in traveling into the rural area. I no longer have the full and considerable resources of the Peace Corps behind me. Mentally I begin subtracting days; maybe instead of four nights, I’ll only stay two. Instead of taking tro-tros, I’ll take the VIP bus. The reality of the grueling (for me) travel involved sets in. I try to put it aside. I will simply do the best I can. I know that if anything goes wrong, I will be in the hands of people who will care for me as if I am part of their family. This quells my anxiety but induces waves of shame and feelings of unworthiness that I do not do the same in return.

I wasn’t sure how to time this trip, but I knew I didn’t want to come in the hottest part of the year, and I wanted to come when Dan and Agnes were here (they split their time between homes in the US and Ghana). I tried to find out the dates for Songee Festival in Kabile, but that changes from year to year (it’s based on the Nafana calendar), and I could not pin it down. It has been in July in the past, but I couldn’t make the trip work for that. 

There are two things I want to do right away: find a seamstress and have a couple of local dresses made, and get a local SIM for my phone, which I imagine will make contacting Kabile easier. 

Joe, a staff member here who is tasked with taking care of my hospitality needs here, takes me into town for the SIM. We stop at a phone service kiosk and I begin to have doubts; usually, this would require a visit to an office. I explain I need a virtual SIM—my phone can take two numbers, but I want to keep my Verizon number working (I have international service for a month), it it occupies the physical SIM slot. She begins to register the SIM, but she can’t do it for a foreigner, so Joe gives his contact info to register it under his own name. 

During the afternoon, Joe is also hand-carrying two phones of his own, as is common here—probably less expensive than a dual SIM phone, though I wonder if there are other advantages. These young men have a way of shuffling the phones one-handed, somehow not tangling the headphones attached to one, as they jump from one service to another to answer texts, make payments, or do other business—as if they’ve grown magnetically attached appendages.

The usage of apps, too, has exploded. MTN now offers payment by phone with MOMO. And to get to this kiosk, Joe called an Uber to come pick us up.

The woman at the kiosk grabs a SIM and starts to unwrap it, asking for my phone. No, I tell her, I need a QR code for a virtual SIM. She is confused. She and Joe discuss this for a while, then decide we need to go to an office.

From there, we take a tro-tro, and I am happy to be on public transportation again. It is a feast for the senses and for a curious mind. If I am on a tro-tro and I are confident that I know where it is going, all I need to do is relax and enjoy the spectacle. With Joe as my guide, I don’t even have the mental overhead of tracking where we are and where I need to stop. No one requires my attention—and even the radio or bits of conversation are in a language I don’t understand, so I am allowed to be immersed in observation. 

Above: Some street ambience, riding a tro-tro in Ghana. The man sitting ahead of the jump seat, hanging out the window, is the “mate”. He calls out the destination and gives its hand signal as the driver navigates the road. When someone calls out for them to stop, he bangs the side of the tro-tro to tell the driver to stop. He also collects fares, usually waiting until they’ve filled the car.

During the ride, I begin to noodle on part of my fundamental issue with being here, related to making these observations and sharing them. At one point, we are behind a garbage truck that is open in the back. In front of the garbage, on the tailgate, sit two slim men, relaxed and at ease as the truck bumps along. They wear tattered and dirty clothing; a red sock pulled up over a pant cuff. They are somehow poetic and beautiful, and I want to photograph them.

If I do, though, everyone around me will assume I am documenting a dirty backwater country. It will create shame. Among Americans, I might be praised for such a capture, especially among those who also see the beauty in it and don’t understand its potential repercussions. Noticing the visual poetry sometimes feels like a form of enlightenment.

But what if seeing this beauty is not actually enlightenment? What if it is in fact pathological? (I suspect it is a little of both.) It is a form of “othering”, and I don’t fully understand what is behind my love of photos like this. What I do know is the feeling I have when others love them—that then I can see the objectification that is taking place, and realize that it also lives in me—yes, even despite the very genuine love I feel for who and what is being objectified. 

That is what I am grappling with, and it is one part of what I still haven’t dealt with in my Peace Corps experience, particularly in my writing and photographs.

Should I tell you about how we go to the air-conditioned Vodafone office in Medina, and explain what I need, and hand over some cedis only to have the clerk again unwrap a SIM and ask for my phone? It is the usual comedy that ends in paying for more transportation home without anything except a useless Vodafone SIM—officially registered, however.

An odd thing, though, about traveling around in the city here this time—no one calls out “Oborɔnyi!”, not once. I have not heard it a single time during this trip. I hope this is simply a sign of the cities here becoming more cosmopolitan. 

The phone data comedy continues into the next day. I decide to try to move my Verizon SIM to virtual so I can insert the Vodafone SIM. This requires a wireless connection, but it keeps dropping. Verizon reps email me QR codes twice, which expire in 10 minutes. No one tells me how to use the phone camera to scan a QR code that is on the phone, but I try to do it using my computer to display. One rep tells me this corrupts the QR code. In any event, I give up.

The next day I attend an interesting class being given by Hopeful Way to nurses, about working with children with substance abuse issues. They are really doing some great work here, and I appreciate the depth and substance of the class—even for my own benefit. Some of the information and discussion around motivation and behavior change are of especially high quality.

During the class, I get a phone notification—my Verizon monthly data on the international plan has run out, and going forward they’ll be happy to charge me $20 for every gigabyte.

It never occurred to me that paying $100 for a month of international use would include being reset to a different data limit. I can only laugh. Remember this, Americans…if you are still enjoying virtually unlimited fast internet, it will not last. Everywhere else in the world, that’s a complete anomaly.

During this fiasco of electronic communications, I recall that most people here favor WhatsApp for texting because it’s free. Before I left Peace Corps, Facebook was already making vast inroads into customer acquisition by offering free data for anything done over Facebook, and then by proxy their messaging platform, WhatsApp. Free data is a huge hook (so much so that it should probably be illegal). So I give in to Zuck, get WhatsApp on my phone, and find that Matthew’s number is still listed there. His profile photo shows a woman working in the cashew factory, so I’m confident it’s still his number. I send a message.

In a few hours, contact is made and Matthew responds. I ask if I might visit next week or weekend—and I can’t believe my luck. He writes back:

“You are warmly welcome, June 23rd and 24th too is our SungƐƐ festival.”