The Dress

Oburoni, where are you going?
I am going to church.
Becca, you did not go to church today?
I am going now.

Yesterday we got to church at 11:10, which I didn't think was so bad for a 9 o'clock start. I had to go to church yesterday. It was not because I haven't been in around three weeks. It's not because I sinned or promised Lauren/the kids/Pastor/God that I would go.

It's because I needed a reason to wear my new dress.

I had it made last week out of a purple fabric with large purple flowers and gold swirls. However, I cannot wear it Monday through Friday between the hours of 8 AM and 5 PM because Vivian might see. Vivian is my tailor from my previous stay who works right in town across from the internet cafe. I don't see her often, but when I do it is wonderful. She gives me a big hug, we chat, she asks where I have been and where I am going (although all people in Bawjiase ask this). Last time I saw her, however, after catching up for 15 minutes, she threw out the comment I've been waiting for. "You haven't come to me for anything!"

Vivian is notorious for taking her time when you bring her some fabric. She tells you when it will be ready and every time you stop by, it isn't. Given, I have three more months here so I'm not too concerned with this, and the dresses she made me are well done. When I got here this time, however, the volunteers went mostly to the man who made the two garments I have had made in the past six weeks. He is fast and his work is superb. For now I will continue to avoid Vivian when I am wearing the dress she did not make.

And now some pictures from the past few weeks!

Grace and Sister Mary


Irene


The small kids in school!

Kwashie and Kofi




Joe, Kwashie, Kofi


Kwashie, Agogo, Kofi


This is what sunsets have looked like the past few weeks because of all the Saharan sand in the air.

Water, water.

Bawjiase is out of water. People are lined up at our well, which is currently covered with a cloth, waiting for yesterday's four minute rain to seep into the ground and into the dried up well. I just passed Agnus who was washing her clothes in dirty, bottom of the well water, a stack of bowls and buckets next to her ready for any water that magically shows up. Despite drinking pure water and failing to wash our dishes to a socially acceptable level of cleanliness (thus needing very little water), we go through buckets of the stuff everyday flushing our toilet.

The act of using our bathroom is surprisingly pleasant, due to both the real, indoor toilet and the calming pink tiles lining the wall. The frog that lives in the hole in the wall and the spider that apparently never dies take away from the experience, but overall the environment is a comfortable one. The problem is when business is finished and we need to flush all the little surprises, using as much as a full bucket of water each trip to the bathroom.

Our water storage container by the bathroom is full, thanks to the children who brought us water from an undisclosed source after the orphanage staff found out we had none. However, we have decided that flushing the toilet takes precedence over bathing, and so I am really very dirty. The well at the orphanage is in better shape than ours, so bathing, if I choose to do so, will be taking place there.

The lack of rain is only made worse by the fact that those pesky Harmattan Winds seem to be dying down and Bawjiase has been once again graced with blue sky, fluffy white clouds, and scorching heat. Luckily, we have found many hidden benefits of there being no rain, mainly that we now have an excuse not to clean the dishes and not to bathe. An actual benefit, however, is that dry weather is perfect for digging wells, and the well at the site of the new building is in the process of being dug. The drier it is, the longer it takes to hit water, meaning the deeper the well will be in the end. However, this process requires paying workers, and although we have received so many generous donations, we still need more to finish the project. If you haven't yet donated and feel up to the challenge of using your weekly Starbucks money to help dig a well, check out the links to the right of this post!

I will hopefully make it out to Kasoa on Monday, where it is safe to plug my camera in so I can upload some pictures and make another post. Like usual, I "haven't had the time" to formulate a post, really meaning that I am starting to lose perspective on how unique this experience really is and feeling as though anything I have to say is just boring. However, with a few lovely words from my mother, who may be one of a handful of people who are actually reading this, I have some ideas brewing in my head. So stay tuned.

AFLA

I don't remember the last time that I was so self conscious here in Ghana, yet I'm also not sure when the last time I experienced something so entertaining and unique was. This morning I set my alarm for 5:30 AM, which is a time I have only ever woken at (to the best of my knowledge) to get to an airport. I got out of bed at this hour when no one, and I mean no one, should be awake on a Sunday morning, to go for a run.

I don't run. I don't run for exercise, I don't run for fun, and I am not even sure if I would run if someone was chasing me. Given, "running" isn't the most appropriate word to describe what I did this morning, but it's the word most commonly used. I can't tell you too much about Awutuman Future Leaders Association seeing as I don't know much about it, but every Sunday morning they meet at 5:30 AM (which translates to 6:30) and proceed to go for a "run." The women go first, standing in three lines, wearing their white AFLA shirts, and the men follow in a crowd playing a variety of musical instruments. Running back and forth along the parade-like event are people with whistles; gym coaches telling the women to start jogging instead of walking. Surrounded by women of different shapes, sizes, and varying athletic abilities, I wasn't so much self-conscious about being told to run. However, more than anything, the run/jog throughout town is a 30 minute dance parade.

I can't dance. At all. The attention I was receiving because of my skin color was only heightened by the fact that Linda, the woman who owns P-Square (see glossary) was ordering me to dance. "Dance, oburoni, dance!" She grabbed my hips and tried to make them move before giving up with a scoff and a clucking noise. After around 15 minutes I began to warm up to the experience, and by the time we were approaching town I was in enough of a delusional sleep-deprived state to find myself dancing and jogging, yelling at Linda, "Obibini, dance! Run, ntemtem, ntemtem! (run fast!) I attracted a lot of attention, pointing fingers, and laughs, but the beauty of living here is that I attract a lot of attention, pointing fingers, and laughs no matter what I am doing, thus making it virtually impossible to make a fool of myself.

By the time we made it back to the center of town I was sufficiently sweaty and highly energized. There we met up with AYUDA (which, consequently, means "help" in Spanish but is really just the acronym for another organization in town) and proceeded to stand around and be confused with them for half an hour. There was a van in the middle of the crowd which a woman exited, apparently some famous actress, who was there to help clean the town, which was what we did during our running breaks. I don't know if this is a normal occurrence at AFLA or just an every so often event, but when I find the strength to again get up at 5:30 on a Sunday (hopefully by March) I will be sure to post. After awhile Vlad and I got some water and quickly realized we were ready to go back to sleep.

Unfortunately, my decision to attend AFLA meant that I had to forgo church due to extreme exhaustion, so I don't have any new experiences to report on.

Other than going to AFLA, things are still the same here. The children are as crazy as usual, the weather is becoming increasingly warmer and the sun and blue sky are still covered by the Sahara Desert.

How? Fine.

Seeing as things have been relatively uneventful here, I am going to use this post as a way to give you a taste of my daily interactions with the people of Bawjiase.

Firstly, I am not from a small town. I am from a place that is technically not a city, but close enough, where people say hi to me because they know me, either by name or by sight. Generally, these interactions involve a small a smile, a wave, a simple "hello," or a good morning/afternoon/evening. Here in Bawjiase, however, it is rare to have an interaction that is so simple. For a reason which I have yet to figure out, it is crucial for the people of Bawjiase to call to me using some sort of name before/instead of actually speaking to me. These names include:

• Becca
• Becky
• Rebecca
• Ama (my Ghanaian name, given to all females born on a Saturday)
• Oburoni (White person)
• Obolo (nicely translated to mean big, aka you are fat and it is something we like and not an insult. Always difficult to explain to a new volunteer)
• White woman
• White man
• White

About 30% of the time I choose to ignore people when they call to me, mainly if they are not using one of the first three names on my list. This is not actually rude, and trust me when I say you would do it, too. Being white in Bawjiase is like being Lindsay Lohan anywhere else. Nearly every person I pass calls out to me, and it is not only exhausting but literally impossible to acknowledge every single one of them. The other 70% of the time people call to me I respond. The following are possible interactions that will occur (the words in italics indicate I am speaking. Also, I am using only English to write the interactions, but many happen in Twi, as well):

• How are you? I'm fine, how are you? I'm also fine.
• Good morning/good afternoon/good evening. Morning/afternoon/evening.
  
• Where are you going? I am going to town/market/Kasoa. You are going to town/market/Kasoa? Yes.
• Oburoni! Obibini!
  
• Give me 50 pesewas/5 cedi/water. No. You give me 50 pesewas/5 cedi/water.
• How? Fine.
• Oburoni, where are you? (commonly said by small children who are confused between where are you going and how are you)
  
• I want to take you as friend. Okay.
• Where is your brother/sister? (Lauren or Vlad)
  
• I love you/I want to marriage you. Oh.
  
• Oburoni, how is your life? My life is fine.
• Lastly, though not verbal, my arm is frequently touched/grabbed/squeezed by children, women, and men. I don't believe this is a social norm here as much as it is simply due to the fact that my arms are white.

And that is a little taste of my normal interactions here in Bawjiase.

The Sahara Desert

Nothing very exciting to report. The weather hasn't been the best (in terms of clear skies) due to the Harmattan winds. The only reason I learned this term is because one of our Ghana guide books felt it important to tell me that weather isn't great in Ghana from December to February. Winds blow sand from the Sahara into West Africa, and from my extensive research on Wikipedia, I have learned that the fog, low visibility, and lack of sun is known as the Harmattan haze.

Despite the lack of sun and general ability to see, Vlad and I decided to spend a few days at Butre beach in the Western Region of the country. We pretty much sat in the same chairs for two days watching waves, eating, reading, and swimming. Yesterday's trip home turned out to go quite smoothly despite thinking we would have to leave Butre by walking one hour to Busua with our backpacks after the man in the "tourist office" told us there was no tro tro to Agona on Sunday. Luckily, he told us he could find a driver in town, and we ended up paying the man to drive us in the town's tro tro to Agona on his day off. After that, things went pretty smoothly, except for when Vlad broke the window on one of the tro tros (no one noticed) and then found out, 30 minutes after ordering, that the restaurant we stopped at didn't have the meal he wanted.

Like usual, the kids are good. I keep forgetting to write about this, but we are changing the name of the orphanage to meet social welfare standards, and about a week ago chose to name it United Hearts Children Center. Because of the stigma associated with the words "orphanage" and "home," social welfare does not allow these to be in a name. We also decided to no longer have a name which implied religious affiliation, because the orphanage itself is not a religiously based institution and we don't want to present ourselves as one. Currently, the challenge is figuring out how to refer to it without using the word "orphanage," which appears to be the biggest obstacle yet.

Lastly, we have started fundraising for our newest project! We are going to build a community school that will serve all children, regardless of ability to pay. Despite public school in Ghana costing a small amount, the costs add up quickly when you factor in uniforms, books, supplies, and food, and ends up being around 15 times more than the actual year's tuition. United Hearts Community School will be able to provide for the children whose families cannot afford to send them to public school, while also enrolling students from families who do have the money. Check it out: United Hearts Community School!

I hope everyone is staying warm!

Oburoni, take your time.

Lauren turned around and looked at the two young women. "Are we walking too fast?" I'm not even sure what they said in response, but that's irrelevant. What does matter is that I had the 45 minute tro-tro ride here to think about what taking your time actually means. Just like Lauren, I instinctively assumed the comment was driven by the fact that we were walking at a typical speed, apparently only fit for oburonis (actual plural is obrofo, but whatever). But the thing is, we are always moving faster than the majority of people in Bawjiase. In the past 45 minutes, I have come to these inconclusive conclusions regarding taking your time.

Taking my time means being okay with standing still and watching as the kids play some vampire like game that I don't understand, but enjoying being nothing more than a viewer. I asked a few questions, which aided me in figuring out that vampires were the theme of the game, but I am still not sure I get why they were also running around hitting each other with wooden spears/blocks/pieces. Either way, I allowed myself five minutes of semi-peaceful time to watch over 20 of the children play together with almost zero crying and for once enjoying the experience of having not one child hanging off of me.

Taking my time means sitting in the front row of church for two hours while Vlad and Lauren text each other behind me and the only words I understand are "praise the Lord," "Jesus," and "hallelujah." I prefer to call the two hours a time for personal reflection and not spacing out, but this may be a bit facetious of me. However, I did catch the bit of English letting me know that the topic of the sermon was about information, and I learned that information leads to transformation. I am still not exactly sure what that means.

I took my time when the children and I stopped for 10 minutes while walking to the site. A man was at the top of a coconut tree, and although I am horrible with estimating heights, it had to be at least three stories up. Using shear man power and absolutely no safety precautions he had scaled his way up the tree while toting a machete and proceeded to chop down coconuts. There was a small boy also helping him at the top of another tree, perhaps 20 feet up, and we watched as both chopped coconuts and proceeded to make their way down the trees. The ride home from the site in the back of Prince's truck (the architect) wasn't necessarily taking our time in terms of chronological time, but it certainly was different, and I feel thankful that only two of the children cried, the truck didn't tip over, and I made it out with no actual splinters.

Taking my time meant that I was able to read each and every report card of our school children, and learned that some performed excellently in nearly all subjects while a few failed some classes, and that some things are the same no matter where you are in the world. Jessica "talks a lot in class," and Promise is "quiet and respectful." Akua, however, is "very lazy," and she "needs to work harder." I am so proud.

Finally, taking my time means that I have decided to extend my trip by six weeks, and will now be arriving home on April 18th. I realized that I don't know if this experience will ever be possible again, and the one commitment I had for the beginning of March, despite being really exciting, did not win over time in Ghana. So I will be home a little later than expected, and will be working with the difficult feelings of mourning the complete loss of snowboarding season. For those in the Northeast, I hope that all that snow you got is treating you well, and that you are trying to enjoy it, at least for me.

Thinking of you all!

A few pictures from leaf rubbings, which was relatively successful.
Ezekiel, Kelvin, and Raheal

Kwashi, Akua, John, Ezekiel, and Barbara

Raheal and Ernestina

Pictures!

Back at the internet already. I cannot believe I have now been here for three weeks. Time is going by so quickly, and although it feels so long ago that I found Vlad in the airport and awkwardly asked if I could hug him (he said sure, and our friendship has since progressed nicely), I am just not sure where the three weeks have gone. The children are doing great, and although some days seem to be more exhausting than others, the time I spend with them is wonderful. We only had one person get urinated on the day we went to the beach (sorry Lauren!) and Meshak only pooped all over himself once in the past few days. Two very big successes.

I showed the kids how to make crayon rubs of leaves yesterday when they seemed a bit bored of coloring, and I told them that next week I will bring plain paper and more leaves. I'm not sure what part of "next week" they didn't understand, but Akua informed me that I told them I was bringing the stuff this morning and that I had to return to the house to get it. Which I did not. I was then brought to the well where the children showed me the plastic bat that someone, probably Kwashi Tetteh, dropped in the well, and we spent the next 15 minutes trying to get it out. It didn't help that the water was really low, and the mission was completely unsuccessful, but maybe later.

I have started writing in my journal less and less, which is sad because as the days seem to become more repetitive it is the little things I need to remember (and post here!). With the excitement dying down, I am looking forward to writing about more general things, especially the work we are doing with Mama Hope.

A few pictures from the meal the church brought to the orphanage last week.
Agogo:

Kwashi and Irene


Kevin playing in what is soon to be his new home:


Barbara hiding behind me:


Grace and Amanda in the tro tro on the way to the beach:

At the beach! Vlad is on the left, Pastor is on the right:

Irene making a silly face: