Leaving London

It was like my birth, like the foggy blades of grass in the morning. It was morning, and I was wet, but not at all surprised. London has never been held in high esteem, for me, weather-wise. I needed a printer to get my boarding pass, so my last day in the Great Smoke turned from a simple affair of a bus ride to a train station into an urban safari. I was both explorer and pack mule…during morning rush hour. After fifteen minutes of walking like a spawning salmon against the current of business suits and black umbrellas, I was surprised my eyes hadn’t been gouged out. As I reached the end of my patience and ability to haul my bags, which were getting heavier with each minute in the rain, I glanced into a travel agency that hadn’t yet opened. A young man’s face was illuminated by a computer screen in a dark room. Okay, I thought, please be a Good Samaritan. I knocked and caught my breath. He came to the door. I began to gush like some overzealous fountain—asking for the favor, some sort of explanation, apologies. I attempted to look needy, but attractive. In actuality, I’m sure I came across as desperate and crazy. My plastered to my head with rain, a strange mix of clothes that didn’t make it into my suitcase, sweat trickling its way down the small of my back, my low rise jeans slunk to an indecently level beneath my hips.

This was an adventure. As I was gratefully printing out my pass, I came to the conclusion that in order to make the more miserable situations bearable, I must look at everything as an adventure. And when you’re carrying 4/5 of your weight in luggage, things are bound to be more interesting.

Marhaba (welcome) Jordan

Driving in from the airport felt familiar, probably because I was once again crammed into the backseat of a minibus, the differences were that this van was made in this millenium, and the A.C. worked.

Marhaba Jordan

The landscape from the airport seems to set the mood for the night. Dark clouds reflected green from the symmetrical rows of scrubby olive trees. A sort of rocky landscape with rare tufts of grass leaping out of the hills, an almost gale force wind, making the 60 degrees seem much cooler. It seemed inhospitable, and a definite contrast to Ghana. Jordan didn't come across as unfriendly, but instead guarded and a little skeptical. Maybe I was just tired. In hindsight, I think it was all the security checks that made me feel guarded--for getting to the gates, another for getting on the plane, one and then another before leaving the airport, a final one before getting into the hotel--the last one came with a woman with an apologetic smile behind a curtain who carefully patted me down. I think I also felt apprehensive about the decadence--to me it has an illegitimacy and an almost unbearable pretentiousness. I have no idea why, but I knew that the oil rich countries would spoil me, I just had to get into the right mindframe.

After walking through the final checkpoint, I walked into a marble palace. Softly lit, the Sheraton had a few restaurants, a couple of pools, plush carpets, and wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-ceiling smooth, glazed stone. Its exterior matched, the rest of Amman. Geometric and white stone (doesn't absorb the heat). The city almost looked unfinished and unpainted. But when you rode close, you realized the devil was in the details. Windows of all different shapes, pillars of shapes, sizes and designs. Ornate gates garnished with neatly placed topiaries. Like the same people thousands of years ago, Jordanians built their homes into the hills.

The group of 14 finished the day with a hot meal from what I think was some sort of Jordianian fast food place. I had the lamb masfam (??) which is tender lamp buried in a rich creamy soup
with an almost tart yet buttery taste, to complete the sauce was a bowl of rice big enough to feed 3. I treated myself to backlava like treats for dessert, sweetened with honey the twirls of philo dough twisted carefully around sweetened nuts.

Tomorrow was Petra, the Dead Sea, and other adventures.

The Last Week

In about 6 days and 23 hours, I will be boarding a flight back home. A lot of the volunteers have asked each other, "Are you ready to go?" Most have been here a month, and most answer yes. I think I am mentally preparing myself to leave; I've started thinking about home more, about this up coming semester at WVU. I've started to daydream about the eating at Taco Bell at 2 in the morning and finding furniture for my new house. I think about the people I'm coming back to, the wonderful ones who have done all the sentimental things I could think of, including habitually stealing shotgun seats from me. Then I start thinking about the people that I am leaving. Tomorrow is my last day of camp, of work before a week of travel. In a way its relieving, not being around the refugees I won't feel as pressured to help them. But as somebody once told Spiderman, "With great power, comes great responsibility." I know I will never be able to ignore them, or tell myself, "No, you can help them tomorrow." Their stories are with me, just like the first post I put on here about the tree and the skeleton, just like Tennison's Odiseus: I am part of all that I have met, yet all experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever. I will miss the people that I have worked with, swapped Ipods with, shared the same plate, same spoon, same toilet, same room, same house, same experiences with. I will miss the marriage proposals (8 thus far), the constant attention, but at the same time I will be so relieved to just be able to be by myself again. To be with you guys again.

My email is currently being butt, so write me comments on here or facebook. Thanks Karen, I got your message and I love you too.

Charged

Current, as in electricity, in the camp is sporadic at times. Sometimes, we will go to bed with the whole world dark, and the curvature of this world etched by the stars, then wake up at 2 with all the lights in the house on. Such is life, and this is Africa. I wish I could write more, and I wish I could better describe this past week than with the hasty words of a time-rushed woman. Last week was amazing and terrible. My first week in Accra in May, I met these British medical students whom I "clicked" with immediately; they were the people I visited in Kumasi. Well one of them traveled across the country and spent the week at a nearby hotel, hoping to get work at the one clinic on camp. We had a competition of how many countries we've each been to, and he beat by one. It was really awesome and Tim ended up helping out with CBW, we talked until all hours of the night, so this past week lacked quite a few of the usual hours of sleep. He picked up the slack of some other workers and helped out at the summer school the international volunteers put together. A side note: this is a free summer program for half a day, providing free bread and water to about 300 students. Well since it started last week, the numbers were fluctuating and at one time there were 65 3-5 year olds for one teacher! Which is why I have stopped with the HIV/AIDS outreach and am now helping with the ABC class (the young ones)....which makes me really realize the importance of using a condom!!!!
Well one afternoon, I found out that a two year old twin boy died of dehydration. He was the first child I picked up when I came to camp and would stand outside one of the volunteer houses in yellow underwear and do karate moves under a tree. Tragic, heartbreaking, unfair the words to describe it come easily. Maybe even relief, here was a child that had escaped the confines of the camp, by heeding to the raw wrath of survival. Was he saved, if so what from? Knowing a child that has died made me question everything. What kind of world is this, where 5 months ago, I was paying $8 for a plate of food or taking a 20 minute shower. The little things, the lack of equilibrium. It changes you, I know I've changed. I don't really know what else to say. I ended up climbing up an abandoned building in a field outside of camp and watching the African sun set behind an African mountain and thinking about life. Dehydration and completely preventable, but in a swing of rationality everybody dies.

I leave a week from Monday. I wish I didn't have to, I love it here, I love most of the people. I think when I come home I will be fairly disgusted by the daily living of most Americans until I succumb to the materialistic consumerism that rules the middle-class, relative wealth sucks because its not how much you have that matters, people forget about that, it's about how much more you have.

The skies here are amazing. Grace the lady I helped with the 2 month old baby was reunited with her brother from the war this past 2 days. She hadn't seen him since she was 11 and now she's 26! He lives in Ghana 4 hours away and was told that he looked like a lady that sold fish in the camp so he came and saw and sure enough it was his sister, his and her only form of blood family for over a decade! It was emotional in the highest form of the word, seeing the two of them together; they have each other now. I found out that she was raped during the war, more than once.

The List

My sincerest apologies for not having written in a while, a weekend trip to Ghana's second largest city Kumasi to visit some amazing British medical students turned into a 5 day vacation (a weekend plus a holiday so I wasn't skipping too much work), then I returned to camp to find the power out for the rest of the week plus a few days, which led to another weekend away. Then the power came back but the internet was still down, then I got a day long stomach virus which sent me scurging (a Canadian term for both ends purging).
I feel like my blog posts havent really depicted everyday African experiences, and those that know me best know that my dillemas are often solved with lists.

Waking up early, 5:30 ish, going to bed early 9-10.
Eating rice twice a day.
Drinking liters of water a day without having to use the bathroom every five minutes.
Expert ability to use female urinals.
Riding tro-tros and meeting crazy people on these packed mini vans.
Picking up little children all day.
Apologizing to people for not being able to provide for them.
Having to explain that not all Americans are rich.
Putting on condoms to a fake penis and explaining that you cannot get AIDS if a mosquito bites an infected person and then you.
Using Claire and Garretts nalgenes.
Having sawdust from termites on my stuff.
Smelling unsavory.
Much higher chance of getting legitimately close-lined here (worse if your taller than 5'3'').
Walking between houses (how you get around on camp) and smelling piss and sometimes seeing poop.
Cursing.
Being asked if you are a Christian.
Wondering how there can be less than 20 wells but more than 200 churches on camp.
Seeing kids improvise jump rope with video tape reels.
Going to the market and getting fresh produce when you want to eat some fruit and veggies.
Having 15 mosquito bites on my left foot.
Learning what bed bug bites look like.
Learning how to tolerate housemates.
Bonding with the good ones.
Networking with other humanitarian workers and volunteers across Ghana.
Taking African showers (bathing during a rain storm).
Being asked for water.
Being asked for food.
Being asked for money.
for sponership, for school fees, for medicine........
Learing how to say no.
Being groped and sexually harrassed (don't worry I've only been groped 3 times).
Not having a cell phone and coordinating without one.
Being excited about having solid poo.
Talking to other volunteers about where we've traveled.
Lots of football (can't even call it soccer now).
Having a watch tan.
Getting emails from back home.
Brushing grime out of my hair.
Waking up with my roommate and synchronized stomach cramps.
Having grime on me in general.
Seeing the amazing amount of stars at night.
Eating bizarre food.
Eating tons of starches and oil.
Having flies where I've picked my scabs.
Brushing my teeth outside.
Being praised for my generosity and told that God will bless me.
Turning down marriage proposals and invitations to go to his place to get to know each other better.
Seeing kids.
Holding babies.
Gaining bargaining skills.
Making French toast.
Having the food cravings of 17 pregnant women.
Making a habit of throwing toilet paper into the trashcan next to the toilet.
Feeling guilty.
Hearing music blaring.
Hearing people arguing constantly.
Seeing a dog-eat-dog world, a constant struggle for survival.
Leaving the house 20 minutes early for a 5 minute walk because I stop and talk to so many friends along the way.
Taking naps in Grace's house.
Dancing without music.
Dancing with my coworkers.
Laughing at dancing with my coworkers.
Hanging out with older people.

Thats all time will allow, and as always I love your messages so keep me updated with home.

A very special shout out to the most incredible sister in the world....... Happy 18th Birthday Karen!!! I love you like crazy and look at your picture everyday.

Ladies and Lacerations

Well there are 3 things I want to put in this post.....they are not really related but bear with smorgasboard if you will.

First off are the ladies that I previously mentioned.

Matou a lady in her mid-thirties. Lives across from me. Three children all in Liberia, one of which is her sister's child who she raised as her own without telling him because her sister died in the war when he was a baby. Does not ask for money, asks for work. She is tired of being warehoused at the camp--there is nothing for her to do. Has a great sense of humor, hardworking, and openly Chirstian. Willing to help others out. Training as a nurse until the war came and pushed her out. Continued her studies in Ghana until she ran out of money. She showed me pictures and letters of acceptance and attendance at her schools as well as her transcript. She has one of the best can-do-it attitudes I have seen and is planning to return to LIberia and her children some time next month.

Annette, also a middle aged lady by African standards. Works as a laundry lady for CBW (Children's Better Way-org. I am working with). Has two young daughters Abigail and Debrah,who are attending school in 2 and 5 grade, respectively. The girls are smart and bright and cheerful. Annette's husband deserted her and she became very depressed until she found Christ. Now she knows that even if its hard, there is a way. She has a long term boyfriend who assists with the girl's education fees, but they are too poor to get married. He is training as a computer hardware technician. Annette dreams of attending a catering school in a nearby town. It is run by a French-trained Ghanian and she has given me the brochure, a phone number, as well as a list of prices. Her wish is that her children go to college one day--everything she does, she does for them. Annette is separated from all of her family members due to the war, and her father was murdered by the rebels.

Grace is a young mother 26 to two month old baby girl. She dropped out of high school so she could care for her child. Both of her parents died in the war and she has scars covering her body from when the soldiers stabbed her repeatedly. Since she has no formal education she is a seller, I have given her enough money so that she could begin selling roasted fish. The babies father left her when she found out she was pregnant, she has no family at camp. She couldn't afford water the other day so she borrowed some so that she could breastfeed her baby. She does not have money for food and relies on the kindness of others. She told me once, that she knew I could trust her because she would never do anything to hurt her baby. She is so willing. I told her I would help her practice her reading, the next day she camp with a small notebook so that I could write down the words she had trouble with when she read, so that she could practice at home.
Its all pretty inspiring--these women are so thirsty and willing to learn and excell, so that they can provide for their children.

Second order of business. Jimmy, Jules (my biggest fan!!), Claire, Ben, and Mike: I went on a bike ride on Saturday. CBW planned a trip a little into the country side past 2 villages and lots of farm land (which was beautiful and interesting) to stop at a third village and drink palm wine. Sounds pretty perfect huh, gorgeous early morning weather past paradise and then palm wine? Well we rented bikes which varied to having no brakes, to no gears that would work, to no cushions on the seat (VITAL I REPEAT VITAL). So I got a bike with sketchy brakes and good everything else and it was lovely. The dirt road had a bunch of ruts from hard core water runoff and I ate it. I caught the lip of one and lost my balance right in front of the second village. I ate it hard by my standards right on a pile of trash. I have road rash on my right shoulder blade and upper arm and right leg. I have a bruise the size of a hotdog on my right thigh, a gash in my elbow and a fairly scrapped up palm and knee. I had a large audience of children as I swore loudly as I smeared antibacterial on my wounds (Jules the snowboardnig story about scrubbing your shin came up so fresh in my mind that I had to sit down). But no worries, folks, Im doing fine and palm wine tasted sweet.

Eh I didn't get to the third but no worries. There's always later.

Weekends

So a much more cheerful blog is order. First, I just want everyone to know (Mom, Dad) that my mental health although under constant stress and guilt is fine--no catch 22 here. I have become close to one of my housemates in particular--Emma is pretty ballin' and we have similar travel (as in adventure) styles/ideologies so we end up doing a lot together particularly on the weekends. For the first weekend we escaped the camp's heat--the cement buildings retain a lot--by traveling to Cape Coast a fishing village a few hours away mostly known for its huge forts that shipped out slaves. Then up to a Kakum National Park, a rainforest with awell known canopy walk. Having forgot my camera, I have done my best to preserve it in a short essay:

The Canopy Walk
It was as if I had stepped into a vintage cartoon; all that connected one titan tree to the next was a line of wood, the width, length, and thickness, of diving boards nailed one after another. It was a Wile Coyote master plan; the boards gave a bird's eye view to the the lower levels of the forest hundreds of feet below. with all the life the biosphere contained I would not be surpised if a species of road runner habitated it.
Supporting the planks were nets crisscrossed and suspended by thick ropes, reminescent of the ones from gym class. These were further reinforced by coils of metal strung across the span. There were seven bridges in total and six of us. I believe Sarah was the first to cross, the person next in line had to wait until the other was halfway across. We all walked the first leg of the sky line like a gang plank above a sea of greens. There were some trees that reached above us, allowing a closer examination of the endurance of the flora that took it to such heights. By the time I reached the first tree stand I was completely awestruck, as if somebody had taken an eninah club and beat me with Biblical reverence. The susn was out in early morning force, bright but not yet roasting. It painted birds with shadows to appear like cutouts in the sky. I don't know how to describe the view, the horizon held a tropical outline of exotic trees. The texture pushed down into th evalley twisting, contorting, overlapping, but always green. If I had jumped off the balcony circumnavigating the ancient trees, I know I would have lived happily ever after, after being caught angrily by countless branches instead of the root imbibed ground. It was a dream. Paul was almost right, it was something to cross off The List, except it surpassed The List. The List was a map of Putnam County and the rainforest was a collection of galaxies. Iwalked the last bridge as if it were a church aisle. Each slow meeting step I took brought me one step further away from Eden, from the sinless wilderness that knew survival and subsistence, and one step closer to my current marriage with consumerism and comfort and safety. Every movement I tried to absorb it all, I attempted to memorize the linesthe foliage made as if they were the wrinkles around my grandmother's smile. I looked and cherished every direction possible until my eyes became obscured with tears from the magnifence of it all. Kakum was a marriage itself, a holy matrimony between Mother Nature and God, and in the middle of the bridge, in the middle of the park, in the middle of Ghana, on the side of AFrica, on the icing of the world, I was a lowly worshipper.

This last weekend, a too large group of six traveled north of Accra into a town called Aburi and stayed the night in the Botanical gardens. Beautiful and spacious the small city on the montain gave an amazing vista of the Accra below. It was cooler and way less bustle up north. We toured the garden at daybreak before heading off to more north still. The next place we visited was Boti Falls (100 feet ish). UP and down and up some more we first hiked into the jungle and out into the grasslands to th eUmbrella Stone, a mushroom shaped rock which gave an excellent view of th esurrounding area. Then we went to the falls, usually its one big one, but this time there were two rather large ones. Throwing caution to the wind, putting our lives in Fate's hands, and ignoring all the warnings of going in to freshwater. Emma and I swam in the falls. and it was F'ing awesome. We were maidens of the mist and we shouted all our thanks for being in Africa into the echoing roar!! Everyone should swim in a waterfall at least once in their life. Then we walked for about na hour to a more locally known falls known as Akaa. Sitting on a rock cliff of about 70 feet we jumped into the waterfall........just playing we actually took a break under th eshady overhang. Then it poured and we stayed dry and watched the rain. Back on th eside of the road, we waited for a tro tro to Kofftown (large van, reminiscent of Hankins). Then the skies opened up again. A couple of us took turns to wait on the road, wihle th erest sought shelter under a nearby roof. While we were out there, Eric and I sang songs like Hit the Road Jack, at the top of our lungs. The six of us finally made it to a hotel, only to discover the prices had been raised beyond some of our budgets. Soaking wet, hungry as hell, and even, dare I say it, a little chilled, Eric and I bargained the price down to 10 Cedi (seedy=10$) and we booked two rooms and slept solidly, all dreaming of the actual showers we would have in the morning.

Its all good but hearing peoples stories can be difficult. There are a couple of women I would love to sponser, all single mothers, all sick of poverty, all sick of not being able to earn there own living. I have been working with one lady in particular Grace, she is a couple years older than myself with a month old baby. The other day she had to borrow money to buy water in order for here to be able to breastfeed her child. All the ladies want to go to school to learn a trade or finish one (one has a few nursing classes left to take before getting her degree). My next post will be devoted to them, right now, they are living on prayers. Thank you for yours!