Slime Trail

Have I mentioned the heat?

My discomfort is a palpable. My discomfort is a regenerating bead of sweat on my forehead. I wipe it away and it grows back with Wolverine-like recovery speed. My discomfort is the trail of perspiration on the arm of my “Gye Nyame” plastic chair. I’ll tattoo a snail on my arm and have a sense of humor. I’ll deal. My discomfort is my perspiration turned precipitation. I make it rain.


Enough of that.

I finally got my hands on “A Dance with Dragons” by George R. R. Martin. After months of hounding my colleagues in the north of Ghana, the tome has made its way to my eager eyes and hands. Hauling the monster around Accra was a bitter sweet experience. My bitter sweat poured out of my pores. Yeah. I am halfway done and it’s worth every email, text, and hassle.


Projections of my projects.

All is well in the world of my projects. The rabbit rearing business club is moving slowly, but that was anticipated. My WATSAN Committee is meeting, according to its secretary. My village hosted a large toilet day event and pictures will be posted. I’ll be labeling and organizing photos during my site arrest for elections. Expect photos around the 11^th or 12^th of December. I don’t like to talk about work, I prefer just to do it. So….


Poetry, a study.

I am studying metres and scansion and all that jazz. I’ll edit my previous work and give it a shape. Maybe. Look for revisions.

An Update

Books:

I am currently reading “Mao: The Unknown Story.” A biography examining Mao Tse-Tung through political, military, and familial lenses. Mao, at maturity and before his physical degradation, stood 1.8 meters tall. He also loved to read. Other than these two trivial characteristics, we have nothing in common. Reading about Mao is a chore. Reading ”Moby Dick” was also a chore. If you enjoy reading dry historical accounts of dictators who commit atrocities in a sociopathic manner, I recommend this book to you. Go out and get it.

“Kafka on the Shore” by Haruki Murakami, on the other hand, is absolutely amazing! Everyone should read this book. It’s beautiful! Intriguing! And beautiful.

The Village:

In the village, life is molding routines. Breaks in these routine are sponsored by the (z) Germans.  I have befriended two German volunteers who live about 8 miles away (20 minutes by tro tro). Kira and Julia are education volunteers staying/volunteering in Ghana for one year. With 10 months left, I predict we will have quite a few adventures. They are also teaching me German. As of now, I can count to 10 and know how to say “everything” in German. They also introduced me to two of their friends, Miriam and Miran, who live on the other side of Central Region. Kira and Miriam enjoy making fun of me. I suppose it’s an easy thing to do.

Work:

I have started a Young Entrepreneurs Club at my local JHS. We will be discovering business etiquette, leadership skills, organizational techniques, record keeping, book keeping, finance, economics, and marketing while raising and selling rabbits. This project trains local teens to operate a business and promotes team work and leadership skills. Selling the rabbits promotes food security through the provision of a new protein source in the community and through income generation, allowing club members to secure their access to food through increasing their incomes and savings. This project will hopefully succeed without the use of a grant, creating a no-funding-needed model for communities to emulate and adapt to their community. Part of my program trains an interested teacher in business practices and rabbit rearing, ensuring a degree of sustainability. The profits ensure sustainability financially. 50% of profits go to the club, 50% go to school repairs, and 100% is made possible through the US Peace Corps. Booya! Development!


Poem:

Fall

A burning leaf dances into ashes;
Against and among the stars. The wind leads
a foxtrot, box step, tango, or samba.
The leaf follows, glowing, orange, graceful.

500 ml Gush

Eight months of sucking clean, hygienically sealed water from plastic bags has normalized the novel. I thoughtlessly bite the corner off of 500 milliliters and squeeze. I rarely take my time and I always get the last drop. I reach for the ready bag on the nightstand as quickly as I would a glass of water, once upon a time, when I lived across the ocean---on the other side of the world. I’m going to miss it. I can drink 1 liter of water inside 10 seconds, crushing plastic and quenching thirst. I couldn’t do that before Peace Corps.

The assumption that I’ll miss the sachets relates to the assumption that I am going to miss fufu, groundnut soup, and red red. These pre-conceived notions of longing are symptomatic of an all too familiar feeling of impermanence. This will end. I will not stay in Ghana indefinitely. There is a date (April 2014) when I will close my service, pack my bag, become a RPCV, and tour West Africa on a motorcycle. It’s coming.

My inability to push this fact to the back of my brains is an illness. I’ve had it before. I got sick with apprehension in Russia. I failed to allow myself to connect with amazing friends because I knew it would end in a matter of months. I have 18 months of service remaining and I am running from my doom-to-repeat-history. I am not alone. Meeting up with volunteers, I hear projections of nostalgia for the present: We commune, we have a beer, I say I miss sushi, someone says they miss pho, and then someone concludes they will miss “this.”

In what I know of myself, stateside, I know that I will not miss bags of water. I will be happy with the conventional turn of a valve and release from a spout. I’ll be constantly entertained by the media machine. I’ll have Netflix, Starbucks, Barnes & Nobles, and The Cheesecake Factory. I’ll have decent cellular reception, a high tech phone, reliable electric current, and rent due by the 8^th of every month. Water sachets won’t matter. Making hammocks out of the discarded bags won’t matter. It will be an odd part of my life, mentionable over dinner when I am working the Peace Corps card to impress women.

Nor do I think any volunteer will actually find themselves craving the bags. No, we “miss” things in the future because we lack the vocabulary or the articulation to say/write how we feel about fufu, red red, and pure water. Missing things in the future---while living in the present---is a poorly verbalized expression of those “things” inherent awesomeness. And, reader, knocking back a sack of water that you just bought from the head pan of a 12-year-old on a hot/humid day, while sitting in a poorly ventilated van (tro tro) and waiting for one more passenger going to Kumasi, is awesome-sauce.

I wish two things for future Adam. I wish him the gift of words, so that may be able to choose his phrases better and not “miss” anything. I also wish him the acceptance of the impermanent, which he rationally knows and understands, but can’t quite feel presently. I wish upon this blog post---a rarity more scarce and, may I say, magical than a shooting star. 

Some Poetry

Saucy Minx

Brilliant with a hint of sass
Beautiful eyes and nice ass

5:30 AM, In the Field

The grass lies flat,
Blown to sleep
By the shallow breath
Of a morning breeze

Soup

“Blow out the fire:”
That’s what my grandfather
used to tell me,
Right before I’d mouth a
Spoonful of hot chicken soup.
I notice my father never did.
Whether as an act of defiance
or because he liked a singed tongue,
I’ll never know.

Untitled

I sat on branches and viewed the world from trees
As the wind blew, I swayed with the horizons

Untitled

Between a canopy of rooftops and a canopy of clouds,

my fingers intertwine with clouds and my toes scrape tree tops

Neighbors

Inusa, Alima, and their son Hakim moved in next door two months ago. The first sign of their arrival was a can of red paint resting on the dividing wall between our porches. The can became more active over the next couple of days as it emptied its contents on a door, a window frame, and a cooking table. The mystery painter was never around when I left in the morning and had changed my world a little by the time I came home in the evening.

A few days later, on one of my lazy days, I stepped out of my two room house and was greeted by a naked 4 year old, Hakim, brushing his teeth and staring at me. His quiet stare followed me to my latrine and followed me back into my two rooms. It was a blessed day; Hakim hasn’t been as quiet since. My comings and goings and mid-day pisses are announced with a high pitch “Obruni, Obruni,” and an eventual (whether I am coming or going), “bye byeeeee.”

This imps parents entered stage left that afternoon as I set out to buy some Watchee (rice, beans, and sauce). Alima was frying these diamond sweet-bread cookie thing-a-ma-bobs, singing to herself as I set off on my quest for nourishment. Inusa was washing his motorcycle (also red) and was unaware of my departure. My social anxiety got the better of me and I decided (rationalized) that meeting new neighbors would best be done with a full stomach.

…

Now I have casual conversation with Inusa and he offers me a ride on his motorcycle when he sees me walking. I dutifully decline his offer, as motorcycle riding is forbidden by my Peace Corps Administrators. Also, I like walking; It’s inherently me to walk long distances.

I greet Alima daily. My Fanti and her English are not developed enough for us to have extensive conversations. I am sure Inusa fills her in on my activities and sentiments.

Hakim yells at me.  

The Road to Ankama

Alighting the line taxi from Mankron Nkwanta, I meet and greet the local kenke and pepe seller. She is fine and tells me to go and come. I concur that I’ll go and come and head down the left fork of the paved road. A six inch drop welcomes me to bumpy dirt road as I leave pot-holed pavement in my dust. I am heading to Ankama.

Just one of the many local tailors waves and inquires about my health. It’s well, as is hers. With all the people greeting I almost forget to buy a sachet of water. I have a fast 30 minutes hike up the road to Ankama. The sun is warming the earth and feeding the plants, but it’s burning me mercilessly. A couple sachets will keep my hydrated. 20 pesewas in the hands of kiosk owners son, 2 pure-water sachets in my bag, and I am on the road again -to Ankama.

The road is wide enough for one vehicle to travel it. I have yet to see two vehicles approach from opposite directions. I imagine an argument precedes a solution, an impasse before one can pass. My imagination doesn’t have long to settle into daydreams of cars and road disputes. A car approaches from my rear, coercing me into the tall grass. Ever since Jurassic Park I’ve been weary of tall grass. I quickly rejoin the road and head towards Ankama.

15 minutes up the road and it’s time for some water. Tearing off a corner of my pure-water sachet, I guzzle, no chug, 500 ml of locally treated and packaged water. Why chug all that water at once? Why not drink it slowly and satiate my thirst well? Because I hate carrying the awkward, damn things, that’s why. I squeeze them dry-ish and throw them in a side pocket of my draw-string bag. They’ll stay there until I get them to my trash can or a Zoom Lion dump. I don’t litter, not yet.

Mahogany brown and robin’s egg blue butterflies flutter from a grove of cocoa trees. The road is lined with a patchwork of jungle-farm-jungle-farm. The occasional farmer’s eyes also flutter from the grove. “Obruni,” yell the farmers. I acknowledge them with a smile and a wave. They don’t know me, but they smile and greet me all the same. Minor celebrity status because I’m white, I haven’t adjusted to it well, but I still have 19 months left. A wave of the hand is all they want and they go back to work; I go back to my task: walking to Ankama.

Another damn car puts me one step into the jungle. Lizards, birds, and whatever else rustles as I invade the wild.  As I wait for the car to pass I notice that I’m on a hill and have quite the view. Thank you, car. Sometimes life’s obstacles slow us down and we get a glimpse of a view we’d miss otherwise. A smile dawns my face as I continue to Ankama.

 The mud houses with tin roofs rise into view above the hill. Almost there. The napalm  in the too-big sky tempts me to break out the second water sachet, but I have business in town and a 30 minutes hike back to taxis and tros. I’m resolved to buy 3 sachets next time and I will.  Trouser-less children break out from the trees, unaware of my arrival. When they finally notice me they stop dead. I’m an alien. Humanoid, yet alien. I smile, speak the local language, tell them I’m fine, and continue to Ankama.

I reach Ankama. I greet the elders. I do my work. I almost forget that I’m thirsty. I remember on the road back from Ankama. 

PACA

Participatory Analysis for Community Action (PACA) is a method of appreciative inquiry in which a facilitator leads a community, school, or organization through a series of activities with the purpose of creating a problems solving /solution creating system the community, school, or organization can use over and over again. It requires good to excellent facilitation skills and patience (which is included in facilitation skills, but is worthy of an honorable mention). Yesterday I facilitated my first PACA meeting. It was semi-successful.

I focused on two activities: Community mapping and Priority ranking.

The community mapping required me to divide the community participants into two groups, men and women, and ask them to draw a map of their community with ash. I led the women’s group and my colleague Adam Morgan led the men’s group.  We both allowed for group discussion and only led the group when discussion turned into silence. The results were promising.

Both the men and women identified that the local clinic, school, and water sources were important and in need of attention. After the women explained their rational to the men and the men explained their rational to the women we proceeded to the priority ranking.

It was a semi-failure. My role as a Peace Corps Volunteer in their community is still unclear to them. When asked to prioritize their problems they instead made a grocery list of large scale, non-health or school related, “wants.” Reliable water sources were number one in their priorities, but a community center and a market were second and third (neither of them school or clinic related). I asked how they would like to organize to gather money for the community center and market; they told me I’d get them the money. BAM! Fail. I went through the same process with the market and the boreholes for water. At the end of their problem solving I explained, again, my role in their community.

The result of my appreciative inquiry? I will be working with a community member to write a grant for boreholes, I will be working with the school to develop sustainable income generating projects for the school (so they can afford supplies and repairs, maybe set up SHS scholarships), and I will begin talking to the nurse at the clinic about ways to get more support for her and the community.

Am I done with PACA? I don’t know. I might do it again with the school, or the neighboring community, Oketsew (which might as well be part of my community. Hell, we have funerals and weddings together). I just hope my skills as a facilitator improve before I try my next hand at it. It’s difficult to hold my tongue and not direct people along a path I personally view as constructive. I’m too damn opinionated.

Up next: A rabbit rearing training to develop my food security and income generating skills.