If you think you have nothing in common with someone...LEARN!

If there's one person I could do with getting on well with in Ghana, it's Prince. He's my closest colleague, my Ghanaian counterpart, between the two of us we need to look after all the volunteers and we also need to live together. Preferably happily.

When I first met him, I was quite concerned that we would never bond. As inconveniences go this was massive! We seemed to have nothing in common. He likes football and has almost no other interests. He’s not fussy about how he gets involved with the sport whether it be playing it, watching it (TV or live), training for it or playing football video games. This is difficult for me because no matter how hard I try (and I have) I can't make myself care about whether 11 people who I don't even know have won the game they just played and even if I did care I still wouldn't want to indulge in the same sport for 2 consecutive weekends, let alone every day of every week, variety is the spice of life! (Or at least, the spice of my life).

Anyway, I decided that I would find some common ground by joining in his workout sessions in the mornings (he’s under the impression that if only I do the same amount of exercise as him I could have a 6 pack within a matter of weeks, as he does. He seems to have no idea that, for me at least, I'll need to loose some significant weight before you can see any 6 pack that may lurk underneath. For all I know, there might be one there already! This is a significant disconnect, since he’ll eat up to 4 meals a day if he can get his hands on it and carbohydrates are the done thing here). Despite my good intentions and the (admittedly questionable) incentive of my rippling 6 pack, I was soon getting bored of workouts in the morning. It’s not top of my list of home comforts before breakfast (actually I don’t have a list of things I like to do before breakfast, upon waking up, eating is the ONLY thing I'm interested in). However, since he was very good at exercise and I was very bad, I felt that it helped to even up our relationship since I was more confident in the classroom. As things have progressed and we’ve got to know each other better, things have got rapidly easier. He’s been teaching me Ewe (the local language); I’ve been teaching him to swim; he’s been teaching me to twerk (if only I was sure what twerking was I’m sure I’d learn much faster!), and he recently bought me home a giant slice of watermelon because he knows how much I’ve been missing my balanced British diet. He knows what my favourite local meal is (‘redred’) and we’re going to go for a run together tomorrow morning (at 6am because Ghanaians love getting up early, even on Sundays).

Part way through their first week in training, the volunteers were given 24 hours to go and do a challenge, so their teacher, Prince and I went off to a swimming pool at a local hotel. It was lovely; the hottest outdoor pool you've ever been in. The hotel was built on a hilltop, so from the poolside we could look back down over the town of Ho. Swimming was particularly nice because it’s so hot and humid here that no matter how much you sweat, it can’t evaporate fast enough to keep you cool or dry. Prince can’t swim so I set about teaching him: he has good arms, but not good legs, they sink. I tried to get him to float face up, on top of the water, at one point but there was abject panic. One thing he does like, is running races with me through the water, so that at least is one thing we can share. We’ve said I’m going to teach him to swim if he teaches me to dance. Personally I feel like I’ve got the more difficult task here, but maybe he feels the same.

On the following weekend we took the whole team back there to swim again. This was challenging for some, because Ghanaians typically can’t swim. True to this stereotype, only 1 of our Ghanaian team members could swim and even then his style was described by a non-swimmer to be “horrible”. He nearly drowned trying to win a bet that required him to swim a whole length (although 50GHC was on the line – that’s about £10, a lot of money!) I’m very happy to say that a quick thinking UK volunteer rescued him when it started to look like he was in trouble and his head went under at about 4/5 of the way there.

Prince obviously had the advantage of having had the one swimming lesson I'd already given him earlier that week. I’d been trying to teach him breast stroke – his arms were good but his legs were like windmills. It’s fair to say that he still couldn’t swim. The key barrier is that Prince sinks in water. I think that when you spend enough time in the pool, you develop a kind of instinct for what keeps you up, what moves you left, what speeds you about etc and so it’s an alien landscape to Prince, who hasn’t had the benefit of a lifetime of pool experiences. I’ve walked to and fro with him, holding him up to the surface so that he can practice doing widths, legs thrashing wildly. Then on Saturday we had a breakthrough. I am delighted to announce that Prince has now swam a width of the pool…UNDERWATER. This is perfect, because if you’re already underwater you can’t sink any further. He is like a little submarine! Breast stroke arms, kicking legs. At first it came about by accident when we were having a gliding competition but then we realised we were onto a good thing and practiced over and over. I was ecstatic. We’re going to work on surfacing and breathing next time, who knows, he may even be the first Ghanaian in the team to swim a length of the pool.

He'd better get busy with my dance lessons!

When am I too old to be afraid of the dark?

For the first week of my time here, all the volunteers and me are staying in a hostel. They've got dorms and I've got my own room but nevertheless I always sleep lightly when there are volunteers in the house. I'm like an anxious parent, ready to look after my little ones at a moments notice.

Last night I woke up at about 3am and saw a boy sitting in a plastic chair at the end of my bed. I thought he was a volunteer so I said hello but got no reply. Assuming he was asleep, I sat up and moved forwards to touch his arm in order to wake the figure, but when I did, I found that there was no one there. My hand touched air and I couldn't see him any more.

I was so disturbed by this that I couldn't go back to sleep. The room was hot, and the noises of the night in this new country were unfamiliar. I stayed awake imagining shadows until the room started lightening at 5am and I could see there were definitely no unexplained apparitions in it.

At that point, comforted by daylight, I remembered that I was a person with extremely poor eyesight, lying next to my glasses in the dark. It's very easy to imagine a chair is occupied when it isn't. I also remembered that sightings of ghosts are very rarely reported close to, in the day; which reflects the reduced need for over-imaginative fabrication to explain what people like me are seeing. Ultimately, my new Ghanaian home probably isn't haunted.

All the same, I don't want to turn out the lights tonight.

How to be Ghanaian...JUST DANCE!

I would say that I’m not 100% integrating myself in the household successfully because the one thing that you have to do here is get up really early in the morning in order to sweep floors. I’m not sure why this is but so far I’ve taken a fairly firm stance that I’ll sweep floors when I’m ready to sweep floors. Pat (our acting housekeeper and nominal house mum) wakes no later than 6:30 each day, sweeps floors, does domestic things, then naps until she’s ready to cook lunch and then naps again until it’s time to do more domestic things such as cook dinner – I just can't bring myself to sample this lifestyle! Today is my first day off in which to observe that this is her routine, so I think that maybe if the average day is less Saturday-ish she might also go to collage.

However, there are some things that I do rather well. Specifically: eat (but not spell) Fufu and Banku. The fact that I don’t require cutlery delights the household (and is a direct result of my training eating ugali in Kenya). I felt that my first go at Banku was absolutely filthy (it’s like eating mashed potato in thin soup but the soup has small shredded vegetables floating in it) but Prince (my housemate & colleague) told me I did it particularly well, which amazed me since I had orange soup stains on my forearms at the time.

Another thing that was a great success was doing my washing. Partly because foreigners learning to do it for the first time here don’t typically do it very well and partly because I took it out to the veranda, where my housemates Prince & Vincent were relaxing, and started to dance. Before I knew it, they’d leapt to their feet and also started dancing. Turns out this is a favourite pastime! It took me 2 hours to do my washing. By the end I was absolutely drenched. I suspect equal parts in sweat and soapy water. What a workout! Washing is actually a very good time to practice Ghanaian dancing. I’ve never given my legs much thought before, they usually operate on an ‘English default’ which is kind of like a transfer of weight from foot to foot but with preoccupied hands in soapy water, one has to focus a bit more on the feet. This is constructive because Ghanaian people don’t have a default and are quite creative with their legs. I’ve been learning a particular dance move, specific to Ghana, called the ‘Azunto’ which involves standing up and doing a motion with your hands that bears a surprisingly close resemblance to washing clothes (handy). Less handy is the fact that every few beats you have to stick one hand straight up in the air, which is quite disruptive to one’s rhythm. Every time I bent to pick up another item of clothing, I kept my legs straight, and shook my bum in the air, an absolute classic in Kenya, which delighted everyone. Although we had started early, I am not a fast washer and volunteers began to show up for their day’s worth of curriculum training, which takes place at my house. They looked on at these manic Ghanaian dancers with a sort of morbid curiosity. No one wanted to join in. But it didn’t matter, at least Prince, Vince and I had bonded as a family.

Too much of a good thing will give you flu

Applying for a Ghanaian visa has made me ill. Well, indirectly at least. The trouble is that they require me to travel all the way to London in order to submit a print out of the application form that I filled in on their website along with my passport. (There is an option to do this by post, but after seeing the level of organisation present in the Ugandan embassy I wanted to supervise the whereabouts of my important documents in person as much as possible). After travelling all the way to town, it would seem a bit rude to go home again and neglect the many wonderful people I happen to know are living there. Particularly considering that (by virtue of being granted a visa to Ghana) I know I won’t now be available to see them again for at least 3 months – that kind of ultimatum focuses the mind! As such, in the duration of 4 days I have been delighted to see old uni housemates, ex colleagues, current colleagues, a school friend, the sailing community, friends from Kenya, and Londoners from when I was a Londoner. It’s been intense!
Luckily for me (and my limited budget), I am now very easily pleased. Freshly returned from Uganda all I really want in life is to sit on a sofa with a cup of tea, talk to a friend and to go on walks. This begs the question though, how much of a good thing is too much? I have shin splints from all these relaxing walks! I veritably hobbled home from the station at the end of it all. I actually had to take a rest and sit down on someone’s garden wall. The trouble is that if you burn the candle at both ends, ever so occasionally the whole candle gets too hot and melts. Before I left London I sprawled on the sofa with the wonderful friends who hosted me, all of us wrapped in scarves, croaking, eating ice cream and oranges. If Ghana's high commissioner could see me now, he probably wouldn’t let me in!

Reverse Culture Shock

I was a bit surprised today to notice reverse culture shock. I was going for a jog (enjoying the cool mornings), listening to a podcast discussion on the value of democracy and found myself infuriated by the triviality of it all. There are many people without water, electricity, food or healthcare all over the world and yet someone has made a podcast in which they discuss why more young Britons don’t vote. It’s so unimportant! They would vote if they wanted to. The fact probably is that they live in comfortable enough societies and don’t really care.

The other thing that annoys me now is when people on the news complain about things like state pensions or school provisions. These are amazing things already! A free education – that’s a wonderful thing!! And yet what gets reported on the news is people complaining that they didn’t get their choice of school. They should try an exchange program to see what it’s like sending a child to school in Uganda. There they can watch their child do 12 years of schooling, paying money to send them to go to a government school, and still emerge unable to speak English (the country’s official language). Next to that our problems seem pretty small. If we’re going to live in a world where there are massive inequalities, the privileged half ought at least to appreciate it!

As I was thinking this I notice that someone (presumably the local council) had put down a new path in the field I was running in. I decided to follow it. It was very nice but potentially also a little unnecessary. Maybe someone could have taken that money and donated it to send 30 Ugandan children to school.

I trust this reverse culture shock will wear off soon. It doesn’t do to be so anxty.

My Ugandan Transformation and 'the Introduction'

Today at 7:30 am, my neighbour came round, flanked by my host mum and brother to see me put on a Gomez. I should at this point introduce the Gomez: it’s a traditional dress worn by women in East Africa. I actually think it predates the existence of Uganda as a country. It is long, has pointy shoulders, and a big bow around the waist. Although this sounds horrible, they are at least made from very nice material. I had blue one that felt like silk. When I was shown the neighbour's family collection and invited to choose one I couldn’t help but feel a little baffled as to how they got funded since the dresses are absolutely exquisite and the neighbour was of more modest means.

The reason We were planning to go to ‘an introduction’ later that day at which I would need to wear the Gomez but this early morning affair seemed to be more of a trial run, to see what happened. In all fairness, I’d tried on one yesterday too, so I kind of knew the drill. What was more troubling was the shoes that went with it. I seemed to be a little on the short side and so the most towering heals were dug out. In the end I settled on a pair of platforms. They seemed to be the best fit and they gave me the height, but at the same time I’ve never worn a pair of platforms outside a shoe shop before on the basis that I’m not safely mobile in them (let alone when there’s a long dress to trip over and an uneven road surface).

At this point in the day I actually had no idea what ‘an introduction’ entailed (so I won’t spoil the story for you by getting ahead of myself) but what I did know was that it was the time that the bridegroom met the bride’s parents for the first time. I figured it was pretty important that they get on.

Anyway, back to the day. I had planned to do a couple of jobs in town – I did ask if I was allowed to take the Gomez off in order to ride a bike in and this didn’t seem to be any problem at all provided I was back at 10am to get dressed. I therefore assumed, quite wrongly, that an introduction would be a lunch affair.

When I did dutifully present myself at just past the hour to visit Peace (my beautiful 23-year-old neighbour) we went out to make an advance payment on some transport to take us to the ceremony (this was fair enough as I wasn’t walking anywhere in the shoes that’d been lined up). At least, this was where I thought we were going but we actually ended up in a salon (the sort of salon with bare brick inside, bare mud outside, a corrugated roof and shoes removed on entry) where the owner greeted me with a disproportionate quantity of joy. There were laughter and hugs before I was seated and oil was worked through my hair by Peace, so that it was very soft, but also quite greasy. Then it was brushed, I gave them money for transport and I was sent on my way. It’s an odd sort of deal where a bus journey comes with an inclusive salon trip, but there we go.

Next stop was home where I was asked to retrieve my nail varnishes so that my nails could be done. By this time it was gone 12 and I was quite convinced that we were missing the ceremony. My host mum has a little shop outside our house and she often sits outside it on a wooden bench making mats. It often has the feel of a ‘women’s club’ as any number of local ladies can be found there, aged from 2-92. I’ve never seen a man sat there though, not even a toddler. Anyway, we joined the ladies on the benches, I took off my shoe, rested my foot on a convenient piece of brick and Peace painted my hands and toes. Then she sent me off to bathe (which was slightly impractical as the varnish hadn’t dried yet; also I’d already bathed once that day, but in a country where most people see deodorant as…well, a great unknown, such formalities must be observed). So I dutifully went off to get a shower, and tootled back down the track to Peace’s house to get dressed. I took with me my greatest asset: my mirror. We’ve bought it in the market and the ladies are always excited by it. Peace and her sisters were no exception and soon her eldest female sibling, Viola, was putting on my excessively pale foundation in the mirror while Peace’s mother (who is in her early 40s) was helping me get into my Gomez. Underneath the Gomez goes a large blanket, folded double, wrapped around the wearer, tied at the waist, and then folded down so that the waist has twice thickness of padding. This, I hoped, would give me a bit more of an African derriere. Next the Gomez goes over the top. It’s like a short-sleeved Japanese kaftan, but it fastens with just 2 buttons on the left breast. At this point there is about 2 meters of excess fabric that is pleated and held against the wearer with the help of an enormous belt which is tied to resemble a comedically sized bow which has come undone. I hope I’m describing all this well enough for you to imagine it.

After I was dressed up, it was the turn of the other girls. Peace put on a lovely yellow Gomez. It was a mild yellow with brighter detailing and looked gorgeous against her dark skin. Her younger sister (aged 20, not as beautiful as Peace, but with all the personality and more) put on a bright pink one. I enjoyed the fact that we were all in very different colours. It was very sweet seeing their mother help to dress them with the same love and affection she had shown me. It was Viola’s first time to wear a Gomez too, so she was quite excited. I really enjoyed the ‘girls are getting ready’ atmosphere and shared my make up around just as we did when we were 14. Peace put a French plait in my hair (which is still in now as it’s not something I get to model every day!) I felt like every aspect of my appearance had been spruced up ready for this ceremony. My dress, my shoes, my nails, my hair texture, my hair style, my makeup and my overall cleanliness. Eventually we were ready to go, so I put the shoes on and tried to negotiate the steps outside the bedroom door. Now, I should explain that these shoes were my host mama, she must have been a bit of a diva back in the day because they were silver spangly 1 inch platforms, with a suitably high heel to go with them. It’s the type of shoe I’ve never bought because when I’ve tried them on in shoe shops I’ve had to hold on to the shelving to stay upright. To don them now and have to walk down very steep steps (the first one is at least 2ft higher than the second) was challenging. Then, at the bottom of the steps was sun-baked hard mud; a difficult terrain because it’s shaped when the mud is wet and squishy and then sets hard in a lumpy pattern; a far cry from the shoe shop floor!

As we walked down the street we attracted a lot of attention. I only noticed it a shade or 2 more than usual, but the 2 sisters with me felt like A list celebrities (and well they should, when a girl’s spent the entire day getting ready, she deserves such a feeling). We sat ourselves down in a local house and waited for the car to come and pick us up. It was a mud floored but brick walled establishment. More and more women arrived, astonishingly no 2 were wearing the same colours and when the rainbow had been exhausted some polkadots showed up. I can only assume that this is simply fantastic coincidence, but it amazed me. Every woman who arrived remarked on how smart I looked in their traditional dress. I found it a bit hard to interact with the crowd since they were all speaking their local language (I’m not even sure which one – there are two locally!) but I had greater problems to worry about because (as I had predicted from the start) my current body temperature was somewhat hotter than the sun.

Eventually, after we’d sat in the house for the best part of an hour, a bus came to pick us up. It took us as far as a village water pump, where we got off, met more colourful women, and were presently assigned a new bus. It transpired that the reason for all the waiting and the reshuffling was that everyone had to be able to travel together so we would all arrive at once. The busses were gender segregated and just before we arrived, we all stopped again to wait for the latter vehicles to catch up. It sounds quite simple written down, but owing to the language barrier I had no idea what was going on at any point. When we arrived two queues were made, behind a decorative arch that would lead into the venue (which I shall introduce as a make-shift verandah lined courtyard. The verandah was made by gazebos filled with plastic chairs, they were arranged in a square shape so that there was clearing in the middle). The queues were sorted male and female, and much to my alarm the female queue was formed behind me. I wasn’t sure what I was meant to do with it, lead a conga? Then someone came to stand at the head of the 2 queues, I think he was fulfilling a compare role and presently Peace (who was standing directly behind me) whispered that he was telling the crowd I had come from the UK (true) and been in written correspondence with the family to ask if I could attend the ceremony (not true). After the speech I led the ladies to their seats (actually a very simple procedure) and was directed myself to sit down right next to the parents of the bride, a location I don’t think I very well deserved but at least I was on a plastic seat while they were on a sofa, which made things slightly better.

We watched a procession of people dance into the square, kneel in front of the parents of the bride, make some speeches (which I couldn’t understand a word of) and then dance off again. In between these, there were 2 men on opposite sides of the make-shift courtyard, each with microphones acting as compares. I think there was one representative from each family. I was perfectly happy not knowing what was going on until Peace lent over and whispered, “next they’re going to get you to talk”, I was a bit alarmed but sure I could manage to say the right words so I asked what sort of thing they wanted me to say. In response Peace just told me to try and keep calm, which unfortunately had the opposite effect, because I feared I would be required to give a speech to a couple of hundred people on an unknown subject. In the end I was passed the microphone but the compare closest to me and the other guy asked me a question in Luganda (or at least that’s the language I think it was in), Peace whispered an appropriate response in my ear, but since I didn’t know what either of them had said, I simply assumed he’d asked me how I was (it sounded a bit like he might have) and so I responded “wrunji” (I’m fine) and it must have been a good answer because he asked me another unintelligible question. To which I answered in English and told him I didn’t know what he was saying, which strangely enough amused the audience tremendously.

In the midst of all this there was a huge rainstorm. The show went on but someone held an umbrella over the bride and kept dabbing her dry with a tissue. Everyone sat watching was ok, as there were gazebos, unless they were in the front row or struggling to walk in platform heels in deep mud. Either of those scenarios could be problematic.

Just as I was sat back and beginning to think I could enjoy the show I was told that I’d be next required to go up and present the bride with a basket of flowers & fruit. I should tell her that they were from her husband-to-be and tell her what all the items in the basket represented. The problem is that it was expected that I would talk about the symbolism and colours of the items but I’m perfectly aware that colour imagery varies from country to country (in India they wear white at funerals). I had about 5 minutes to gaze and the basket and prepare this. When we went up, I took the microphone and explained that the flowers represented the way their love would grow and bloom, the Fanta was because her husband thought she was sweet, and the bananas were symbolic of the way that their marriage would bring fourth fruit in time. It seemed to go down well enough and, as Peace reminded me, only half the audience could understand me anyway.

Next we brought in the dowry items on our heads in baskets. The groom had everything delivered outside, including a soggy sofa set tied to the roof of a truck. I must have done 3 trips to and fro to pick these up from outside and lay them down in front of the bride’s family. I was worried that everyone would balance these baskets skillfully on their heads and I’d be the idiot holding on to the basket, but not so. Everyone was steadying their baskets with hands. It was a tricky task because there were low hanging power lines overhead, which were exactly the right height to knock off my basket, at least one hand was required to keep my long dress out of the mud, and if I’d had a 3^rd hand I’d have used it for balance as I was wearing the most challenging footwear of my life, while it was quite slippery underfoot.

With that the ceremony was over and we joined the queue for food. I was actually told on several occasions not to queue but to go to the front. Now I can see why I would get special treatment during the service: these people have rarely met a foreigner and here is one wearing their traditional dress; but there’s no need to get special treatment when it comes to queuing for food. I said as much and indeed repeated myself several times at intermittent stages because no one seemed to be able to fully comprehend my willingness to wait in line to eat, even though I did have white skin.

In time we were all given small mountains of food. We sat down on the arms of the sofa set (because the seats were too wet) and tucked in. The challenge was that there was no cutlery. I copied Viola who was quite skillfully eating it with her fingers. However, I didn’t feel equally skilled; it’s the transfer from hand to mouth that’s tricky and I felt a bit like a human vacuum cleaner inhaling it off my hands, simply hoping that my hands were clean (an abject impossibility, I hadn’t washed them since my midday shower and I had greeted countless people since then). Fortunately though I had a bit of flat bone on my plate that had come with some meat. I soon turned this into a makeshift spoon and was feeling rather pleased with myself until I heard a snatch of gleeful English over the loudspeakers “I like the way the muzungu eats”.

Next was the cutting and distribution of the cake. At this point I was shamelessly exploited by Viola to get extra cake. Every time a distributor came near she would wave and say that I hadn’t had any yet. In this way Viola and I both consumed 5 pieces each (luckily no piece is larger than 3cm squared and so that’s not gluttonous) and I hadn’t the heart to refuse (as I was holding out for a piece with icing – a rare treat if you chop an ordinary cake into enough small bits). It’s amazing what seems like a good idea when you’ve been missing all sorts of sweet treats for 6 weeks.

The HUGE party that wasn't

With a couple of weeks to go to our departure my host dad announced that he would hold a party in our honour, for all the volunteers and their host parents to say goodbye to us all.

As the time drew nearer his plans got ever more elaborate and I greatly doubted them. Apparently there was to be a priest to bless our air travel and a local council member. All of this in our dusty  back yard, I couldn’t imagine it.

On the day itself I turned up at 5pm and was absolutely amazed to find that there were a couple of hundred people in a marquee in my back yard. Where had they all come from?! I only live in a little village! They were all sat patiently on white plastic chairs, presumably awaiting my arrival. I hurried across the ‘stage’ in order to get to my bedroom door and put my bags down. Apparently everyone else had been told that the party would start at 2pm and so by their reckoning I was quite late, but not as late as my fellow volunteers, most of whom hadn’t arrived yet. No sooner had this message been conveyed than it started to rain. Heavily. Before I knew it ‘the party that wasn’t’ became ‘the party that was, in my bedroom’ as 100s of people scrambled to find somewhere to shelter – the marquee wouldn’t take all of them.

It was a bit awkward, hosting so many unknown people our bedroom, slightly wondering if anything would get stolen and cooking alive with the heat of so many bodies in so little space.

After about an hour of this the rain subsided, it was decided that there would be no more party, blessings, speeches, presents or dancing, just food. I helped to distribute this in a generally chaotic way (not chaotic due to my presence you understand, it just was). My host sister’s bedroom had been converted into a kitchen and it was like a Mary Poppins’ larder – I had no idea what we had available, but the food kept coming and I kept putting it on plates (my host dad was absolutely delighted that HIS white person would lower herself to the standard of a woman by helping to serve). When the plates ran out we reused those from people who had finished eating. It was a feast by anyone’s reckoning.

Once fed, the crowd melted away.

It was humbling to think that they would wait 5 hours and brave a rainstorm all for a free dinner.