October 4, 2010: Gratitude (Kpando or Bust)

 

8:15PM

Screw you, 9/11 terrorists, for many things, including being the reason I have to arrive at the airport three hours early for international flights.

After sitting at the gate forever, I really don’t understand why people rush to get in line for boarding.  These chairs are pretty comfortable.  I could stretch my legs, toes pointed, while doing circles with my arms without awkwardly bumping into a stranger.  Right now I guarantee there’s a huge dude at the front of the plane blocking the aisle with his beastly backside while taking a ridiculous amount of time to smash his carryon into the overhead.  If I had rushed to get on I’d be standing behind him, a long line of people huffing and glaring behind me.  Mr. Beastly would give me a little smile and a nod and lean forward, pressing his belly into the head of the woman sitting in the aisle seat (who is now the one huffing and glaring), so I can hold my breath and try to decide if I’d rather rub front-to-butt or butt-to-butt. 

No thanks.  I’ll wait in the holding tank with all of the other sane, rational seasoned travelers until that guy is seated.  We’ll be breathing each other’s air for the next 14 hours, so we should savor our freedom as long as freaking possible.

Breathe.  Relax.  Not so negative.  Do that gratitude list, like mom suggested.

• At least the flying metal bus has an endless supply of free wine, even if it does taste like it came from a spigot on a tanker truck.
• I’m traveling, so even if something doesn’t go the way I planned, I can chalk it up to the cosmos, rather than an issue that needs my immediateandallconsuming-attention.
• My carpal tunnel and numb-from-my-desk-chair-ass have 3 months to heal, although the tradeoff may be contracting a tropical parasite.
• Since I gave my notice, my eye isn’t twitching as much and I don’t have to remind myself to breath anymore. (Don’t think about the dent in your bank account that this trip is causing, don’t think about the dent in your bank account that this trip is causing…)

 

10:00PM

I made it to my seat, all settled in.  I have the row to myself- thank god.  We’re barreling along at almost 600 miles per hour, 39,000 feet above the ground and my eardrums have finally stopped popping.  I don’t think I can stomach watching a shitty chick flick with crappy acting (why is every flight playing “Eat, Pray, Love” these days?)...

To Kpando or bust.

Intermission

 

Over the next three years I stayed in touch with HardtHaven Children’s Home.  I raised money for them, coordinated the donation of four computers (which were ultimately stolen by post office employees on the route to Kpando) and many boxes of supplies (a few of which may even have arrived), and consulted Edem when he asked for help.  I had a shiny new master’s degree in public administration and worked as a fundraiser and grant writer for educational nonprofits in downtown Boston.  Asking people for money was stressful.  And tiring.  And stressful. 

After months of dramatically whining and crying about my stressful and tiring life during weekly therapy sessions, I finally got the guts to quit my job.  I needed the opposite of designer high heels, plastered on schmoozey smiles, and firm handshakes. I was miserable and my soul needed detox.  And so I booked a plane ticket to Accra.

September 17, 2007 Afternoon- Me VS the Machine-Gun-Men

While I finished packing, Edem picked up some carvings I had ordered for my family and we were soon on our way to Accra. 

We hopped into a tro tro and just as we pulled out of town a car driving toward us hit a sheep, head on.  The poor thing bounced under the car up and down, side to side like a pinball. No one said anything, or even seemed to notice.  I heard the sheep make two last desperate pleas for its mother. No one stopped, or even slowed down.  I turned to look back, and after one last spasm someone just pulled it off the road.  I must have looked horrified, because Edem very concernedly looked into my eyes and asked me if I was all right.  I’m not sure I was. 

At the next intersection Edem bought us coconuts, which spilled all over my pants because drinking out of a coconut shell is hard enough without being in a deathtrap on a dirt road that’s mostly potholes.  It was delicious, though.  And distracted me from thinking about the sheep.  Now I was thinking about how I was going to spend the next 24 hours soaking in coconut juice. 

Along the way, we seemed to pass through a lot of police checkpoints.  I know we passed a few on the way to Kpando, but I suppose I didn’t notice them as much, seeing how I was more concentrated on surviving the drive in the tro.  Now that I’m use to riding in a death trap, I’m free to notice things like men with machine guns along the side of the road.  Our driver paid a bribe or two, and we putted along until we got to a checkpoint where there was a machine-gun-man flagging us over to the side of the road.  Everyone on the bus was escorted off, and we stood in line at a little blue wooden hut.  One machine-gun-man asked Edem something, and Edem turned to me and asked for my passport.  Sketchy.  Edem assured me that it would be fine.  I looked at the machine-gun-man and felt like this was anything but fine.  He took my passport without comment and walked away.  I pictured him returning, poking the machine gun into my back, and leading me to a government vehicle which would ultimately deliver me to the jail cell where I would spend the rest of my 20s before our government got around to bribing the machine-gun-men to let me out.  Every time the line moved I shuffled a few steps thinking that they were surely my last, and how my mother was never going to trust Anthony Bourdain again. 

Finally Edem and I were next.  We were waived ahead and stepped into the little blue wooden shack where two fat men in uniform, looking overly important, sat at a small wooden table.  They asked Edem a few questions, looked at me, produced my passport from the top of a pile of papers, examined my passport, looked me up and down again, re-examined my passport.  I watched the machine-gun-man out of the corner of my eye, waiting for him to make a move.  But, one of the fat men in uniform handed my passport to Edem and they dismissed us with a curt hand wave.  I could breathe again.

On the other side of the small blue wooden shack saleswomen bombarded us from every side.  We zigzagged through the gauntlet of ladies carrying shredded dried fish in plastic baggies on plates, glass containers of cold fried yuka and hot sauce, and boiled eggs on their heads and finally made it back to the solace of our seats. 

Once on the tro, Edem explained to me why there are so many checkpoints.  Apparently the police don’t get paid very well.  On paper they are suppose to be paid well, but they very rarely actually receive the salary they’re contracted to receive, so they subsidize their income.  Corruption and bribes are big, he explained, so the police set up checkpoints mostly to collect money.  Edem vouched for me as a volunteer of his children’s home, which may have saved me from being relieved of some cash. 

Eventually everyone made it back on the tro and we were on our way, once again, to Accra.  When we finally arrived, Edem asked if I wanted to go shopping, because “American women like to shop.”  I explained that I actually don’t really like it at all.  He didn’t seem to believe me.

As we walked, hand in hand across the city, I noticed the gutters for the first time.  In Kpando, the gutters are mostly empty, with little puddles of piss and a plastic water bag or two.  In Accra the gutters are full of this grey liquid covered in brown foam with chunks of garbage floating around.  Disgusting.  I’m glad I haven’t spent much time here. 

The sidewalks are difficult to stay on, so you often have to jump over the open gutters to walk in the road and suck in your stomach to avoid getting hit by tro tros and taxis.   After only a handful of brushes with death, we arrived at the art market where there were dozens and dozens of little stalls where people sold drums, carvings, masks, clothes, jewelry, and all sorts of junk that most Ghanians don’t actually own. 

Predictably, salesmen accosted us as we roamed the market.  We stopped once or twice so I could look at something, and Edem would start to argue over the price of the item.  Some might use the word “barter,” instead, which makes the process sound fun and exciting and possibly quaint, which it is not.  It’s stressful.  I just want a goddamn price tag and have that be the end of it.  I suffered through about 3 seconds of bartering before telling Edem “never mind, I don’t want it that badly.” 

If the place didn’t feel touristy enough, a Rastafarian manned almost every stall.  The only Rastafarians I’ve seen on the entire trip, mind you.  I guess tourists prefer to buy things from black guys who look Jamaican. 

Edem pretended I was his cheap-and-hard-to-please-wife to get deals on some beads I liked.  Most women and girls wear a few strands of seed-beads around their waists.  Edem explained to me that they’re a symbol of chastity for young girls (no one should see your beads), and fidelity for married women (only one person gets to see your beads.)  Apparently they’re also supposed to keep you fit.  He said this as if the beads have magical powers, but I think that they just let you know when you’re getting a little tubby because they don’t fit anymore!  I purchased a set for every female I buy holiday gifts for, regardless of their archaic symbolism and spurious powers.

Pocketing my loot, I told Edem I was ready to go.  Incredulous, he lead me out of the market, stopping once more to make sure I was really finished shopping.  I really was. 

Then we walked to the tro station, hopped on one and started driving into the center of town where the REAL congestion and filth is rampant.   Two wild tro rides later we were at a little cafeteria-style restaurant.  Edem ordered me my last meal of red-red and as we sat down his friends Ben… and Mauwli showed up!  It was a really nice surprise to see Mauwli once more before heading home.  After a leisurely meal Edem and we all walked to a tro station, said our goodbyes, and Edem took me to the airport. 

Although my flight left at 2am, Edem needed to drop me off at 8pm so he could catch a tro back to Kpando and not have to stay the night in Accra.  He thanked me again and we hugged.  I pulled out my last bit of leftover cash, about 8 cedis, and put it in his hand before pushing open the door and stepping into the air conditioning. 

September 17, 2007- Morning- Sanctuary

 

I rolled out of bed a little early this morning to make sure that I could say goodbye to each and every kid before they left for school.  Not even Minua escaped a bear hug.  Mauli buttoned up Nestie’s school uniform, tied Emma’s shoes, and then helped me round everyone up for our last photo.  I’ll be leaving today before they get home from school.  I’m the only one with a tear in my eye as we hug before they walk through the gate.  As it should be.

  

Edem arrived in a taxi, making good on his promise to take John and me to the Tafi Atome Monkey Sanctuary.  The long drive cost us a mere $12.  The taxi ride, plus the $4.50 admission price for volunteers was the most we’ve spent on any one thing since we’ve been here.  I laughed at myself for the initial sticker shock- $10.50.

As we climbed into the rust-ridden car, I thought about how this little escape would have been much more welcome a week ago in the middle of my stay when I needed some relief.  Leaving now, on my last day, it felt like a practice run.  I turned to look out the back window and felt my heart tighten as we pulled away.

Cow Pile + Highway = Nap

Up front, our driver blasted Celine Dion so loudly that he and Edem had to shout at each other to carry on their conversation.  John and I mostly sat silently in the back looking out the window, nudging each other now and then to point out spectacles.  One highlight was a truck with three cows lying down in the back and two dudes napping on top of them.  When we turned onto the dirt road we saw lots of people carrying very large, very heavy, and very random things on their heads.  One man held an entire picnic table on his.  A woman carried on hers a wooden plank, a car tire, and a chicken.  She also had a small child strapped to her back, and buckets in each hand.  In addition to their loads, there is no place to actually arrive at for a long while.  These people carry all those crazy things on their heads for miles and miles. 

Long dirt road

The bumpy dirt road finally led us to a small village with a smattering of huts in various stages of disrepair and a few cement buildings.  We hopped out of the car, stretched a little and then followed Edem past the goats and into one of the cement buildings.  No one was there, so we waited.  Edem left us for a few minutes, and then came back.  We waited some more.  Finally a young woman with a head full of little short braids arrived and presumably explained the pricing scale with Edem.  He presumably corroborated our status as volunteers, and then instructed us to each fork over our cash.  The woman looked satisfied and disappeared.  We waited.  We looked at some photos of monkeys they had laying around.  We shuffled around a little bit outside.  And finally the woman returned with an armful of miniature banana bunches, beckoning us to follow her into the jungle. 

She went first, followed by Edem, then the taxi driver, then me, and John took the rear.  The path was narrow but well worn, and the canopy kept us cool and out of the sun.  It twisted and turned, and the jungle started to get very quiet.  We kept going.  At some point on our walk a large sounding animal grunted and shrieked.  John and I froze, looking at each with wide eyes.  Exactly what kind of wild jungle monkeys are we going to see… and how large are they?  The deeper we went, the larger I was sure these monkeys were going to be.  Our Ghanians were nonplussed.  At long last, we stopped in a section of trees with lots of low branches.  Our guide started making loud kissing noises, and we heard the leaves of faraway trees begin to rustle.  Edem and the cab driver began to kiss into the jungle, and the rustling got louder and closer, and we could hear the monkeys snorting.  When they finally arrived, I was relieved to see that they were no larger than a breadbox. 

3 little monkeys

John feeding monkeys

This was not their first rodeo.  They sat rather politely in the branches near us and stuck out their little paws.  Some of them preened and groomed each others brown, black, and white fur coats.  Our guide got our attention and then showed us how to pick a banana and hold it out to a monkey.  The little guy would latch on, peel away the top and eat right from your hand.  Sometimes they’d peel the banana and then grab the edible part and eat on their own, sitting back on their haunches munching away like proud little old men. 

On the long ride home I thought about how strange it will be to go back home…

September 16, 2007- Disney Land

 

So, I think we are out of eggs.  Or else we are being punished again for not finishing meals.  Or else we’re being rewarded for eating most of our meals, which are wicked spicy. Instead of egg sandwiches, we were fed bread.  Just bread.   White bread. This could mean anything, or nothing at all. We’re past the point of psychological warfare, here.

While John and I were eating, we watched the show:

Juliet and Emma, ready for church.

Edem had come by to wake the kids up at the crack of dawn to get ready for church.  It was quite a production.  Emma was running around with one sock on, Juliet was chasing him with the other, and Gabriel was chasing her holding Matilda’s switch.  The older girls were primping and trying to keep Nancy from removing her pants for the third time.  The older boys were dressed and sitting around looking annoyed and adorable, all lined up in their jeans, crisp t-shirts and button-downs, and slick pointy-toed shoes.  Everyone had on their Sunday best.  They finally made it off to Church, but I decided not to go.  Three hours on a hard bench listening to scripture in Ewe wasn’t something I was up for.

Edem disappeared just before Sister Francisca led the throng through the gates, and moments later Barnabus came back.  He had left earlier to get a tro home but returned saying the roads are still bad so there’s still no tro tro out of Kpando to his village.  He’ll try again tomorrow.

While trying to reach Edem to tell him about Barnabus, a family of six showed up.  They were dressed well enough, and sat quietly at the picnic table.  The woman explained that her husband had died and she and her brother wanted to leave the four kids.  Now we really really wanted Edem to come back. 

John and I went into the office to call Edem again, then went back out on the porch and sat with them. In the middle of an incredibly long and awkward silence, which I spent judgmentally scrutinizing the family and trying to determine their motives, Tim showed up with his parents.  They were carrying an enormous suitcase.  Tim’s parents wanted to give a donation of toys to the home, and they opened the suitcase up right then and there.  The woman and her brother exchanged a wide-eyed look and the whole family gawked as Tim’s parents rifled through the contents of the suitcase.  It was like Christmas in September.  Our audience started to grow as passersby stopped to hang over the fence and gape at the white folks lavishing the orphans with cheap plastic toys from China.  Who wouldn’t want to leave their kids in such a paradise?  It’s no wonder kids yell out “YAVO!” on the street and stick out their hand expecting a gift. 

In the middle of this circus, our kids started to return.  They bee-lined it for the toys, of course, gleefully snatching up whatever they could get their little mitts on, free-for-all style. 

I thought about how useless this stuff is.  Not only is it useless stuff that’s going to be shredded to bits in under three minutes flat, it’s making the neighbors think that this place is Disney Land.  As it is, perfectly well dressed, finely quaffed adults are throwing their babies at us. 

As Nancy sauntered past us holding out a plastic squeaky toy and squeezing it incessantly, I thought about the gifts that I had brought.  I had a suitcase full as well.  Mine wasn’t opened up in the middle of the compound as church was being let out, but certainly people would know that the new kick balls and soccer balls the kids were playing with at the stadium were a gift from a yavo.  My school supplies were helpful, but the art supplies even seemed a little superfluous.  Diapers.  That would have been helpful.  Formula.  Medicine and hand sanitizer.  Antifungal medication.  Stuff that isn’t showy and obvious.  It’s not as fun to give, but it’s not about me, after all.  Next time I’ll know better. 

Edem arrived in time to see the shit-show.  He smiled and shook hands with Tim and his parents.  He thanked them profusely for the toys, which were now scattered all over the compound, some of them already in pieces.  Nancy handed me her squeaky toy, which had taken quite a beating.  The squeaker was mercifully dislodged.  I removed it completely and shrugged my shoulders.  “Sorry, Nancy-pants.  It’s broken.”  John silently mouthed “Thank you.”

Edem with his new Safe Sex sign in the office.

When everyone had been fed, and Edem had sent the mooching family of six along their way, I conducted a Sex-Ed follow-up session.  The girls told me, once again, that HIV/AIDS was contracted by sharing bread, so we started again at the beginning.  Now, these are kids whose parents died of AIDS, and some of them are positive themselves.  They don’t know that, of course.  They’re too young.  But you’d think they’d know better than “if you share bread.” I’m not sure if they didn’t understand me the first time, or if they just didn’t believe me.  Probably a little of both. 

So I explained then quizzed, and explained again, and quizzed again, and explained some more.  “Minua, is it easy to get HIV/AIDS if you are smart?” I ask firmly.  “No.” she says.  Good.  Phew.  Although, if they’re learning the whole bread bullshit at school, this probably won’t be the last time they’ll need to be set straight. 

This was my last evening, and I spent it on the veranda with John and Mauwli, chatting and swatting mosquitos.

September 15, 2007- Evening- Peeing on the Road

 

Banabas

After dinner a young boy showed up at the front gate.  He said his name was Banabas and he was wearing dingy pants and a clean black and orange locally made dress shirt.  He says he’s 17, although he looks closer to 13.  He told us that his parents died of AIDS and his 70-year-old Grandfather can’t take care of him anymore.  We sent word to Edem and waited for him to arrive. Kids are supposed to be referred by a social worker or we can get in trouble with the government.  Edem came quickly and talked with the boy.  He made sure he was fed well and tried to send him home, explaining that he would need to talk to the boy’s family and a social worker, but it was late and no tro tro was going to his village tonight. 

Mauli arrived and after much debate and discussion Edem decided to try to find the social worker to see if the kid could stay the night and if we can send him home in the morning and start the process soon.  Banabus could very well be telling the truth, or his family is pawning him off on HardtHaven hoping for a handout, so it must be investigated.  Edem called up another friend who arrived in a new car.  As he, the friends, and John hopped in, Edem turned to me and firmly commanded that I “be a good mother and stay with the kids.” Chauvinism aside, I’ve been in this house all day.  All WEEK.  I barely leave and today was a struggle.  And now it’s just me here.  Well, me… and Sister Matilda.

I swallowed it, though, turned on my heel, and chose a story to read.  Diapered and tucked in the twins.  Checked the homework.  Corralled the older children and oversaw while they cleaned up the office and porch for the millionth time that day. 

Minua took Nancy’s hand and lead her off to bed only to end up hollering at her so loudly we could hear from inside the office.  She was barking in Ewe and little Nancy was sniffling and sobbing.  When I walked in Nancy was just standing there, shoulders slumped and a confused look on her face while Minua lectured.  Nancy doesn’t sleep in diapers because they’re too expensive, but she often wets the bed.  Minua is her older sister, so she has to clean it up and she’s sick of it.  Understandably, but yelling at Nancy won’t make her stop wetting the bed.  I explained this to Minua, who was still irritated at me for putting her in time out earlier and all but refused to listen.  She stomped off, passing Elikplim in the doorway.  He sat on the bed next to Nancy and me and started singing.  Nancy stopped sniffling while we folded up a bed sheet and tied it to her bottom half.  She cuddled up and drifted off to Elikplim’s lullabye, me with a lump in my throat.  Just when you think you can’t take it anymore, a little boy sings an orphaned baby to sleep.

John returned alone with permission for Banabus to stay the night and once the older kids were settled in their dorms he and I headed out to the Maxi Spot. 

Big Stars in hand, we bonded over memories of home.  Tim, another Peace Corps volunteer, Frank (an ex-pat who married a local woman and can often be found riding his son around town on his motorcycle, both helmet-less), and another German guy were across the street at another Spot.  John talked me into visiting with them, although I was still sore at Tim for the Vacation Volunteer incident.  I promised to stop being a brat, and we ended up talking about the same topic as last time, but with a positive spin.  We discussed the new-ness of the home, volunteer expectations versus reality, what should happen to keep the home going, and what we all could actually actually do about it.  Small small.

John and I both peed on the side of the road on the way home.

September 15, 2007, Afternoon- Battles

Edem disappeared at some point during the morning, of course, so John and I had been left to our own devices.  After all that talk about periods and sex and HIV/AIDS, I needed a break and went to my room to read and fell asleep. 

I awoke to shrieking.  It was coming from The Hall, which was right outside my door.  A small mob of the kids were fighting, and when my door cracked open the mob descended upon me and the stories started flowing.  And each of them had a different story.  In the middle of the room there was a heavy chair still pinning Nancy to the floor, and Ernestina was standing next to her in hysterics.  Consensus was that Israel was to blame.  He denied it, vehemently, which set everyone off again.  I wasn’t in the mood for this crap. 

I put my hands up in the air and, in my deepest voice, firmly announced, “If the guilty party comes forward, they will be asked to apologize.  If they do not, we will ALL have a time out.”

No one fessed up. 

I started plunking chairs in corners and leading children by their elbows to sit in them.  They were LIVID about having a time out.  I explained that there is no talking during a time out, so they all sat around the complex, in their chairs, glaring at me silently or facing the wall sobbing.  Minua got even more angry with me when she realized that Elikplim had snuck away from the fray and was inside the boys dorm instead of in a time out chair.  When I didn’t’ hunt him down and make him sit… if looks could kill.  Oh, the injustice!

When they were all settled and I took a minute or two to revel in the silence, I tried to impress upon them that this lesson was about honesty, not fairness.  I’m not sure it worked, and although they were retained for less than 15 minutes a few of them were still clearly pissed at me and going to hold a grudge for the rest of the day. 

When The Great Orphans Injustice was over, Sister Matilda served lunch.  Junior and Christopher carried our heaping plates of red-red and plantains into the office and set them on the table.  The beans were spilling over the edges of the over-sized bowl and the plantains were heaped five inches high, and it was all swimming in a vat of red oil and pepe flakes.  My eyes started watering from the hot pepe as I sat down, but I was determined.  I was going to win at least one battle today.  John and I finished every last smoldering bite, accompanied by three water pouches apiece. 

I’m not sure whether we won or not, because come dinnertime we were presented with plates of normal sized proportions of fried yam… and fish stew.  On the one hand fish, or any meat, in a meal is like a holiday around here.  It could be seen as a gift.  A concession.  Admittance of defeat.  We had accepted her Lunch Challenge and won.  If this were not Sister Matilda we’re dealing with here.  She knows that we “do not take fish.”  We’ve told her many, many times.  “Will you take fish, Auntie and Uncle?”  “No, thank you, Sister Matilda, we do not take fish.”  We do not take that ancient, crusty, fly-ridden fish.  This is Sister Matilda we’re dealing with, and so, those hundreds of little fishy eyeballs and tiny bones whisper dangerously to us from our bowls, “this is a see, and a raise.” 

Down the hatch, Sister Matilda.  Down the hatch. 

I plugged my nose and dug in, ignoring the tiny shards of bone that scratched my throat on the way down and the smoky fish-paste smell that threatened to send them all back up, thinking to myself “this is how she kills me.”