September 4, 2007- Internationally Known Stereotypes

Morning-

After surviving breakfast (some sort of sugary fermented corn porridge that I politely choked down) Joyce’s friends picked us up. 

We stopped for gas at a station that doesn’t use electricity.  Apparently a lot of gas stations here have manual pumps.  The pump was a large glass cylindrical vessel with a long rubber hose coming out the bottom, perched on a skinny metal stand that sticks out of a large barrel.  Friend #2 cranked the KoolAid-red gasoline out, old-time water pump style. 

After getting gas we pulled in to the Ghana Police Headquarters.  I have no idea why.  I was told nothing.  Joyce’s friends exchanged envelopes with some stiff-looking men in a very sparsely decorated office and we went on our way. 

Our next stop was at a quiet intersection – somewhere.  Friend #1 took the envelope and disappeared while we waited.  Joyce and Friend #2 got us some fried yucca to snack on, which were like tasty tasty dense steak fries, and then Friend #1 returned.  We weren’t ready to go home, though – we apparently had more envelopes to trade around town.

As we all sat waiting in the Jeep at the next stop, Joyce started asking personal questions while the two men looked on.  “What do you do for work?  How much money do you make?  Who do you live with?  Do you have a boyfriend?”  I’m not sure she came up for air once.

When she tired of questioning she leaned in and whispered, dripping with scandal, “One volunteer told me that it is LEGAL to be GAY in Massachusetts!”  I confirmed the rumor, which sent her on another chatter rampage – “They just do not have gays in Ghana.  It would not be legal.  It is not normal to be gay.  Gay people are not normal.   My favorite volunteer was gay.  He told me all about it.  He told me about Massachusetts.  We are still friends, and I will visit him in Massachusetts, but he is not normal.”

Then Joyce smirked and leaned back in to cluck “When I come to the U.S. I will go to Las Vegas and have a drive-though wedding, then a drive-though divorce, and then I will go spend the night with a woman in Massachusetts!”

I told her that it hadn’t, until now, occurred to me that I should consider indulging in such extravagancies.

Not wanting the conversation to die down, Joyce went back to pressing me for details about JB.  I showed her the pictures in my purse – dressed up for a fancy dinner, making stupid faces together.  I started to tell her what he does for a living when she cut me off.  “No.  I want to know if he is… romantic or not.”  The word “romantic” came out of her mouth as if a lounge singing snake had said it – whispered all throaty and slithery, driving home the point that she wanted the gossip, not these inane, banal pleasantries. 

“Oh, sure.  Of course, he’s romantic.”  Pointing at the picture of Katelyn, “and my sister works…”

“No,” she cut me off, “I do not care about your sister.  I want to know if your boyfriend is romantic.  Ghanian men are very- you know (winks, raises her eyebrows and directs her eyes toward her friend’s crotch) ROMANTIC.”

I felt my cheeks turn pink.

“And,” eyeing the photo she continued, matter-of-factly, “I hear white men are not as romantic, and bald men are not good in bed.”

My armpits started to sweat.

As a defense mechanism I tried to turn it back on her by spittering out “He.  He’s um.  He’s ro.  Mantic…  So, you want to know if he has a big penis?” I finished strong at the end.  “Is that what you’re asking me?”

Joyce and the two friends just laughed.

She looked at the photo again and asked if he was Spanish. 

“No, he’s Italian,” I croaked.

“OooOOOOHHHhh, then he’s very romantic!”

Thank you, internationally known stereotypes, for getting me off the hook.

Just then, Friend #1’s parcel was delivered to us at the intersection by a man with bare feet and we drove on.  We spent the better part of the morning stopping at indiscriminate office buildings and various ministries to shuffle documents.  The man-friends did the dirty work while Joyce and I drank coconut milk and ate bananas and peanuts in the car- she topping herself with inappropriate question after inappropriate question (“No, Joyce, you can not spy on my lesbian roommates if you visit the US.”).

Finally our morning of delivering what were most likely bribes had come to an end and the man-friends drove us to a tourist’s market.  We perused, and everyone was completely dumfounded that I was not interested in spending money on tchotchkes.  I told Joyce that I was hoping to buy some music, and she excitedly told me that her cousin worked at a radio station and could make me some mix CDs.  She was on the phone with him before I could answer, and the next thing I knew I had inadvertently ordered three “very professional” mix CDs and would pay $30.  Joyce assured me that I would collect them before getting on the plane on my way home.  I tried to wipe the skepticism off my face as Friends 1 and 2 watched, smiling and nodding, as I forked over the cash.

At lunch, Joyce was adamant that I could not leave her home without learning to eat like a Ghanaian.  She showed me how to pick up the spicy-spicy-spicy green okra goo, which was reminiscent of You Can’t Do That On Television slime, by scooping it up with a blob of corn dough that I held in my finger tips.  When the elusive Elvis and Edem arrived to pick me up and take me to this place called Kpando in the Volta Region, I was busy licking my lunch off my arms like a toddler with a slice of birthday cake.

I packed up my things and then Elvis sat me down on the porch to give me an “Official Cosmic Volunteers Orientation” which lasted about 15 seconds:

1. Ghanian people are nice.
2. Don’t swear.
3. Don’t offer or use your left hand.  It’s dirty.
4. Call him if I need anything.

I have a feeling that Joyce, in her own way, better prepared me to expect the unexpected while adjusting.

Elvis put me, my things, and Edem in one of those mini-van busses, called a “tro tro,” and disappeared.