“Welcome everyone to Travelers Anonymous. It looks like we have a new member. Would you like to tell us a little bit about yourself?” she smiles warmly, as though I need an invitation. No, lady, I've been practicing.
“Hi, um," I begin, "Well, I’ve got that itch again. That one that starts in my toes, to the arches of my narrow feet. Through my spine it crawls, friendly but certain, to the back of my neck where it turns my head to the sky. Run, it whispers, kissing my ear lobe. This itch is more than a mood, it is in my muscles and bones, it speaks in the way I carry my body in the way I walk and dance and listen and... My itch, my teacher.
“There is no reason for me to be unhappy or bored with my life in Connecticut. I love my job, the community I work in, my coworkers, and the city within which I live. It is by chance I ended up here and I am daily coming to understand why I am here at this time. I am grateful everyday for what this decision has taught me. Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I just go through the motions of loving work and time with new friends while I occasionally make the time to connect with all of those I left behind, again. Maybe the way I look at maps and long for the summer and the end of responsibility is more than just casual, a little more covetous than I care to admit. Or it could be in the way I look at pictures from the past 2 years spent abroad, telling myself it is to do some of that Photoshop work I put off while I was rocking and rolling in novelty and freedom. These recent habits hurt so good. I can only call this the cabin fever of winter for so long before it starts to creep into my normalcy; I’m in line at the grocery store and, triggered, my mind takes me swiftly and comfortingly back to that Time with that Person and that Story... no less that 5,000 miles away. Or when use my left hand and feel the visceral discomfort of committing such a heinous taboo. But wait, it is not taboo, and the trigger in the grocery store is really just organic broccoli and I’m laughing with only myself because no one else showed up to this private joke.
“Sometimes I lie awake and think of all the adventures out there. All the grand things I am bold enough to accomplish that other people are afraid of; I only want it if it is difficult, dirty, and at least 5 people tell me it is dangerous. On these sleepless nights, I wonder where I will be in exactly one year and I am tickled with fantasy, I’ll be having the fun some people can’t even imagine. Well, I think first I’m I’d like to... Oh, sorry, I guess I got carried away...Hi, my name is Blake and I am a traveler living in the past.”
“Hiiii, Blaaaake,” the whole room stammers at me in unison after the customary half-a-beat pause.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Friday, August 20, 2010
To my family, far and wide.
Hello again after long last,
"Why do I travel? I get hot, exhausted, burnt about the face, frightfully thin. I get covered in fleas, and all the sand flies and mosquitoes in the district come and graze on me. I eat the most awful food and drink the most awful water. If I lie down in the shade, the suns goes swiftly around the tree until it is shining right on me... But I see views, people, places I never imagined existed. I learn new customs and hear old history. Sometimes I am wonderfully lucky and see something very few outsiders have seen before. I make friends with servants, soldiers, and odd charming people in remote villages. I get hard and strong, my mind opens out and becomes more receptive. Birds sing new tunes for me and I smell new scents. And for a short time I am not only independent but completely responsible for my own safety. I shed the aura of civilization and become quite a different person. And everywhere I go makes me love home even more."
This a quote from the 1935 diary entry of an English aristocrats wife while she was traveling through Kurdistan on her own.
When the young man behind the desk returned my passport as I passed through US immigration yesterday, he smiled and said, "Welcome home." The sincerity of his smile warmed me and I was struck with the sudden sense that, in fact, I had never stopped feeling at home. That, rather, as I traveled, my sense of 'home' effortlessly and quite unconsciously expanded to include every part of the world I have passed through, traveled in, and even those I haven't. Maybe that is why it took me so long to come back to California, much to the confusion of some; I was home all along, just connecting with family else where.
I don't know where I am going or what I will be doing today, tomorrow or any of my days. For now, I am connecting one branch of family in one part of my home until the wind blows and I pack a bag to meet others. And whenever the wind blows is always the best timing for me.
Until again.
"Why do I travel? I get hot, exhausted, burnt about the face, frightfully thin. I get covered in fleas, and all the sand flies and mosquitoes in the district come and graze on me. I eat the most awful food and drink the most awful water. If I lie down in the shade, the suns goes swiftly around the tree until it is shining right on me... But I see views, people, places I never imagined existed. I learn new customs and hear old history. Sometimes I am wonderfully lucky and see something very few outsiders have seen before. I make friends with servants, soldiers, and odd charming people in remote villages. I get hard and strong, my mind opens out and becomes more receptive. Birds sing new tunes for me and I smell new scents. And for a short time I am not only independent but completely responsible for my own safety. I shed the aura of civilization and become quite a different person. And everywhere I go makes me love home even more."
This a quote from the 1935 diary entry of an English aristocrats wife while she was traveling through Kurdistan on her own.
When the young man behind the desk returned my passport as I passed through US immigration yesterday, he smiled and said, "Welcome home." The sincerity of his smile warmed me and I was struck with the sudden sense that, in fact, I had never stopped feeling at home. That, rather, as I traveled, my sense of 'home' effortlessly and quite unconsciously expanded to include every part of the world I have passed through, traveled in, and even those I haven't. Maybe that is why it took me so long to come back to California, much to the confusion of some; I was home all along, just connecting with family else where.
I don't know where I am going or what I will be doing today, tomorrow or any of my days. For now, I am connecting one branch of family in one part of my home until the wind blows and I pack a bag to meet others. And whenever the wind blows is always the best timing for me.
Until again.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Zen and the art of shoveling cow poo.
For those of you that don't know, I have been volunteering on organic farms in South Africa for the past 4 months. The farms open their doors to workers in exchange for their food and housing. I found them through the organization WWOOF.org. It has been an incredible 4 months on 4 different farms and some adventures in between.
One thing that I am unable to forget when anyone asks how I am doing, what I am busy with, and what my days are like is that I am learning every day; lessons through dinner table conversation, hands on experience, trial and error on all manner of things. While my adventures now revolve almost entirely around my daily farm work, the work varies and the expertise of the people I work with has opened a thousand new doors of insight and practical skill development.
My days are never the same, even as the weeks pass on the same farm. For example, on my current farm there is one very large red bull that gets to... enjoy all the female cows. This bull is massive and ugly and daunting with down sloping horns that reach about 2 feet on each side. His name is Konkul. Two days ago I accidentally let the big bull out of his holding area. I thought I needed to pass through it on the little tractor (actually, I didn’t) and he was too close to the gate and got out before I could shut it AND keep 15 feet of space between his horns and my body. I tried to wrangle him with the tractor, but he evaded my traps and slipped in to the next field where there was fresh grass AND a better view of his lady friends. Lucky boy.
My lessons haven’t all been around milking cows or turning compost since my departure from CA almost a year and a half ago. Some of them have been funny, others embarrassing or scary but they are all jewels, treasures I worked hard for and will not soon forget.
Here are a few that you might get an alternate glance at my adventures away from the great U S of A:
Border control officers are the same as bored young boys, entertain them lest they remember they have the power to waste your time and money.
Being barefoot is fun but African germs have a way of making every scratch a septic pain
Not everyone is on the same frequency as you, but your best teachers are the ones you can hardly stand
Slow down, in everything you do.
Never use your left hand when dealing with people influenced by Islam or you might have it smacked
Don’t forget to email your mother when you say you are going to or she might start making expensive long distance phone calls to any possible number she can find to track you
The stress you feel you also have created.
Don't be afraid to eat the street food but sometimes its best to not know what it is eating (Boiled silk worms in S Korea)
Say yes. Stay positive.
When asking directions, ask 3 people and go with the majority (nearly going across town when the post office I sought was around the corner, Accra Ghana)
If you are out at night in a strange city with nothing but your camera, its not a good idea to separate from the group. (New Years Eve in Mali, 2009)
Laugh at it now, it warms you up for laughing at it later.
Don't take it personally.
If the guide book says it is beautiful and great, chances are everyone else is going there for the same reason
On that note, use your guidebook to start a fire.
If you see a job, its yours.
When a 1976 Land Rover makes a sudden loud noise, it will be expensive. (Lesotho, 2010)
Never, ever sit at the back of public transport as such seats have a way of making even pebbles feel like pot holes (Mali, 2009)
Always carry a handkerchief (West Africa, 2009)
Skipping is more fun than walking (Afrika Burns, 2010)
Listen.
Translating jokes is no way to make people laugh (Burkina Faso, 2009)
The weight of carrying your camera charger for a month will quickly be forgotten when your battery dies in the middle of your trip (Yikpabongo, 2010)
Always travel with playing cards (Ferry out of Timbuktu, Mali 2009)
Open your eyes, novelty is everywhere
Accents are funny, especially yours.
If you say it in a nicer way, people are more likely to do it (Nikolas, 2010)
Don’t leave stuff at one place because you don’t want to carry it and think you will be coming back for it, you won’t and it will frustrate the hell out of you (Lesotho 2010)
Don’t trust a cap unless you tightened it yourself. (spilled bottle of Tabasco in the Rainne’s Landy, 2010)
Share with people the things you love and you’ll never grow tired of them (Legon yoga, 2009)
Don’t plan
Avoid ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions, especially in regards to transport. The question is, “Where does this bus go?” not “Is this the bus to Tamale?”
Peanut butter+raisins= dinner (Dogon, Mali 2009)
Food eaten with your hands tastes better (Ghana, 2009)
There is profound beauty in our similarities and our differences (every day)
I don't know where I am going but everyday I learn to appreciate where I have been.
One thing that I am unable to forget when anyone asks how I am doing, what I am busy with, and what my days are like is that I am learning every day; lessons through dinner table conversation, hands on experience, trial and error on all manner of things. While my adventures now revolve almost entirely around my daily farm work, the work varies and the expertise of the people I work with has opened a thousand new doors of insight and practical skill development.
My days are never the same, even as the weeks pass on the same farm. For example, on my current farm there is one very large red bull that gets to... enjoy all the female cows. This bull is massive and ugly and daunting with down sloping horns that reach about 2 feet on each side. His name is Konkul. Two days ago I accidentally let the big bull out of his holding area. I thought I needed to pass through it on the little tractor (actually, I didn’t) and he was too close to the gate and got out before I could shut it AND keep 15 feet of space between his horns and my body. I tried to wrangle him with the tractor, but he evaded my traps and slipped in to the next field where there was fresh grass AND a better view of his lady friends. Lucky boy.
My lessons haven’t all been around milking cows or turning compost since my departure from CA almost a year and a half ago. Some of them have been funny, others embarrassing or scary but they are all jewels, treasures I worked hard for and will not soon forget.
Here are a few that you might get an alternate glance at my adventures away from the great U S of A:
Border control officers are the same as bored young boys, entertain them lest they remember they have the power to waste your time and money.
Being barefoot is fun but African germs have a way of making every scratch a septic pain
Not everyone is on the same frequency as you, but your best teachers are the ones you can hardly stand
Slow down, in everything you do.
Never use your left hand when dealing with people influenced by Islam or you might have it smacked
Don’t forget to email your mother when you say you are going to or she might start making expensive long distance phone calls to any possible number she can find to track you
The stress you feel you also have created.
Don't be afraid to eat the street food but sometimes its best to not know what it is eating (Boiled silk worms in S Korea)
Say yes. Stay positive.
When asking directions, ask 3 people and go with the majority (nearly going across town when the post office I sought was around the corner, Accra Ghana)
If you are out at night in a strange city with nothing but your camera, its not a good idea to separate from the group. (New Years Eve in Mali, 2009)
Laugh at it now, it warms you up for laughing at it later.
Don't take it personally.
If the guide book says it is beautiful and great, chances are everyone else is going there for the same reason
On that note, use your guidebook to start a fire.
If you see a job, its yours.
When a 1976 Land Rover makes a sudden loud noise, it will be expensive. (Lesotho, 2010)
Never, ever sit at the back of public transport as such seats have a way of making even pebbles feel like pot holes (Mali, 2009)
Always carry a handkerchief (West Africa, 2009)
Skipping is more fun than walking (Afrika Burns, 2010)
Listen.
Translating jokes is no way to make people laugh (Burkina Faso, 2009)
The weight of carrying your camera charger for a month will quickly be forgotten when your battery dies in the middle of your trip (Yikpabongo, 2010)
Always travel with playing cards (Ferry out of Timbuktu, Mali 2009)
Open your eyes, novelty is everywhere
Accents are funny, especially yours.
If you say it in a nicer way, people are more likely to do it (Nikolas, 2010)
Don’t leave stuff at one place because you don’t want to carry it and think you will be coming back for it, you won’t and it will frustrate the hell out of you (Lesotho 2010)
Don’t trust a cap unless you tightened it yourself. (spilled bottle of Tabasco in the Rainne’s Landy, 2010)
Share with people the things you love and you’ll never grow tired of them (Legon yoga, 2009)
Don’t plan
Avoid ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions, especially in regards to transport. The question is, “Where does this bus go?” not “Is this the bus to Tamale?”
Peanut butter+raisins= dinner (Dogon, Mali 2009)
Food eaten with your hands tastes better (Ghana, 2009)
There is profound beauty in our similarities and our differences (every day)
I don't know where I am going but everyday I learn to appreciate where I have been.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
I will always be Obruni
Dear Ghana,
While our time together may have seemed long given that most students only spend about 3 months learning from you, it still hurts to say goodbye. I’ve never been good at this part, letting go of something while it still gives me such happiness, but I am working hard to convince myself that everything has its time and place and currently is the time to exit this place. Maybe you can rely on a little of the patience you taught me so well and wait for my happy return; your prodigal American daughter, always leaving my family just when they start getting used to having me around. There is no doubt that I realized how fortunate I was to travel and live with you, even before my arrival, but everyday I appreciate you more and more. As an outsider to your circle of friends, there were times that were more than awkward, everything from how to “properly” eat fufu with my hand (the original s-p-o-o-n) to how to pee in those just-slanted-concrete enclosures you try to pass off as bathroom facilities without… well, let’s just say “making a mess.” A little humility is easy to come by after a few weeks of hanging out with you. Slow to judge but quick to aid in my exploration of new things, I will always be a work in progress no matter how long we travel together. I don’t want to minimize all that you have taught me, but it seems that after so long and so many lessons learned (especially those learned the hard way), they have just become as much a part of me as everything. Something so simple as the importance of a greeting to the unimportance of worry, they all have worked their way into my system, just like the stomach worms you gave me more times than my parents would enjoy hearing about.
Over the last few days, as my departure has been finalized, the “I’ll miss you” ‘s have become almost unbearable. I don’t like the phrase, to be honest, but have to acknowledge that there are times when it needs to be said. So, allow me to tell you, exactly and acutely, some of the things I will miss about you. I will miss the way you call “Craw, craw, thirt-seven, craw, craw,” from the tro-tros flying down Liberation Ave. I’ll miss eating kenkey with plantains which you think is weird but still like that I like it. I’ll miss when you talk to a stranger with the same openness you would speak to family. I’ll miss your PolyTank-bucket showers and my feet always being dusty. I’ll miss speaking Twi and using the strange Ghanaian accent I have acquired.
My time with you has left a deposit on my soul and for as much as I have felt a part of your community, welcomed and loved, you have also taught me the value of home and recognizing where you came from. It is not for the struggle of finding my comfortable place with you for the past 12 months that I say this, but rather for the recognition that there are also these experiences and adventures to be had closer to the family and friends I left 7,000 miles away. I have looked for excuses to stay but now see that yours cannot currently be my home but, as for the future, it is in god’s hands, as you are so fond of saying. No matter where I am, though; regardless of what comes and goes, I will always be obruni.
While our time together may have seemed long given that most students only spend about 3 months learning from you, it still hurts to say goodbye. I’ve never been good at this part, letting go of something while it still gives me such happiness, but I am working hard to convince myself that everything has its time and place and currently is the time to exit this place. Maybe you can rely on a little of the patience you taught me so well and wait for my happy return; your prodigal American daughter, always leaving my family just when they start getting used to having me around. There is no doubt that I realized how fortunate I was to travel and live with you, even before my arrival, but everyday I appreciate you more and more. As an outsider to your circle of friends, there were times that were more than awkward, everything from how to “properly” eat fufu with my hand (the original s-p-o-o-n) to how to pee in those just-slanted-concrete enclosures you try to pass off as bathroom facilities without… well, let’s just say “making a mess.” A little humility is easy to come by after a few weeks of hanging out with you. Slow to judge but quick to aid in my exploration of new things, I will always be a work in progress no matter how long we travel together. I don’t want to minimize all that you have taught me, but it seems that after so long and so many lessons learned (especially those learned the hard way), they have just become as much a part of me as everything. Something so simple as the importance of a greeting to the unimportance of worry, they all have worked their way into my system, just like the stomach worms you gave me more times than my parents would enjoy hearing about.
Over the last few days, as my departure has been finalized, the “I’ll miss you” ‘s have become almost unbearable. I don’t like the phrase, to be honest, but have to acknowledge that there are times when it needs to be said. So, allow me to tell you, exactly and acutely, some of the things I will miss about you. I will miss the way you call “Craw, craw, thirt-seven, craw, craw,” from the tro-tros flying down Liberation Ave. I’ll miss eating kenkey with plantains which you think is weird but still like that I like it. I’ll miss when you talk to a stranger with the same openness you would speak to family. I’ll miss your PolyTank-bucket showers and my feet always being dusty. I’ll miss speaking Twi and using the strange Ghanaian accent I have acquired.
My time with you has left a deposit on my soul and for as much as I have felt a part of your community, welcomed and loved, you have also taught me the value of home and recognizing where you came from. It is not for the struggle of finding my comfortable place with you for the past 12 months that I say this, but rather for the recognition that there are also these experiences and adventures to be had closer to the family and friends I left 7,000 miles away. I have looked for excuses to stay but now see that yours cannot currently be my home but, as for the future, it is in god’s hands, as you are so fond of saying. No matter where I am, though; regardless of what comes and goes, I will always be obruni.
New Year Sharades
“Mamatal, I think we are going to head back to the house.”
“Go back?”
“Yes,” I say, in slow, clear English, “my bus leaves early tomorrow and I need to get some sleep. We have had a wonderful evening though, a wonderful New Years.” I look at Melody, we feel awkward separating from our kind host, like it is probably even ruder in Malian culture than in American, but the fact is I have a long journey ahead of me and am beginning to get a cold. Mamatal, our host during our stay in Bamako, the capital of Mali, speaks to his friend in the passenger seat in Tamashek and we continue to drive from Party 1 to Party 2. Suddenly, we pass a taxi, the friend in the passenger seat jumps out and returns to our rear window, “He says it is 2,000 francs.” It is a high price but we get in and away we go.
It only takes us about 5 minutes to realize that we are without a key to the house. “Oh, shit, Melody. We’re going to have to wait outside for hours.” I grumble but it gets worse.
“Blake, we don’t have any money on us for the cab fare!”
“Wait, call Mamatal and see where… dude, you left your phone!”
I expel a series of curses that would curl the pope’s toes and sit stewing in frustration. This will not end well. For the next 20 minutes of the cab ride, we try to anticipate what will happen when our driver realizes he will not be paid. We can tell him to come back tomorrow? We can trade my scarf! Its cashmere! We can run really fast and escape payment!
Well, when we get down at the house, our driver is not in a giving mood for the sake of the New Year. In fact, he is livid and my French cannot adequately apologize beyond repeating “Je suis desolate” over and over again. His only answer to our offered solutions and pleading is to go to the police station and handle the situation. What? Police? NOOO! African police are generally pretty freaking corrupt and obnoxious. My dealings with them have been few and shirt and I’d like very much to keep it that way. Nonetheless, there are not other options and Mr. Taxi Man is insisting.
“Melody,” I turn to her on the drive, “we will laugh at this someday.” At that, we both erupt in some kind of disgusted laughter, at which the driver looks quizzically in the rear view mirror. Never again will I leave the house without an ounce of ‘insurance’ to get myself home. I should know better by now, gees.
At the police station, my limits of French are stretched but I get us by well enough. Melody doesn’t speak in French, and rather sucks when she tries but she does try very hard still and I am usually called upon to fill in the blanks. The chief on duty that night (well, morning at it was already 2:30 am) decides that the best course of action is to pay the driver the fare, keep Melody’s camera, the driver will return us to the house and we will return to make the payment and retrieve the camera. No, Melody will not leave her camera with these men just as I will not leave Melody with these men (whose first question to me, by the way, after the situation was figured out was, “Madam or mademoiselle?” Translation: are you married, baby, because I hear white girls are loose.”) At that, we make the tough resolution to wait at the grimy station with the creepy officers who keep asking me if I’m married and if I like African men.
While we sit outside amongst the benches with several other waiting civilians, a woman in front of us asks one of the officers that was handling our “problem” what happened. He explains in Bambara, she replies, he gets up and walks towards to the office and grabs the camera. I jump up and walk swiftly to him; that camera is not to be moved from my sight, mister. To my surprise, he hands me the camera. “Why? I mean… por quoi?”
In French, standing uncomfortably close he says, “The lady paid for you, go home.” Great, but we still don’t have money for a cab fare or keys to get in to retrieve that money. No worries, her boyfriend is going to give us a lift so we can wait on Mamatal’s doorstep like the little lost lambs that we are. I look at my watch, god save me, I have to catch a bus in 3 hours.
Shit happens when you leave home and you must leave room for the good shit as well as the bad.
This is Africa. The Africa I have loved and am pained to leave after over a year of enjoying it, wallowing in it, being loved every moment of my time in it. It is more than just hospitality, it is a deep sense of interconnectedness and respect that means that you always have someone watching your back, and often you have a multitude. It might seem like a simple thing, being escorted 30 minutes out of a stranger’s way so he could help me find my destination was one of the most remarkable instance of my time in Ghana. The man didn’t ask anything in return for our walk but conversation, not even my number, which many men request only after seeing my Caucasian skin.
“Go back?”
“Yes,” I say, in slow, clear English, “my bus leaves early tomorrow and I need to get some sleep. We have had a wonderful evening though, a wonderful New Years.” I look at Melody, we feel awkward separating from our kind host, like it is probably even ruder in Malian culture than in American, but the fact is I have a long journey ahead of me and am beginning to get a cold. Mamatal, our host during our stay in Bamako, the capital of Mali, speaks to his friend in the passenger seat in Tamashek and we continue to drive from Party 1 to Party 2. Suddenly, we pass a taxi, the friend in the passenger seat jumps out and returns to our rear window, “He says it is 2,000 francs.” It is a high price but we get in and away we go.
It only takes us about 5 minutes to realize that we are without a key to the house. “Oh, shit, Melody. We’re going to have to wait outside for hours.” I grumble but it gets worse.
“Blake, we don’t have any money on us for the cab fare!”
“Wait, call Mamatal and see where… dude, you left your phone!”
I expel a series of curses that would curl the pope’s toes and sit stewing in frustration. This will not end well. For the next 20 minutes of the cab ride, we try to anticipate what will happen when our driver realizes he will not be paid. We can tell him to come back tomorrow? We can trade my scarf! Its cashmere! We can run really fast and escape payment!
Well, when we get down at the house, our driver is not in a giving mood for the sake of the New Year. In fact, he is livid and my French cannot adequately apologize beyond repeating “Je suis desolate” over and over again. His only answer to our offered solutions and pleading is to go to the police station and handle the situation. What? Police? NOOO! African police are generally pretty freaking corrupt and obnoxious. My dealings with them have been few and shirt and I’d like very much to keep it that way. Nonetheless, there are not other options and Mr. Taxi Man is insisting.
“Melody,” I turn to her on the drive, “we will laugh at this someday.” At that, we both erupt in some kind of disgusted laughter, at which the driver looks quizzically in the rear view mirror. Never again will I leave the house without an ounce of ‘insurance’ to get myself home. I should know better by now, gees.
At the police station, my limits of French are stretched but I get us by well enough. Melody doesn’t speak in French, and rather sucks when she tries but she does try very hard still and I am usually called upon to fill in the blanks. The chief on duty that night (well, morning at it was already 2:30 am) decides that the best course of action is to pay the driver the fare, keep Melody’s camera, the driver will return us to the house and we will return to make the payment and retrieve the camera. No, Melody will not leave her camera with these men just as I will not leave Melody with these men (whose first question to me, by the way, after the situation was figured out was, “Madam or mademoiselle?” Translation: are you married, baby, because I hear white girls are loose.”) At that, we make the tough resolution to wait at the grimy station with the creepy officers who keep asking me if I’m married and if I like African men.
While we sit outside amongst the benches with several other waiting civilians, a woman in front of us asks one of the officers that was handling our “problem” what happened. He explains in Bambara, she replies, he gets up and walks towards to the office and grabs the camera. I jump up and walk swiftly to him; that camera is not to be moved from my sight, mister. To my surprise, he hands me the camera. “Why? I mean… por quoi?”
In French, standing uncomfortably close he says, “The lady paid for you, go home.” Great, but we still don’t have money for a cab fare or keys to get in to retrieve that money. No worries, her boyfriend is going to give us a lift so we can wait on Mamatal’s doorstep like the little lost lambs that we are. I look at my watch, god save me, I have to catch a bus in 3 hours.
Shit happens when you leave home and you must leave room for the good shit as well as the bad.
This is Africa. The Africa I have loved and am pained to leave after over a year of enjoying it, wallowing in it, being loved every moment of my time in it. It is more than just hospitality, it is a deep sense of interconnectedness and respect that means that you always have someone watching your back, and often you have a multitude. It might seem like a simple thing, being escorted 30 minutes out of a stranger’s way so he could help me find my destination was one of the most remarkable instance of my time in Ghana. The man didn’t ask anything in return for our walk but conversation, not even my number, which many men request only after seeing my Caucasian skin.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
who do voodoo you do
Da wears dresses. Okay, well, he wears skirts. In the same fashion as almost every woman we have encountered in the past 5 days of traveling, he has simply hemmed the edges and wrapped about 3 yards of bold African print around his waist. Da has a big happy belly and gives me a child’s smile when I tease him about his fancy dress. When men festivalize, one is bound to experience the ‘kente toga’ in abundance. They take 6 yards of heavy, hand woven cloth and drape it across their shoulders in a very particular, regal manner that makes them look like a king and a pile of curtains at the same time. On his feet are chunky sandals covered in gold that make a crinkle noise when he walks.
“Oi, ‘zalle?” Da asks, and we start our walk to the main road. Everyone we pass greets Da in Fan and bid us bonsoir. So, we tail along after our respected host and emerge on the main street. He calls to men on motorbikes and in an instant our moto-chariots await. Off to the ceremony as we zip-zip along a few dirt roads and we get down at what looks any random house, walk a maze and emerge in the heat of the ceremony. The drums are beating and all eyes are on a group of dancers whom we cannot yet see. Da taps a young man standing on the outside of the ring of people and a path through the crowd is created for him. When we get to the opening, I hesitate. I hate hate hate hate any situation that encourages even more attention than my pale skin normally affords me whilst I traipse around Africa, but I press on. Suddenly, people are raising their voices and I freeze where I stand, forgetting every French word I ever learned that might have helped me understand their commands. I don’t know what is going on, but Ian and I are surrounded by the gathered crowd and we have done something very, very wrong. A man comes beside me and pushes on my back while he squats down, indicating I should do the same. He is pointing at my sandals, so I remove them. A very large man dressed in orange, whom dancers are circling in the middle, looks at us with a confused glare. The people sitting near me point me towards the side of the crowd and I walk as low as possible, next to Da. I look back at Ian, his face is blank. We are lost lambs in a big scary voodoo world.
When finally we are settled and doing all the things we are supposed to be doing (what Da should have told us to do before hand, that is), we are front row to the ceremony. Da has left us, saying “When you finish, go home, okay? Bye-bye!” Great, now we just have to sit for fear of committing any more mortal voodoo-sins.
It is a yearly ceremony commemorating the deaths of past Dahomey kings and seems to be well attended. Voodoo is the national religion of Benin and those in the community practice it just like any other religion. I can honestly say that I have respect for those that have retained it against the formidable influence of western evangelism besides that it is just so damned complicated and interesting to me. About 1,000 people are gathered, creating a circle around open dirt, with another smaller crowd inside and to the left. The dancers alternate from performing en mass in the front, and circling around the inner group. Half of the crowd is sitting on the dirt and we all look a little like children as we gaze up at the dancers passing by throbbing to the drums. African drumming generally consists of several drums, bells, and shakers all creating an incredible polyrhythm (instruments play different beats; that is, one playing a 4 count, another plays a 5-7 count, etc.). The women bob their shoulders forward and back to the rhythm while shuffling their feet as they move in a circle, the layers of cloth around their waist creating a dramatic figure. They each wore no less than 20 long strings of beads around their necks and 6 inch wide aluminum wrist-cuffs with small bells that sing with the movements of their bodies. Compared to the men, the women move subtly, as if they have nothing to prove. The men, however, throw their bodies to the music and spray dirt as they kick their fast moving feet past the crowd. They are draped in fabric and bells and all wear large anklets that bounce with their feet. They get very close to the crowd and cause a roar of shouting. I hear the same 2 or 3 phrases shouted over and over again to the dancers as they pass. It is yelled in low tones, like a jeer aimed at an opponent, and comes out like a song in the tonal language of Fan (the meaning of a word can change based on the tone in which it is spoken; high, low, nasal, etc.).
There something about the female dancers that seems different and I can’t quite name it; after they make several passes by us I realize the variation: they are all at least 50. To see these women throb their bodies like all of the youth I’ve seen responding intense African drum language is exhilarating. It reminds me that there is a dancer to greater or lesser extent in every African, and these mamas were good enough to move side by side with young 20-something men. During the ceremony, as dancers broke into group performances, the women went about acknowledging the crowd. Some came around repeatedly to the women that were somehow important enough to have chairs for the ceremony and would lean in close and clap their hands while the seated woman sat up, speaking to the dancer earnestly and rubbing her hands together. Many women walked around with bottled to perfume and would spray it on the chair wielding amongst us, afterwards presenting an open hanky for a few coins.
In the middle of a large collection of people seated on the ground was someone of high importance. He sat much higher than anyone in his immediate area, with a group of young women who would regularly break out into songs that were then followed by songs from a group of older men to their left. At one point in the ceremony I looked over at this honored man and noticed his face lit from below in a strange way with a look of concern across his brow. I continued watching, hoping for any interesting. Instead, his face broke its expression and he looked back up to the ceremony with a smile as he slipped his cell phone back in his shirt pocket; text messaging.
The ceremony ended and we got as far away from what was once the ‘stage’ before we replaced our shoes. Fool me once, right? As we walk back towards the road, we are greeted by everyone with pass with a sincere smile. As the only yevoos (white people) there, I sensed a bit of appreciation for having attended their gathering rather than sticking to tour guides and museums like so many others. As Ian and I make our way back to the guest house, stopping to buy baguettes and oranges along the way, we wonder the significance of all the subtle elements of the ceremony we had just witnessed. In fact, we began many sentences with “I wonder why…” during our trip and very few were able to be answered with my survival level French.
When we approach the guest house on the dark sandy ‘street,’ Da is waiting for us outside. “I had to go inside the… the… house because I am, umm…vestiged. You could not go because you…”
“Are not vestiged?” Ian completes his sentence with a laugh and we bid our host good night and head for the dark hall that leads to our simple room. We spent that night staring at water marks on the ceiling and describing what we saw them as in our imaginations. In no time at all we are asleep, safe within a mosquito net cocoon. You can never tell what the next day will bring and a good night rest certainly takes the edge off troublesome occurrences.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Cheers to being a good sport about it.
My head is down and I’m wondering why my shoes fit me differently these days. I hop over a puddle of orange-red water and here a hiss thrown in my direction. It’s the trotro I was just waiting to fill at the station: it filled while I was trying to make other arrangements and they took off to find me on the road. I jog across the road even though there isn’t another car in sight and around to the sliding door.
“Kafra, wae. Kafra, wae.” I smile at the man on the other side of the door when he laughs at my Twi apology. The jagged edge of a fold out seat catches my leg as I climb inside and squeeze my kid-sized hips between mom and one very large African gentleman. I look over at her and she laughs in that nervous (terrified) kind of way.
“What? Why?” I stammer.
“Blakey, I was so scared. I kept telling them to let me out but they said ‘no, no.’ I thought I would just end up nowhere with no one. Oh my god, I was so scared.” She laughs and lays her head on our bags piled in her lap.
“Well, it’s okay now. They just knew they would find me on the road. They were looking out for you; you don’t have to worry about being but in harm’s way here. People look out for people.” She was safe and no one would have jeopardized her safety but I know what it’s like to perceive yourself in danger and unsure of where you are and where you are going; it’s an ugly feeling that goes right to your stomach and back up your spine. I would never wish it on anyone.
I gingerly put my arm around her shoulders and look around the van. The phrase “clapped-out death trap” comes to mind and I laugh to myself. Public transportation vehicles become decreasingly whole as you leave the city. This one is by far the most… eclectic I have seen. My tail bone aches and my head is tired. I have nothing else to do so I calculate our time spent (wasted): up at 5:30, at the station at 6:15, car fills at 8:30, arrive at Nkwatan at 12:30, depart for Kpasa at 2:30. First leg of the journey is completed, two more to go.
I am seriously concerned that we won’t reach Bimbilla as we still have an unknown amount of dirt road and two more villages to change cars. Small villages aren’t usually the most equipped in terms of accommodation and I have someone else to think about. Were in just me, I might easily find a friendly Auntie to open up her home and give me a good meal, but that kind of uncertainty isn’t ideal this time. Rather than worrying about nothing I can control, I busy myself trying to understand a boisterous conversation between a group of Twi speaking men in the car; they are talking football so I begin to day dream while fighting for shoulder space with Mr. Large-Man to my right.
Kpada. We hurry off the car and a man points towards a decrepit mini-station wagon circa 1972, “Damanko,” he says, “you go there.” We rush over to the small group standing around the car and I ask the driver the price. “Twenty-two,” he pauses, “but there is a baggage fee, ten thousand per bag.” It has been a long day and I don’t like this guy already. I make the unfortunate decision to flip out.
“One cedi for a bag?! No, no. That is not fair, you don’t charge any of these people half of their fair to carry their hand bags, do you? No, you wouldn’t. Brother, don’t be unfair to me.” I put him on the defensive and there is no going back. I look to the people standing around, “Does he charge you this?” They only smile sheepishly as I stare them imploringly in the eye. I turn back to my new enemy, “Fine, we will keep them on our laps.”
“I don’t care if you carry them on your heads, if you are taking them in the car you must pay. You bring 2 Ghana cedi for the bags.” He says something cheeky to the crown in Twi that I don’t quite catch and turns back to me as he lights a cigarette, “You’re wasting time, I can fill the seats without you.” I glare at him as best as I can. He got me. “Let’s go,” I say and grab the small backpack from mom as I climb in the make-shift third row of seats. An old Muslim man sits quietly and ignores us for the entirety of our time together. I miss him.
In the three hour drive of this leg of our adventure, we have to get out twice while he takes the car through the most intense ruts I have ever seen, and while memory of the road condition still makes my spine weep, the marriage proposals we received upon arrival in Damako make up for it entirely.
“So, you will marry me, then?” Unfazed, I give him the standard reply, “Yes. Make we go now, yeah?” We share a laugh and then I turn away. I have heard this before and have developed favorite strategies, one of which is to ask if they mind being husband #13, and if not we should wed at ONCE! Not to be outdone, though, our fearless driver soon walks up holding the hand of a tall, handsome black man, “This one is for mummy, he is her size I think.” Mother and daughter share glances and erupt in laughter which makes me light headed. You see, we were sitting directly over an open gas tank for three hours and your brain just doesn’t immediately bounce back from such things. Either way, thank you, driver: once an ass; later, not so bad.
Luxury, on this day, had arrived in the form of a cushioned front seat shared by Narrow Hips, part one and two. As we are driven the final stretch, mom asks again if she can take pictures. She asks because I have more than once expressed… annoyance at her photographic tendencies. It is hard for me to be completely comfortable with photographing strangers carrying on in normal order in this Foreigner-Native relationship. It pains me to think that this action would mean to the “native” that I am perplexed and amused by their normalcy, so much so that I want to capture it to show my rich, white friends the oddities of Deepest Africa. Besides, whipping out a $300 camera is contextually inappropriate. “No, please. Just remember it with your mind.” I laugh because while it may sound like a cop out, I am very serious. The sun set that night over the newly green landscape of rainy-season flat land was one of the most staggeringly beautiful images I have retained in my time here. I can still remember the feeling of the cool air that evening, the sound from the diesel engine working hard along the treacherous tundra, and the softened faces of my fellow passengers calmly taking in the scene with us. Sunsets: cross culturally admired since the beginning of time.
Bimbilla. It took 12 hours, about $15, and entirely more bartering than my sleep reserve should have allowed, but we found you, nonetheless. Exhausted we greet you and after a 4 am wake up by the mosque speakers that seemed to be piped right into our small room, we depart under similar conditions to our actual destination: Tamale. The epicenter of The North, as it is casually called by those who don’t reside in its boundaries, awaits us in a matter hours and kilometers and I catch my second consecutive sunset-rise pairing but I’m not one to complain. We buy breakfast from the tops of women’s heads through the window of a minibus and I brood over the guidebook I’ve come to hate. I suppose this is one way to begin another day in sunny West Africa, not for the faint of heart or those prone to being poor sports.
There was also the time mom chased off an attacking baboon with a deck chair, but maybe we can talk about that later...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
