I would say that about a quarter of all taxi rides I have taken in Africa involve the driver hot-wiring his own car. It feels like watching a woman breastfeed her child. Are they allowed to do this? Am I allowed to talk to them while they do this? The whole process only takes about 4 seconds (the hot-wiring, not the breastfeeding), and the taxi's tail pipe shakes, and begins spitting out the kind of exhaust that can only result from the marriage of dirty fuel and no emissions control.
Maybe I am just imagining this next part. Maybe I'm just imagining the corners of the drivers mouth turning slightly upwards as he looks at us passengers while his engine sputters to life. Maybe the reason his nod to us seems almost imperceptible is because it is actually nonexistent. But if that subtle nod and sly smile are real, as I hope they are, I like to pretend it's the driver's way of saying, “Now you have to promise that you won't tell anybody how I did that.” I'm part of their club. I know how to steal their car.
I remember a job I worked in Salt Lake City. After my first day in the office, my new boss pulled me aside, and said in a low voice, “I usually don't show this to people this early on, but I want to show you where I keep the spare office key.” It was his post-hot-wire nod of approval. He gave me the smile that I swear to god I see in the face of every hot-wiring cabby in Africa. I was in the club. I knew how to steal the office.
Ezekiel is the driver that will carry me from some dusty taxi park to its clone 22 kilometers south. I sit shotgun. In the back is a farmer, a mother and her baby, and an old man holding his bible with the type of grip that comes naturally when one knows, more or less, how and when they will die, but is still unsure where their soul is headed immediately afterwards.
Ezekiel deftly handles the wires under the steering column, then pauses and looks at me. No subtle nod. No subtler smile. I'm not in Ezekiel's club. I instead look at the mother in the bask seat, who is now breastfeeding her child.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Snippin' Goats... It's What I Do.
I have never castrated castrated a goat. Correction: I had never castrated a goat. This correction is effective beginning immediately.
The farm owner held the snippers out towards me, asking if I would castrate his goat for him, and I honestly thought that he was joking. He wasn't. As the goatherd's grip firmed on the thrashing animal, I had to press my fisted hand to my lips, making sure my stomach was prepared for what I was about to do.
As I slid the goat's... ahem... family jewels into the clipper, I took a moment to steady my hand. I tried to think of ways that I could make this as painless for him as possible. There were none, at least none that wouldn't come at the cost of a botched job. Maybe goats don't have a lot of feeling in that region.
I squeezed the caliper tight. First came a the thud of the clamp closing, immediately followed by the grimace-inducing snip of the job actually getting done. The goat's ear-piercing scream refuted my optimistic assumption regarding their inability to feel. “Now do it again, to make sure you got it.” Oh, god, hopefully the goat has accepted his plight, and won't scream so hard this time. Thud-Snip! The goat screamed even louder this time.
Oh, god, I've only done half the job. Thud-Snip-Scream! Thud-Snip-Scream!
I'm not going to say that it was easy to do, at lease not emotionally easy. That having been said, I hear the first goat is the toughest one.
The farm owner held the snippers out towards me, asking if I would castrate his goat for him, and I honestly thought that he was joking. He wasn't. As the goatherd's grip firmed on the thrashing animal, I had to press my fisted hand to my lips, making sure my stomach was prepared for what I was about to do.
As I slid the goat's... ahem... family jewels into the clipper, I took a moment to steady my hand. I tried to think of ways that I could make this as painless for him as possible. There were none, at least none that wouldn't come at the cost of a botched job. Maybe goats don't have a lot of feeling in that region.
I squeezed the caliper tight. First came a the thud of the clamp closing, immediately followed by the grimace-inducing snip of the job actually getting done. The goat's ear-piercing scream refuted my optimistic assumption regarding their inability to feel. “Now do it again, to make sure you got it.” Oh, god, hopefully the goat has accepted his plight, and won't scream so hard this time. Thud-Snip! The goat screamed even louder this time.
Oh, god, I've only done half the job. Thud-Snip-Scream! Thud-Snip-Scream!
I'm not going to say that it was easy to do, at lease not emotionally easy. That having been said, I hear the first goat is the toughest one.
My Town Sold its Soul
My town sold its soul. Literally. Well, as literally as is possible.
I've only lived in Guaman for about six months now, but I have seen the town undergo some radical changes in that time. Recently installed halogen street lamps have drowned all but the most resilient visible vestiges of the Milky Way Galaxy from Guaman's night sky. The last month of 2010 marked the 115th anniversary of the Presbyterian church in Guaman, and the event was celebrated with the grand opening of the new Presbyterian mega-church. Perhaps mega- is an inappropriate prefix for a church that can only hold 800 people, but in a town that only has 600 residents, an 800-seater feels pretty mega.
Wednesday is taboo day in my town. Now, don't fall into the same trap I did: taboo day in no way involves the madcap party game of buzzers and circumlocution. I know... I was disappointed too. Back to the topic at hand. On taboo day, no one is to go into the bush, because the gods — who reside there – need the privacy to discuss critical, godly matters. With the bush occupied by the gods, taboo days are a chance for the community to come together, discuss important issues, tackle large tasks, and trade wares. The specific task at hand on 19 January 2011 was cutting down the tree that held the town's soul.
Now, let me briefly describe this tree. Most towns in Ghana have one just like it. The tree was planted when the town was settled more than a century ago. Since the planting of the tree marked the settling of the town, it is said to contain the town's soul. This belief is found throughout the nation. The tree itself is probably only about 30 feet tall, but its thick foliage is home to dozens of nests, probably close to 100. During daylight hours, the tree is abuzz with the sound of hundreds of neon yellow birds chirping, feeding, and rustling. It's actually quite amazing. However, on the morning of the nineteenth, the avian din to which I had quickly grown accustomed was completely silent. The only sound in the center of town was a small chorus of women, singing to the percussion of falling axes.
I saw my supervisor, Kofi, among the spectators of the felling, and asked him why this was happening, given the significance of the tree. He told me, “...with civilization and Christianity, we feel that this tree is no more necessary.” Not that his answer rang false, but I felt that there was certainly more to the story than this. I pressed him, asking why they had chosen today, and not a day 2010, 2000, or 1935. He told me, “it was a revelation from a Christian ministry that came through. They said that if this tree is not removed, the progress of the town will be retarded.” He was referring to one of the “crusades” that occurs periodically, where a minister from the city rolls in to town, speaks in tongues, asks for money, screams a lot, performs a few healings, screams some more, and asks for more money. They are incredibly creepy. All creepiness aside, they were the real culprits here.
Not every person in town was on board with the removal of the tree that contained the town's soul. Several people at the event were shouting the whole time, asking the event to be canceled. Their pleas were well intended, but ultimately fruitless. At 11:41 AM, after almost six hours of chopping, the soul of the town came crashing down onto the dirt road that it had been planted in in the 1800s. Some of the onlookers yelled with joy. Others screamed.
Over the succeeding week, freely roaming goats stripped the tree of all of its foliage, preparing it for its final purpose: firewood. The tree was chopped up and sold to anyone who was willing to burn the town's soul to heat a bowl of soup.
A week later, I asked the man who would profit from the firewood what he intended to do with the money. He didn't answer right away, but when he did, his answer flawlessly reflected the western influence that had motivated this whole event from the beginning. “Perhaps some new clothing. No... a mobile phone!”
I've only lived in Guaman for about six months now, but I have seen the town undergo some radical changes in that time. Recently installed halogen street lamps have drowned all but the most resilient visible vestiges of the Milky Way Galaxy from Guaman's night sky. The last month of 2010 marked the 115th anniversary of the Presbyterian church in Guaman, and the event was celebrated with the grand opening of the new Presbyterian mega-church. Perhaps mega- is an inappropriate prefix for a church that can only hold 800 people, but in a town that only has 600 residents, an 800-seater feels pretty mega.
Wednesday is taboo day in my town. Now, don't fall into the same trap I did: taboo day in no way involves the madcap party game of buzzers and circumlocution. I know... I was disappointed too. Back to the topic at hand. On taboo day, no one is to go into the bush, because the gods — who reside there – need the privacy to discuss critical, godly matters. With the bush occupied by the gods, taboo days are a chance for the community to come together, discuss important issues, tackle large tasks, and trade wares. The specific task at hand on 19 January 2011 was cutting down the tree that held the town's soul.
Now, let me briefly describe this tree. Most towns in Ghana have one just like it. The tree was planted when the town was settled more than a century ago. Since the planting of the tree marked the settling of the town, it is said to contain the town's soul. This belief is found throughout the nation. The tree itself is probably only about 30 feet tall, but its thick foliage is home to dozens of nests, probably close to 100. During daylight hours, the tree is abuzz with the sound of hundreds of neon yellow birds chirping, feeding, and rustling. It's actually quite amazing. However, on the morning of the nineteenth, the avian din to which I had quickly grown accustomed was completely silent. The only sound in the center of town was a small chorus of women, singing to the percussion of falling axes.
I saw my supervisor, Kofi, among the spectators of the felling, and asked him why this was happening, given the significance of the tree. He told me, “...with civilization and Christianity, we feel that this tree is no more necessary.” Not that his answer rang false, but I felt that there was certainly more to the story than this. I pressed him, asking why they had chosen today, and not a day 2010, 2000, or 1935. He told me, “it was a revelation from a Christian ministry that came through. They said that if this tree is not removed, the progress of the town will be retarded.” He was referring to one of the “crusades” that occurs periodically, where a minister from the city rolls in to town, speaks in tongues, asks for money, screams a lot, performs a few healings, screams some more, and asks for more money. They are incredibly creepy. All creepiness aside, they were the real culprits here.
Not every person in town was on board with the removal of the tree that contained the town's soul. Several people at the event were shouting the whole time, asking the event to be canceled. Their pleas were well intended, but ultimately fruitless. At 11:41 AM, after almost six hours of chopping, the soul of the town came crashing down onto the dirt road that it had been planted in in the 1800s. Some of the onlookers yelled with joy. Others screamed.
Over the succeeding week, freely roaming goats stripped the tree of all of its foliage, preparing it for its final purpose: firewood. The tree was chopped up and sold to anyone who was willing to burn the town's soul to heat a bowl of soup.
A week later, I asked the man who would profit from the firewood what he intended to do with the money. He didn't answer right away, but when he did, his answer flawlessly reflected the western influence that had motivated this whole event from the beginning. “Perhaps some new clothing. No... a mobile phone!”
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The Sounds of Addo Nkwanta
I recently made a late evening stroll between my town, Addo Nkwanta, and a neighboring town. As I walked between those two towns, I was captured by the sounds that emanate from the jungle here. This experience made me keenly aware of the soundscape here. Without the benefit of a sound recording device, I will try to walk you through a day, using only aural characteristics of Addo Nkwanta.
Roosters: As it turns out, despite my romanticized assumptions to the contrary, roosters do not just crow at dawn, and they do not just crow once. This is the sound that will jerk me out of the darkest sleeps. Around 3 or 3:30, the roosters on my compound will begin to crow. Who knew that roosters were so loud? Not me, as it turns out.
Brooms: While the roosters' crows wake me up, it's not until I hear my family sweeping, that I know it's time to get out of bed. I have to admit, I still think it's a funny sight to see someone feverishly sweeping a dirt floor (to be fair, it should keep her busy for a few years). Okay, the purpose of the sweeping is actually to get the goat, sheep, and chicken leavings out of the way, but it is also an enjoyable, slightly percussive way to begin another sunny day in Addo.
Bleating: Addo Nkwanta (and Ghana at large) is replete with goats and sheep. They're everywhere. As you walk out of your bedroom, and into the real world, you are greeted with the shouts of hundreds of goats and sheep, each seeming to express immense disapproval at its pending day of garbage-eating and pooping (a seemingly simple schedule). The bleat of the west African dwarf goat is half baby-crying, half person-yelling-“blaaaaaah.” It's a strange sound that you hear no matter where you are in town, and is a simple reminder that you are still in Ghana, lest you forget. Incidentally, I have never seen the first sign of goat milk, goat cheese, or locally made wool anywhere.
Distortion: As the day wears on, Ghanaians seem to become bolder and bolder regarding how loud they are willing to play their radios. By the time you have taken your lunch, the speakers around town are viciously buzzing, as store owners and barkeeps try to outdo one another in terms of volume. Eventually, all melody and lyrics are lost in the dizzying crumple of distorted speakers.
Charcoal: As the afternoon heat begins to subside, and the twilight begins to take over, hundreds of women across Addo Nkwanta fan their stoves, to the quiet hiss and pop of smoldering charcoal. Some of the shopkeepers begin to shutter their doors, and the town quiets down a bit, as the Kofis and Kwames of the town return home for their bowls of fufu and borodeε ampesi.
Crickets: Long after all the radios in town have been unplugged, after all the charcoal stoves have cooled off, even after the goats have called it a night, the insects of Addo Nkwanta begin their symphony. In Addo, you can ever really get very far from the bush, and (as our thousands of various bites will attest) you can never ever get away from the insects. The bites, however, are simply the price to pay to be lulled to sleep by a chorus of a hundred thousand insects.
I fall asleep to the sound of the crickets, and a few hours later, I wake up to the crow of the rooster.
Roosters: As it turns out, despite my romanticized assumptions to the contrary, roosters do not just crow at dawn, and they do not just crow once. This is the sound that will jerk me out of the darkest sleeps. Around 3 or 3:30, the roosters on my compound will begin to crow. Who knew that roosters were so loud? Not me, as it turns out.
Brooms: While the roosters' crows wake me up, it's not until I hear my family sweeping, that I know it's time to get out of bed. I have to admit, I still think it's a funny sight to see someone feverishly sweeping a dirt floor (to be fair, it should keep her busy for a few years). Okay, the purpose of the sweeping is actually to get the goat, sheep, and chicken leavings out of the way, but it is also an enjoyable, slightly percussive way to begin another sunny day in Addo.
Bleating: Addo Nkwanta (and Ghana at large) is replete with goats and sheep. They're everywhere. As you walk out of your bedroom, and into the real world, you are greeted with the shouts of hundreds of goats and sheep, each seeming to express immense disapproval at its pending day of garbage-eating and pooping (a seemingly simple schedule). The bleat of the west African dwarf goat is half baby-crying, half person-yelling-“blaaaaaah.” It's a strange sound that you hear no matter where you are in town, and is a simple reminder that you are still in Ghana, lest you forget. Incidentally, I have never seen the first sign of goat milk, goat cheese, or locally made wool anywhere.
Distortion: As the day wears on, Ghanaians seem to become bolder and bolder regarding how loud they are willing to play their radios. By the time you have taken your lunch, the speakers around town are viciously buzzing, as store owners and barkeeps try to outdo one another in terms of volume. Eventually, all melody and lyrics are lost in the dizzying crumple of distorted speakers.
Charcoal: As the afternoon heat begins to subside, and the twilight begins to take over, hundreds of women across Addo Nkwanta fan their stoves, to the quiet hiss and pop of smoldering charcoal. Some of the shopkeepers begin to shutter their doors, and the town quiets down a bit, as the Kofis and Kwames of the town return home for their bowls of fufu and borodeε ampesi.
Crickets: Long after all the radios in town have been unplugged, after all the charcoal stoves have cooled off, even after the goats have called it a night, the insects of Addo Nkwanta begin their symphony. In Addo, you can ever really get very far from the bush, and (as our thousands of various bites will attest) you can never ever get away from the insects. The bites, however, are simply the price to pay to be lulled to sleep by a chorus of a hundred thousand insects.
I fall asleep to the sound of the crickets, and a few hours later, I wake up to the crow of the rooster.
Friday, July 23, 2010
A Quick Rundown of Training Thus Far
Wowowowowowowowow! Training has been the best experience of my life. Let me try to summarize it in a single blog post.
Met up in Philly for an immensely boring two-day staging. Hopped a plane to Accra, where we were greeted with a “shower of blessings” (in America, we just call it rain). We poured libations, setting an interesting precedent for the remainder of training. We stayed at a Seventh Day Adventist college, where Saturday soccer is verboten. Chad Coffman and I go to Northern Region together, and bond over repeat viewings of The Rock.
We met up with our friends in Kukurantumi. Four days in Kuk, and we (the 15-person environment sector) head to Addo Nkwanta, a delightful town of 500, with just enough bars to keep 15 PCVs entertained. After we receive our site assignments, we undergo six hours a day of language training. My Twi class, consists of Joe, Chelsea, and myself. We are taught by Changeman. Thus begins five weeks of debate over whether or not Changeman is the best looking PC Ghana employee (spoiler alert: he is). We celebrate Changeman's devilish good looks with the pouring of libations.
We head out from Addo to our sites, to see our towns and digs for the first time. Guaman is amazing. We celebrate the amazingness thereof with the pouring of libations.
Head from Guaman to Hohoe to Have to Kumasi to Techiman, where all 15 of us finally see each other again. We celebrate with the pouring of libations. Thus begins technical training, wherein we learn how to plant trees, graft oranges, prune mangoes, and mix a mean 1 PM cocktail. We move from downtown Techiman to a monastery on the outskirts thereof. Thus begins ten of the quieter days of my life. On day three, we discover that the monks brew their own cashew wine and starfruit schnapps. This changed everything. We sat on a cliff and watched the sun set, then The Prestige, then listen to Oasis and Modest Mouse while looking at the moon.
Technical draws to a sad close. I am writing this blog post en route back to Addo Nkwanta, in preparation for my last two-ish weeks of training.
It has been so amazing, bizarre, and fun, that I could not possibly describe it to you in 1000 blog posts. I hope to be able to post some videos to YouTube that might give you all a better idea of what is going down here.
Oh, and I castrated a goat. That was weird.
Met up in Philly for an immensely boring two-day staging. Hopped a plane to Accra, where we were greeted with a “shower of blessings” (in America, we just call it rain). We poured libations, setting an interesting precedent for the remainder of training. We stayed at a Seventh Day Adventist college, where Saturday soccer is verboten. Chad Coffman and I go to Northern Region together, and bond over repeat viewings of The Rock.
We met up with our friends in Kukurantumi. Four days in Kuk, and we (the 15-person environment sector) head to Addo Nkwanta, a delightful town of 500, with just enough bars to keep 15 PCVs entertained. After we receive our site assignments, we undergo six hours a day of language training. My Twi class, consists of Joe, Chelsea, and myself. We are taught by Changeman. Thus begins five weeks of debate over whether or not Changeman is the best looking PC Ghana employee (spoiler alert: he is). We celebrate Changeman's devilish good looks with the pouring of libations.
We head out from Addo to our sites, to see our towns and digs for the first time. Guaman is amazing. We celebrate the amazingness thereof with the pouring of libations.
Head from Guaman to Hohoe to Have to Kumasi to Techiman, where all 15 of us finally see each other again. We celebrate with the pouring of libations. Thus begins technical training, wherein we learn how to plant trees, graft oranges, prune mangoes, and mix a mean 1 PM cocktail. We move from downtown Techiman to a monastery on the outskirts thereof. Thus begins ten of the quieter days of my life. On day three, we discover that the monks brew their own cashew wine and starfruit schnapps. This changed everything. We sat on a cliff and watched the sun set, then The Prestige, then listen to Oasis and Modest Mouse while looking at the moon.
Technical draws to a sad close. I am writing this blog post en route back to Addo Nkwanta, in preparation for my last two-ish weeks of training.
It has been so amazing, bizarre, and fun, that I could not possibly describe it to you in 1000 blog posts. I hope to be able to post some videos to YouTube that might give you all a better idea of what is going down here.
Oh, and I castrated a goat. That was weird.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Guaman Lowdown
I have just returned from visiting my site Guaman, Volta. I thought that I would share a couple quick notes about my home for the next two years (I'll actually move in about a month from now, in mid-August).
Language: I was sweating bullets before I got to my site. Everyone around me was learning Ewe, and I was the only one learning Twi. I was positive that that was a mistake, and I was going to be linguistically SOL when I got to my site. My fears were further intensified when I met my counterpart and supervisor, who told me that the language I should have learned was Buem. This did not sit well with me, and I was sure that I would get to my site, and my Twi would be met with nothing but blank stares. These feelings of dread were exacerbated when I got to Hohoe (the city nearest to my site), and everyone spoke Ewe. Everyone. Ewe is to Twi as German is to English. I was terrified, not to mention completely confused.
All my fears were unfounded, and I soon realized that, while Buem is the local language, Twi is so widely spoken, that it will serve me perfectly in my work over the next two years.
Utilities: I was lead to believe that I would be without water or electricity. That is incorrect. I have electricity. In fact, my supervisor said that the electricity works more than 90% of the time. In fact, I am using that very electricity to write this blog post. There is cell service in Guaman, but I will have to switch networks (so please send me an email if you want my new phone number). By extension, the cell provider in town also provides mobile internet, but nothing that fits into a PCV budget, so don't start expecting daily emails.
All this having been said, I will still be showering with rainwater.
Transportation: Guaman is very near the road that connects Hohoe to Nkwanta, so it is never too difficult to catch a taxi out of town.
Friends: I intend to build close relationships in Guaman, but I am still lucky enough to have two of my good friends within an hour or two of me, and about five friends will live within a reasonable distance from Hohoe, so I may see them there when I go to town to shop or blog.
Size: According to my site description, Guaman is about 2500 people. However, when I told that to my supervisor, he laughed. He said Guaman is probably about 600-800. Now that I have visited... well, 600 may be highballing it. Which leads me to my next point.
Food: As previously mentioned, Guaman is only about 600 people, and they are all farming all day, so the idea of a restaurant never really took off here. At all. No such thing as a restaurant in Guaman. Looks like Uncle D will be making his own fufu from here on out.
All in all, Guaman is an amazing town. Everyone there greeted me with open arms (and open bottles of apateshi, but I'll save that story for a different blog post). I have hundreds of pictures and dozens of videos to help give a glimpse into my life here. I will try to distill those down to the few that I can upload on a Ghanaian connection.
Until then, keep trying to give peace a chance.
Language: I was sweating bullets before I got to my site. Everyone around me was learning Ewe, and I was the only one learning Twi. I was positive that that was a mistake, and I was going to be linguistically SOL when I got to my site. My fears were further intensified when I met my counterpart and supervisor, who told me that the language I should have learned was Buem. This did not sit well with me, and I was sure that I would get to my site, and my Twi would be met with nothing but blank stares. These feelings of dread were exacerbated when I got to Hohoe (the city nearest to my site), and everyone spoke Ewe. Everyone. Ewe is to Twi as German is to English. I was terrified, not to mention completely confused.
All my fears were unfounded, and I soon realized that, while Buem is the local language, Twi is so widely spoken, that it will serve me perfectly in my work over the next two years.
Utilities: I was lead to believe that I would be without water or electricity. That is incorrect. I have electricity. In fact, my supervisor said that the electricity works more than 90% of the time. In fact, I am using that very electricity to write this blog post. There is cell service in Guaman, but I will have to switch networks (so please send me an email if you want my new phone number). By extension, the cell provider in town also provides mobile internet, but nothing that fits into a PCV budget, so don't start expecting daily emails.
All this having been said, I will still be showering with rainwater.
Transportation: Guaman is very near the road that connects Hohoe to Nkwanta, so it is never too difficult to catch a taxi out of town.
Friends: I intend to build close relationships in Guaman, but I am still lucky enough to have two of my good friends within an hour or two of me, and about five friends will live within a reasonable distance from Hohoe, so I may see them there when I go to town to shop or blog.
Size: According to my site description, Guaman is about 2500 people. However, when I told that to my supervisor, he laughed. He said Guaman is probably about 600-800. Now that I have visited... well, 600 may be highballing it. Which leads me to my next point.
Food: As previously mentioned, Guaman is only about 600 people, and they are all farming all day, so the idea of a restaurant never really took off here. At all. No such thing as a restaurant in Guaman. Looks like Uncle D will be making his own fufu from here on out.
All in all, Guaman is an amazing town. Everyone there greeted me with open arms (and open bottles of apateshi, but I'll save that story for a different blog post). I have hundreds of pictures and dozens of videos to help give a glimpse into my life here. I will try to distill those down to the few that I can upload on a Ghanaian connection.
Until then, keep trying to give peace a chance.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
I Have a Job to Do
Maadwo me adamfo! Good evening my friends!
Guaman, Volta is a town of 2500 people, on the Togolese border. Their population will soon balloon to an astounding 2501 when I move there.
In mid-August, I will be moving to this small farming village in eastern Ghana to aid them in overcoming many of the environmental problems they are facing. Guaman is suffering from many of the crises endemic to Africa: de-forestation, erosion, water contamination, monoculture, etc. I will primarily work with the Wofabeng Agro Forestry and Environmental Development Group. My projects will be varied and plentiful. They range from re-forestation to water development, composting to teaching, water sanitation to staring a nursery. There will be no shortage of work to do for this obroni.
Anyone who knows me knows that this is an absolute dream job for me.
I will not be living with water or electricity, but I will be close enough to a town that has such amenities, that updating this blog periodically should not be difficult. I will be living with a hammock. This is important.
I will be speaking Twi, a tonal language widely spoken in Ghana. The first few days of language training have been difficult, but I am progressing very rapidly thanks to a wonderful group of language trainers, and a very supportive and patient host family.
For now, though, my job remains largely centered on taking trips to Ghana's forests and parks, learning Twi with my best friends I have ever had, eating delicious fufu, and occasionally cheering for Ghana's Black Stars in the World Cup over a cool bottle of Star lager. Not too rough, if you ask me. Not too rough.
Mepε Ghana papaapa na mepε te Peace Corpsni paa! Mewo εkyε a εyε fε!
I love Ghana very much and I love being a Peace Corps Volunteer! I also have a very nice hat! (those of you that know me, know that this has been a very important phrase for me to learn).
Much love, and give peace a chance.
Guaman, Volta is a town of 2500 people, on the Togolese border. Their population will soon balloon to an astounding 2501 when I move there.
In mid-August, I will be moving to this small farming village in eastern Ghana to aid them in overcoming many of the environmental problems they are facing. Guaman is suffering from many of the crises endemic to Africa: de-forestation, erosion, water contamination, monoculture, etc. I will primarily work with the Wofabeng Agro Forestry and Environmental Development Group. My projects will be varied and plentiful. They range from re-forestation to water development, composting to teaching, water sanitation to staring a nursery. There will be no shortage of work to do for this obroni.
Anyone who knows me knows that this is an absolute dream job for me.
I will not be living with water or electricity, but I will be close enough to a town that has such amenities, that updating this blog periodically should not be difficult. I will be living with a hammock. This is important.
I will be speaking Twi, a tonal language widely spoken in Ghana. The first few days of language training have been difficult, but I am progressing very rapidly thanks to a wonderful group of language trainers, and a very supportive and patient host family.
For now, though, my job remains largely centered on taking trips to Ghana's forests and parks, learning Twi with my best friends I have ever had, eating delicious fufu, and occasionally cheering for Ghana's Black Stars in the World Cup over a cool bottle of Star lager. Not too rough, if you ask me. Not too rough.
Mepε Ghana papaapa na mepε te Peace Corpsni paa! Mewo εkyε a εyε fε!
I love Ghana very much and I love being a Peace Corps Volunteer! I also have a very nice hat! (those of you that know me, know that this has been a very important phrase for me to learn).
Much love, and give peace a chance.
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