Uncertainty is Bliss

On the eve of my departure from Ghana, I am plagued by many reflections. My time here has been an experience unparalleled by any other in my life. When I came to Ghana I unknowingly embarked on a journey that would teach me more about the world than I imagined possible. Everybody told me: You will change so much. Traveling is such a life-altering experience. You will come back a different person.

It’s not that I didn’t believe that I would change, but I had no idea as to how I might be different. Would I come home to America and scoff at the luxuries and commercialism, having gained a newfound appreciation for all things rural and poverty-stricken? Maybe I would find a deeply rooted passion for our Homeland Africa and reject the notion of spending my life anywhere else. Or perhaps I would learn that I am an American princess who cannot deal with lizards and insects in mud huts and the absence of running water in my home.

Instead, what I have learned is that I am independent and capable, curious and thrill seeking, but sensible and contemplative. I discovered these tools within myself that have enabled me to travel all around West Africa, a region of the world that is completely opposite from my home. I have befriended persons that would have previously been dauntingly foreign to me, and grown accustomed to relying only on strangers and myself.

I have learned the truth in the cliché: the world is full of possibilities. Moreover, I now know that I have the ability to take advantage of those opportunities. Nothing is too foreign, too uncertain, too far away. In fact, the experiences in which I have sought out the unknown have been by far the most rewarding.

Traveling to rural villages in the East of Ghana, to Burkina Faso, and the Northern Regions, I had a recurring out-of-body experience. I would look around at the villages, wild goats and cattle roaming the red-brown dirt on the roads. Then at my method of transport: at best, a visibly aged trotro bumping over the pothole-ridden roads; at worst, piled into the back of a van driven by a Burkinabe man who speaks not a word of English, feeling the burning heat of the malfunctioning engine as we speed down dark, deserted dirt roads in the bush. I depend upon and utilize these uncertain means, and survive.

Tips for Future Travelers

GO TO GHANA! Ghana is a beautiful country in infinite respects: the beaches of the West, the forests of the East, the savannah of the North, and the castles of the South. The people and their attitudes—never before have I met people so welcoming, appreciative, or comfortable around strangers. The villages, with their mud huts and dozens of children playing. The colors of the cloth on the mothers and babies. It is far and foreign but in life it is necessary to leave your comfort and learn to find it elsewhere.

Religion is EVERYWHERE. You will see it on signs, in shops, with your Fan-Ice. You will hear it on every radio station and in every conversation. Even if you are religious, prepare yourself for more of this than you can imagine.

You have never stood out this much. No matter what race you are, you are easily identifiable as an Obruni. This means that strangers will stop you to ask for a picture, children everywhere will pitifully pull on your pants asking for money, and it’s safe to assume that any price that someone tells you is about two times too much. This is an annoyance of life here, but it is easily manageable. All the same, prepare yourself.

You will never complain about public restrooms again. Did you know that there is such a thing as a female urinal?

You have never eaten this much rice before. Seriously. So much rice.

Pet your dog or cat—a lot. There are tons of animals here, but few are house pets and people don’t treat them as tiny humans like we do in America. I only got to play with one dog in the past 4 months—you’ll wish you gave Fido a little extra attention before you left. You will get to see baby goats running around the streets on a daily basis though—I never knew this before, but baby goats are probably the most adorable creatures in the world!

Bring chocolate. I didn’t—cocoa is the main export of Ghana, after all! But since the country sells almost all of this resource to outsiders, it is very expensive here.

Don’t be afraid. Not of the people, or the food, or the places, or the travelling, or the means to get there. A bucket bath is not that bad and African insects are more or less the same as the ones you’re used to. Don’t stress about getting malaria. Most of the time you won’t have running water but it’ll be okay. Go outside and stand in the warm and pouring rain. By overcoming my subtle fear of general life here, I began to appreciate and learn from the culture and people of Ghana. Only after realizing this did I truly start to travel.

Reality is Not Hopeless

A few weeks ago I participated in a trip hosted by City of Refuge Ministries, a not-for-profit NGO that works to eradicate child trafficking around Lake Volta. The organization was founded around five years ago by a Nigerian man named John and his American wife Stacy. Every semester a few NYU students volunteer at City of Refuge, and with each new class a group of students attend the Reality Tour. 

Lake Volta in Ghana

Lake Volta

Lake Volta is the biggest body of water in Ghana and the largest man-made reservoir by surface area in the world. It is widely known for having child slaves, as the practice is ingrained in the culture and economy of the area. Child trafficking is illegal in Ghana but the laws are actively unenforced; the government purposely hands off responsibility to NGOs, preferring free and devoted labor to developing its own commitment. Around Lake Volta, the majority of residents’ livelihoods depend on fishing. Child slaves provide many useful functions for fishermen including paddling boats, untangling nets, and scooping water out of a broken boat.

A child slave; behind him, the slave master

We left City of Refuge at 1 AM on a Friday, packed onto a bus with about 15 people and tons of supplies. It was a seven-hour drive to the lake, and we arrived in time to catch the morning ferry. From the other side of the lake we drove another hour or so to our host village.

City of Refuge works in seven villages around Lake Volta, and is always looking to expand their sphere of influence. The first activity of the weekend was to travel to a new village and make first contact with the people of the community. John asked what the chief knew about the presence of child trafficking in the village. The chief claimed to be firmly against the practice and said that all of his children attended school (trafficked children are put to work during the school day). We walked to see the village’s school, a small and simple concrete building with a few desks and chalkboards. Afterwards we stopped to talk to a group of children, upon seeing malnourishment and advanced muscle development indicative of child slavery.

Shores of a village on Lake Volta

John shaking hands with the chief

School

Playing football in the village

We found one eight-year-old boy (below) who was trafficked to the lake four years ago from Greater Accra, where his father’s family lives. When the boy’s parents died, he was sold to his mother’s brother-in-law as a slave. John spoke with the child, his master, and his aunt to extract this information. By the time John was finished he had gotten the family in Accra’s phone number. City of Refuge will call them, visit them, and convince them that being a child slave is not in the boy’s best interest.

The trafficked boy

You may think, how would that work? Why would someone who has already sold or bought a child slave suddenly change his mind? These are questions that I asked when I first heard what John and Stacy do to rescue the children. But believe it or not, this method is effective. The approach that City of Refuge takes to eradicate child trafficking is exceptional. Unlike the other NGOs that work against child trafficking around Lake Volta, City of Refuge uses no forms of coercion or bribery to rescue children. They appeal to conscience, common sense, and human decency.

John describes what he says to a slave master, What did this child do to deserve this as his life? Is he not worth schooling, a childhood? The master scoffs, says that this is how he grew up and he turned out just fine. It is part of life here. John wonders how it felt to be sold as a child slave, to be prematurely worked to the bone? To see your life as a transaction, your body as a commodity? John watches his eyes fall, and sometimes immediately, sometimes eventually, the master gives up his slaves. And he doesn’t buy any again.

More slaves of fishermen

That night as we waited for the wind to calm and our boat to bring us to our host’s house, a man from the village ran to the shore where John and Stacy stood, tears streaming down his cheeks. He confessed to keeping two slaves, and begged the couple to save them. As Stacy hugged him and John spoke about the logistics of rescuing the children, the man breathed freely. A visible weight was lifted from his chest, and his grimace hoped for redemption.

The next day, our group conducted a feed of the children. In the morning our cook made heaping amounts of rice, plantains, tomato sauce, and hard-boiled eggs, and we put together 200 to-go boxes of food. Next we prepared 200 doses of de-worming medication. We would distribute these at the school of another nearby village, whose residents had been told that we were coming. As our bus full of Obrunis came into town, children began to flock to us and line up at the steps of the school.

Preparing food for the children

Food waiting to be distributed 

In line to be registered

The mission for the day was to feed, de-worm, and register 200 village children with City of Refuge. As each child stepped across the school’s porch, a volunteer recorded his picture and personal information. Based on a child’s appearance (orange-colored hair indicative of malnourishment, advanced muscle development), familial status (living apart from parents), and personal knowledge (trafficked children often do not know when they were born), we were able to see that many of the children had been trafficked. John and Stacy made some inquiries that day, but the main focus was to register the children.

With the pictures and information, City of Refuge will make identification cards for each of the 200 children. The cards will be distributed in the village, and when John and Stacy return in three months they will serve only children with an identification card. One reason for this is that the de-worming medication lasts for three months, so the same children must get it each time or none of them will be effectively protected. Secondly, this will provide valuable information for City of Refuge to track the children in the village: if they return and a large portion of the registered children is missing from the village, then it is likely that trafficking is a major concern in the community.

Fishermen with child slaves, fleeing from City of Refuge's boat

City of Refuge is a pioneer in the fight against child trafficking. While most other NGOs and the government shy away from the root causes of the issue, City of Refuge seeks them out. Another investment that the organization is developing is a sachet water manufacturing plant, where mothers from each of City of Refuge’s partner villages will be employed. This will provide women with income and stability at home, negating the need to sell their children as slaves. 

Mothers of Lake Volta

Additionally, City of Refuge is in the process of building a new site, including a school, housing for rescued children, a family home for John and Stacy, offices, and outdoor recreation areas.

Construction of the school is underway

By impacting the mentality of the community of Lake Volta and empowering its residents, City of Refuge is developing a truly effective and holistic solution to child trafficking. As an aspiring social changemaker, I am refreshed by this approach and inspired to see an organization staying true to the mission of grassroots social change. City of Refuge's actions produce lasting effectiveness that will contribute to the eradication of child trafficking. 

All the photos in this entry were taken by Kelsey Vala, awesome photographer and badass chef. 

A Different Type of Freedom

It didn’t take me long to realize that, as a white girl, I’m in the minority here in Ghana. It did take me awhile to get used to it, though. Now I notice when I see another white person walking down the street. Who are they? What are they doing here?

I don’t know when I became acclimated to such nuances of life here. One day I walked outside without realizing that I had stepped into hundred-degree weather. Then I stopped marveling at the bright tropical vegetation that replaced the New England forests I was used to. After that I tuned out the high-pitched squeak of the Fan-Ice carts pushed by local men selling plastic packets of ice cream. I became accustomed to the odorous burning trash that wafts through streets and into windows.

I have lost the impulse to buckle my seat belt when I enter a car, since in the vast majority of vehicles this feature has fallen apart. I don’t blink an eye when I see a woman with a baby tied to her back bend down and haul heavy amounts of food onto her head, although though this would make American moms faint from fear. One slip could send the platter toppling onto the child.

Here in Ghana, people don’t live their lives walking on eggshells like they do in America. Nobody fears getting sued, and people take it upon themselves to look after their own well-being. If you’re worried about falling out of the speeding trotro with no door, either don’t get on it or hold on tight. If you fall, people will help, and you do not blame them for your stupidity.  

Obsessive regulation permeates every corner of my life in America. Now, I feel like a teenager who has just moved out of her overprotective parents’ house and into her own freedom: realizing that this is what life is. It is a beautiful thing to see people’s everyday lives functioning outside of the control of a government.

I’m not saying it’s entirely good, because there is definitely a benefit to having safe strollers and health inspections. But when life becomes one long attempt to adhere to government codes it loses the purity and freedom that comes from independence and self-reliance. America was founded on liberty, but through the quest to develop as a nation has ironically stripped the freedom of everyday living from its citizens.

The Pikworo Slave Camp in Paga, Ghana. From this site in the North, slaves were marched to the coast in the South. During their stay here they performed many labor-intensive tasks. When we went to the slave camp it was about 120 degrees Fahrenheit, in the blisteringly bright African sun. The camp itself has not been tampered with too much, and does not have bars and plastic coatings like it would in America. Instead of feeling like I had stepped into a museum, a recreated version of the truth, I rather felt like I had glimpsed the reality of the slave camp.

Slaves' water source, an opening in rock that fills with water.

Slaves carved these bowls in the rocks to eat out of.

Our tour guide on top of the slave masters' lookout. After him we each got up and looked at the camp from this post.

Mass graves at the slave camp

'R Amigos

When I walk around the house that I share with eighteen other women and one man, I am greeted by two sunny Community Resource Associates (CRAs). Abigail and Nana Ama are Ghanaian women, NYU Accra’s version of RAs. They are completing their Year of Service, which is mandatory for all Ghanaian college graduates. Nana Ama went to the University of Ghana in Accra, majoring in Hospitality. Abigail graduated with a double major in Psychology and Art from Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology in Kumasi. These are the two premier universities in Ghana, and two of the most prestigious in all of Africa. NYU Accra gets the cream of the crop.

“Hello, dear,” Abigail’s round and smiling face speaks. She is beautiful; with her hair elegantly braided and her curvy body wrapped beneath a traditional outfit she looks like an African queen. “How are you this morning?”

I smile; hers is infectious. “I’m fine, Abigail, how are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you going to church?” I am still in my pajamas at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. Abigail is fully dressed, her hair carefully tied back from her face, layers of printed fabric tied and zipped around her frame that trail down to the floor.

“Yes, dear. Have a nice day,” with a giggle and a smile she leaves. She is like my mother, sweet and loving.

Abigail welcomes students to Kakum National Park. 

Nana Ama is bigger, with lustrous eyes and a booty that I swear is the muse of Sir Mixalot. She is less charitable with her affections than Abigail, and usually gets along better with men than women. Nana Ama walks around with a slight sneer on her face, just enough so she seems always slightly amused. Her attitude can easily be mistaken for coldness but she has a kind heart.

I walk into the kitchen and see Nana Ama standing at the sink, washing dishes. The house smells fragrant, like cooked stew and onions. The steaming pot of tomato-drenched chicken on the stove tells me Nana Ama just prepared this delectable meal.

“Yum,” I say, but she doesn’t respond so I think she didn’t hear me, or just didn’t want to answer. I walk to the refrigerator and extract some ingredients for breakfast.

We cross paths on my way back to the counter. I smile and she says, “Good morning, Anna.”

“Good morning,” I chirp.

As I continue to make my breakfast she leans over me and smells the pan deeply. “Yummy,” she says, and smiles at me. She is like my older sister, sassy but affectionate. 

A Lengthy Attempt at Gender

I have wanted to write a post describing the role of gender in Ghanaian society, which has proven difficult since I do not fully understand it myself. So I apologize in advance for this long and disjointed entry, and only hope that my readers gain an accurate perspective, and a little more knowledge of the global position of women. I have stumbled upon a number of situations that speak volumes about this issue, and can certainly say that female and male roles are not equal in Ghana. But this is true everywhere.

Women typically play a subordinate role to men in this society. This is seen everywhere: the workplace, home life, even in everyday conversations. Men are, simply put, more powerful than women are. As in virtually every other country, policies and laws are written by men, for men, and those men assume that women will obey.

I have seen that Ghanaian men feel a sense of ownership over women. Not only wives, sisters, and daughters, but also strangers. A man feels entitled to tell a woman what to do, whether he wants her to fetch him food or water, or to go out with him on a date. Certainly, he feels entirely entitled to touch any woman, usually not in an inappropriate place, but often disrespectfully.

(I will note, however, that this does not apply to everyone. Ghana is becoming more and more enlightened when it comes to gender issues, and the country is vastly more advanced than many in the world.)

Meanwhile, Ghanaian women are, unsurprisingly, the backbone of the society. They cook, they clean, they birth and care for children (a responsibility that means more here than it does in America, since the validity of a marriage and the quality of a woman are determined by the number of children they produce). Women deal with their position in society with supreme dignity and strength. They know the challenges they face, and use their wiles to overcome them.

“Ghana is a patriarchal society—our men are in domineering positions, our women in subordinating ones. Men are society’s ‘favorites,’ and we are the ‘others.’”

-Mrs. Naa Owusu, a Ghanaian Social Worker and Guest Lecturer at NYU

*****

My home-stay host brother, Richard, led me into his mother’s house, showing me each of the dimly lit rooms. The house was tidy, and I wondered if this was due to my visit or simply its natural state. We entered through the living room, and were greeted by Richard’s silent little brother. He stood against the back wall, hands wrung together behind his back in nervousness. Next we went to the kitchen, a small room full of shelves of dishes, a small stove, a large tank of water, and a refrigerator. In the center of the room, three Ghanaian women huddled around the stove. When we walked through the doorway they stopped cooking and looked at me.

This is your mother, Richard gestured towards the large woman in the middle, sitting on a stool with a wooden spoon in her hand.

These are your sisters, Efya and Ama. The two younger women were petite and stood next to their mother. The women were dressed in traditional African cloths, draped and tied around their bodies. They had wrapped their hair in cloths, as well. Everything about their outfits seemed to be better suited for the weather than what I was wearing.

This is the kitchen. This is your home, Richard explained.

What? I stared at him.

He smiled. Your home. Women’s homes are in the kitchen. Like these women, he again gestured to his mother and sisters.

Was he serious? My eyes widened and I forced my head to nod.

Next Richard showed me his bedroom, with a large mattress in the center adjacent to a television. There were some miscellaneous items and decorations, and a few pieces of clothing left on the floor. Richard stepped in, looked around, and said, Sorry for the mess. But it’s okay because I’m a man.

Oh, that’s okay. My room looks like this too, I reassured him.

He stared at me. Your room is like this?

Yes… why?

Women should be neat. It is disrespectful for a woman to leave a mess.

Disrespectful? He nodded. Disrespectful towards whom? He laughed.

*****

Down the street from my house is a small shop called First Choice. They sell a variety of items to a clientele of mostly NYU students, since it is conveniently located between the academic center and a student residence house. The woman who runs the store is a stout Ghanaian with a sour expression on her face most of the time. Her employees, a few younger men and women, are mostly kindly and helpful towards customers. One particular employee, Abena, has a round, cheerful face that follows you around the store, eagerly waiting to bag your items. This would be annoying if she didn’t have such a delightful presence.

Yesterday I walked into First Choice with my friend Steven. As we shopped, Abena laughed with us, following us around the store holding black shopping bags. I purchased a box of pineapple juice and a phone card. Steven, among his other selections, asked Abena to bag him some eggs.

Eggs? She laughed.

Steven nodded, a puzzled expression on his face. Eggs.

Abena walked away giggling, and returned with six brown eggs in a small plastic bag. Do you cook? Or is for her? She pointed at me.

Thanks. No, they’re for me. I cook, Steven told her.

Her eyes widened. You cook??

Yes, I cook very well.

Oh, wow!

-----

A man points at me as I am walking into a shop. You! Give me your number!

Excuse me?

Your number! Give it to me! He takes out his phone.

Um, no? I start to walk away.

He grabs my arm and shoves his phone into my hand.

Put your number in!

No, I’m not going to give you my number. I push the phone back to him.

What? Why not?

I stare at him.

It’s nice to be nice!

I shake my head. Why would I be nice to this offensive man? I walk away.

You are not nice woman!

-----

Mary, our seamstress, pokes Natasha with her fingers. She is looking at the dress that my friend is trying on, seeing what adjustments need to be made.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Natasha is in somewhat of a complicated relationship, the kind that is so popular in America these days. Low commitment, no specifics or defining of the relationship. The kind that, if you’re in one, you dread the question that Mary asked.

“Eh… well, sort of…”

Mary peers up at Natasha. “You don’t know?”

She laughs nervously. “No, not really! It’s complicated.”

“Then you don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Don’t worry, he will be yours.” Mary reaches into the front of the dress and adjusts Natasha’s chest.

“No, it’s not that I want him to be mine, he’s just not very good boyfriend material,” she tries to explain.

Marjorie gives Natasha a knowing look. She steps back and ponders the outfit. “There. Now he will be your boyfriend.”

-----

On a local television channel, a Nigerian movie plays. (Incidentally, Nollywood is the third largest film industry in the world, after Hollywood and Bollywood.) The scene is hot, and bright as the sun reflects off of the yellow dirt. A house is set in the sand, made of red-brown mud and twigs. A man sits in front of the house. He is sitting on a low stool, crouched over a bucket of soapy water. He kneads clothing in the bucket, elbow-deep in suds.

My viewing partner, a fifty-something-year-old Ghanaian woman whom I call Nana, guffaws loudly at the sight of him. She looks at me and sees my lack of amusement. Do you know the plot?

I shake my head.

This man lost his job. So his wife makes him do the laundry!

I smile, understanding the joke but not quite seeing the hilarity.

On the TV set, the woman walks up to her husband and barks at him in a local language. He looks at her and responds angrily. She bends down and demonstrates a fast clothes-washing technique. Disgruntled, the man begins to wash faster.

Nana cackles again.

Do you like the show? She asks, glancing at me.

Yes, very much. I do like the movie. Nigerian films are absurd and awesome.

 Do you like my house?”

I look at the room and smile. You have a lovely house. How long have you lived here?

My husband bought this house twenty years ago, Nana says.

Nana is unmarried—Your husband?

Yes, and he left the house about ten years ago. He leaves me this house, Nana speaks softly.

I wonder where her financial support comes from—she runs a small grocery stand, from which she sells small kitchen and household items such as palm oil, dish soap, and canned milk. This business does not bring in nearly enough money for her to support herself and her younger sons. Nana’s oldest son works as a computer technician, commuting two hours to Accra daily.

Now my elder son takes care of me.

The most beautiful parts of Ghana

The most beautiful parts of Ghana are not in Accra. I learned this on the first trip that I took out of the city to the Shai Hills nature reserve. This place has a taste of wilderness, somewhat hindered by the people-pleasing baboons that flock to the opening gates whenever there is a visitor. This is not the most beautiful spot in Ghana.

Ghana’s coastline is 539 kilometers long. Interestingly, it is the closest country to the “center” of the world, the coordinate of (0,0) which lies a few miles south of Ghana in the Gulf of Guinea. Because of its coast, Ghana is one of the most developed countries in Africa. It was colonized by the Portuguese in the 15^th century and became West Africa’s primary trading post with Europe and America for gold, ivory, and slaves. 

Through the country’s history, this early colonization and European influence has had tremendous implications. For example, the demographic layout of Accra developed because European soldiers preferred to live with other white people. They achieved this by expelling locals to neighborhoods such as Jamestown, which is now commonly known as the slum of the city. 

Accra is located on the coast, but is not build upon this resource—rather than letting the town develop around the beach, Accra is a town with the beach in the background. 

The background is breathtaking. An endless panorama of white sand spanning under salty winds from beyond the misty green-blue waves that crash onto shore. Vastness; no land until Antarctica lies ahead. The sand is grainy, the water temperate and tropical. This is the first time I have ever experienced ocean water that invites you warmly into its body, rather than freezing your extremities off before you wade halfway in. 

The beaches in Accra are not the most beautiful. They are usually filled with litter and smells of burning trash. On Wednesday nights the two major beaches, Labadi and Toale, are transformed into loud parties of reggae and Rastas, locals and Obrunis alike dancing freely in the waves. Restaurants populate the beaches, serving delicious fare such as fried yams with spicy shiito sauce. These beaches are fun— destinations for a party or a day out with friends. 

The most beautiful parts of Ghana are out of reach, secluded, sheltered from the grossness of city life and human habitation. On the coastline outside of Accra, there are beaches that are sequestered, nestled in rock formations and unfriendly terrain. They are perfectly pristine, in a way that envelops the wilderness of the coastline and the delight of the peaceful ocean. These beaches are the most beautiful parts of Ghana.