The School Visit

Our pre-trip info packet said that we would likely visit a school near our build site as one of our cultural activities.  We were encouraged to bring school supplies to donate.  So, I carved what I thought was a generous amount of space in one of my bags for bringing over school supplies to a small rural village in Ghana, and one Monday morning our group went to visit a local school.   

They didn't tell us how big the school would be. I was overwhelmed by the population - 450 students in six grades, with an average of about seventy students per classroom.  I looked at the school supplies I had brought; in all roughly 32 crayons, 40 pens, and 500 sheets of paper.  So, from my generous offerings each student could have approximately one sheet of paper and one-tenth of a writing utensil.   Way to save the world, Angie.  Let the largesse flow forth. 

We had a few minutes to walk around and observe the students in their classrooms, then the bell rang for mid-day break and all of the kids poured out of their classrooms into the courtyard.  And then there were a hundred adorable schoolchildren congregated in front of me, staring at me, waiting to see what I would do next.  What would I do next?  I wasn’t really sure.  I hadn’t anticipated having a sudden audience.  So I followed the lead of another volunteer and took out my digital camera to get a picture of the group.  I sort of understood this would be a popular thing to do – the kids love having their picture taken and seeing their faces show up on the display.

I just had no idea HOW popular.  Turns out ‘popular’ is a bit of an understatement. 

And that’s how I started a riot amongst a hundred schoolchildren in Ghana.

This is just a portion of the group - you have to imagine this extending in a 180-degree arc around you to appreciate the full experience. 

As soon as I turned the camera around all the little faces in front of me had to see the display LIKE RIGHT NOW.  There was pushing, there was shoving, there were little kids squashed between the shoulders of bigger kids, there were kids jumping to see over the heads of their classmates.  They reminded me of the way koi fish will all pack in and flop around on top of one another trying to reach a lone crust of bread.  Laughter, cheers, pointing, grabbing.  I don’t think anyone was hurt and they all seemed pretty happy, but I’m glad they’re sturdy.  This went on for several minutes.  I don’t think the kids ever got tired of seeing the display, but I did, so eventually I had to just shut it off and put it back in my pocket.  And then we were back to square one – what to do now?

I made a semi-theatrical turn and took two steps away, then looked over my shoulder.  They all giggled and followed me.  I put my arms at my sides, hands out, shuffled penguin-style.  They did the same.  And the game was established.  I raised my hands overhead and saw two hundred hands shoot up in reply.  I made airplane arms and swooped in a semi-circle around the schoolyard and created a hundred mini-airplanes following in my wake.  I assume this is what being God feels like.  I can only imagine how awesome teaching group fitness here would be (not that they need it, of course – alas, the people easiest to teach are the ones that don’t need to be taught). 

Me and some of my mini-airplanes.  This was some of the best fun I had on the trip. 

The kids I encountered in Ghana were a joy.  Part of that may be simply because everyone, young and old, is eager to meet and please American visitors. And then, part of it too may be the things their upbringing does right.  Don't worry, I'm not about to launch a "that's what wrong with kids/parents today!" diatribe.  I'm not a fan of blanket statements of how kids should and shouldn't be raised (especially from people that don't have any - like myself), and I'm not comfortable stamping my foot and saying it's the limited media influence, or the relative lack of junk food, or the corporal punishment, or the religion, or the family, or their access to nature, or any of several dozen other influences, that affected the behavior I witnessed.  But I can say, based on admittedly limited observation, that the kids I met seemed pretty content.  The babies don’t constantly fuss.  They sit or lie wrapped up on Mom’s back and watch the world from their vantage point with hardly a peep.  The kids in tow behind Mom and/or Dad are content to sit and watch their parents while they work, or they find quiet ways to entertain themselves with simple toys like a stick and a half-deflated rubber ball.  They get excited by new shiny things like digital cameras, but not greedy, not desperate – not competitive, I don’t think.  They’re not brats, I guess is what I’m saying.  Just … happy. 

The Smart Art of Carrying Things On Your Head

Another source of constant wonder and amusement for me in Ghana was people carrying things on their heads.  Everything.  I hadn’t given it much thought before the trip, but I guess I assumed it was a relic of the past, or of a National Geographic-inspired picture of Africa, that people would carry things on their heads as much as they would wear loin cloths and tribal outfits. 

The vendors in the streets in Accra sold their wares off the tops of their heads. 

Street vendor in Accra - I can't remember what all he/she was selling, it could've been anything from food to shoeshine brushes

 

The women that brought water to our work sites in Bolgatanga carried water in large pails gracefully balanced atop their figures. 

Aren't they beautiful?

 

I saw everything from laundry to garbage bags to firewood to six-foot picnic benches (wish I had a picture of that one) carried cranium-style. 

Beautiful photo taken by a fellow traveller of the iconic Ghanaian woman - with a load on her head and a baby on her back

 

Even the porter that helped me haul my bags to my home away from home at our work site carried my duffel bag on his head. 

I don't think anything said "Welcome to Ghana" to me quite as much as this image

It makes sense.  You get optimal balance and weight distribution across your body by positioning the weight directly over your center of gravity.  The weight is then supported primarily by your major muscle groups, like your core and quadriceps, rather than using the smaller muscles in your upper appendages to carry the load and your major muscles to stabilize your now off-center system.  

A few of us tried it with our cement blocks and head pans of mortar.  It’s remarkable how much lighter a load feels once it’s directly overhead, like ¾ of the weight just suddenly evaporated.  Getting the load raised and balanced to this position requires some help, but once it’s in place you’re good to go with I’d guess 2-4 times the weight you would normally be able to carry.

Feels a little silly, but it does work!

I just don’t understand why the practice hasn’t caught on the world over.  It’s not new, it’s not difficult, it doesn’t require any capital or other resources.  Why isn’t everyone from Europe to Australia carrying things on their heads?  Why is this practice so common amongst everyone here, and so completely unseen in any other rural or urban environment I’ve visited* in the United States, Europe, South America or Australia?  I know Africa has yet to become a major player in the global scene, but it’s not like they’re completely insulated – evolution should have picked up on and spread this strategy for carrying things by now.  What am I missing here, folks?  In spite of all the modern convenience of cars and conveyor belts and utility carts and whatnot, we all have to carry things manually at one time or another – so why aren’t we all doing it atop our noggins?

Maybe I’ll start a trend.  Next time I’m traveling through a crowded airport, I’ll try putting my duffel bag on my head.  Think it would catch on?  Or would I look just crazy enough for airport security to deem me a flight risk?   

*I’m not saying it doesn’t exist elsewhere in the world; I’m just saying, of the places I’ve been, this is the first time I’ve seen it.   

Music and Dancing in Ghana

Music and dance performances are primarily passive art forms for the entertainee, in most of my experience to date.  You’re either entertaining, or being entertained; there’s rarely much, if any, reversal of the roles within a performance.  The energy of the performance is on a one-way track from the performer to the audience, who absorbs it like so much dark matter; if the entertainer is good, and the crowd is right, the applause and/or cheers will reflect a fraction of that energy back to them.  But it’s hardly a perpetual motion machine.   

One of our evening cultural activities was a performance by a drumming group.  The first part of the evening went much as we’re used to; they drummed, we listened, they finished a set, we clapped, they performed a trick move or upped the intensity of their drumming, we politely clapped harder or cheered.  We understand this type of performance.  This was good.  Then the second half of the performance began - a circle formed, and one by one people drew themselves out to dance in the center of it.  We were part of that circle.  The Ghanaians wanted us to dance.  The Americans wanted to watch the entertainment the way we're used to - seated.  The gap between cultures was there, and felt like it grew wider and more disappointing at every change in performers. 

David bridged the gap for us.  The whitest white boy you’ve ever seen just popped up from his plastic chair and started hopping and spinning and jiving around the circle, like a pale octopus on a top.  It was energetic, it was uninhibited, and it was genuine.  The swell of enthusiastic cheers from the Ghanaians was genuine as well.  He was the best received dancer of the evening.  It wasn’t about his suave moves, or even his lack thereof; I don’t think what he did was half as important as the fact that he did something at all, with no reservations. 

You go, David. You. Go. 

I was caught on the cusp of going out to dance for the longest time.  Suspended between the persuasion to accept and embrace the invitation to this cultural experience and the equal and opposite persuasion to not make a fool of myself.  I never did quite muster the courage to go out into the circle on my own assertion.  But, fate or karma or whatever clearly didn’t intend to let me sit this one out.  My personalized invitation came in the form of a little boy who danced his thing in the center of the circle, then marched straight over to me, turned, and gave a little push with his fanny in my direction.  An undeniable “your move, lady”.  Well, it would definitely have been rude to decline …

I did the best I knew how to just shut down mentally and dance like the drums were telling my arms and legs what to do.  I don’t think it worked in its entirety, as I do have some recollection of what I was doing and thinking while I was out there.  I remember first trying to mimic the dancing of the other women I’d seen, which seemed well received.   When that got stale and I got the feeling I wasn’t quite done I just started flailing appendages.  Winding up my arms like windmills, running in place, jumping and spinning in a circle.  It was fun … in a manner of speaking.  I imagine if I did things like that more often I would come to enjoy the dancing itself; for this time,  I was satisfied to just survive the anxiety of an unrehearsed performance, something that scared me for no good reason.  I also got a high-five of approval from our team leader when the circle was over, so I must’ve done alright.  

The cameras missed my solo - but there is photographic evidence that I was out there, bopping about. 

It took awhile, but we finally got most of our volunteer force out and dancing.  Go us!

      
Several people had cameras, one or more may even have had video.  Fortunately (for me, at least) our performance was lighted by only a solitary street lamp and churned up a lot of dust, which made for pretty poor quality pictures.  Oh darn.   

This is what 90% of the photos from the evening look like.  I picked this one because you can still make out the Packer-Favre jersey one of the drummers was wearing.  Go Pack Go!

The worth of a water bottle

I went for a run one morning.  It was dusty, and a bit warm (I didn’t bring anything other than work clothes, so I ran in khakis), but nonetheless awesome.  I left my water bottle on the side of the road, like I would for any run I would do at home.  I know someone could take it, but usually I figure, who needs to steal a water bottle?  I should have foreseen that I couldn’t make the same assumptions in Ghana.  As I was turning the corner at the end of my run, I saw a man walking along the side of the road, smiling happily, taking a big gulp from a water bottle the same size and style as mine.  And the one I’d left by the side of the road was missing. 

I didn’t worry for myself about losing one water bottle; I could easily replace it.  Nor did I think of the man as some kind of thief or greedy opportunist for taking it, as he probably assumed it was abandoned, free for the taking, and his lucky day for finding it.  What bothered me is that it reminded me that I have access to something that most of the people in this community don’t have.  And I take it for granted. 

I was struck by my carelessness with this resource more than once.  At the dedication ceremony for the house we completed, I absentmindedly set my water bottle down in the shade and forgot about it.  By the time I remembered and went back for it, I was too late; a couple of kids had already claimed their prize.  They saw me and stopped, and I think we each knew who that bottle originally belonged to; I think they would have given it to me if I had asked, but I just didn’t have the heart to do so.  I also remember watching another volunteer tell a man at the end of the day he couldn’t take our empty water bottles (something I probably would’ve given over without a second thought – oops, good thing he didn’t ask me) and how uncomfortable I felt when the kids I was dancing with at the dedication ceremony said they wanted water – and I lied and said I didn’t have any.  Which they knew wasn’t true, not just because I’m American but because at least some of them would have seen me drinking from my plastic bottle whenever I took a break from the circle.  

Cute kid dancing with a plastic bottle - look how happy he is!

We were assured access to plenty of safe drinking water prior to arriving at the site, as one of the conditions of our stay.  And we were encouraged to drink copious amounts of water, too, to prevent dehydration and heat exhaustion.  I fully understand the quality and quantity of water we had were deemed a health and sanitation necessity, not a luxury, and I don’t think they needed to be foregone.  But I think somewhere in its assurance and abundance it lost its reverence as well. 

I expected we would have things from home that others in our community wouldn’t have.  I just assumed the majority of them would be frivolous – electronics, candy, shiny things.  Things I probably take for granted but know at the end of the day that I don’t really need, or at least feel I need more so than they because I’m not built for their climate (sunscreen, for example).  I don’t feel too bad for denying a kid a can of Coke or refusing to leave a man my work gloves when I left.  But water?  How can you say to someone “you don’t need that” when I clearly don’t believe that to be true for even myself?  It just makes me feel like a dirty little hypocrite.        

I’ve often heard the parable of the star thrower; eco-enthusiasts and other activists are fond of quoting it*.  A man is walking down a beach covered as far as the eye can see with starfish.   They have been beached by the tide, and if they don’t reach water soon, they will all die.  He encounters another man, walking down the beach in the opposite direction, taking one starfish at a time and hurling it out into the sea.  “You’re wasting your time, crazy man” says the first man.  “There are hundreds of thousands of starfish on this beach, and you can’t possibly save all of them!”  The second man looks at the first, then picks up another starfish and hurls it into the ocean.  He replies, “I just saved that one.” 

It’s a nice story, and I have no quarrel with the basic moral of the tale; do what you can, with what you have, where you are.  But I have to wonder how the story would change if the man that threw one starfish into the sea was suddenly ambushed by every other starfish in the vicinity that saw what the first starfish got and wanted the same thing.  What if flinging one starfish bred resentment and jealousy amongst a thousand others, and the starfish started pushing and shoving and crawling over and abusing each other to get within the grasp of the now overwhelmed thrower?  If providing a generous service for a minority of the population awakens the awareness of the majority, and leaves the majority feeling overall worse … is there still a net positive gain? 

I’m not arguing against getting involved where there’s a need.  And I do think there are organizations like Habitat and the Peace Corps that have learned, through years of experience, how to get involved while minimizing creating a culture of dependence and jealousy around their presence.  I’m just saying, I get it.  I get why giving and donating and saying “yes” to every request for help is not as simple and happy and warm and fuzzy as I wish it could be. 

*I’m paraphrasing what I remember; sorry if I butchered some of the details!

Working Construction in Ghana

All of the houses we built were constructed of cement block, single level, with concrete floors and corrugated sheet metal roofs.  Our construction materials were very simple.  Everything from the blocks to the mortar to the concrete floors to the plaster on the walls was some mix of cement powder, sand, rocks, and water; the only difference between the components was the ratio of its constituents.  Our tools were shovels, wheelbarrows, head pans, trowels, and muscle.  We didn’t have any power tools on site at all, so everything was mixed, carried, and assembled by manual labor. 

Working on the gables - that whole truss is supported by gravity, not a single nail, bolt, or other fastener holds it to the wall.

Our tools - headpans, a barrel of water, shovels, and a mix of cement powder, clay, sand, and rocks, creates the building arising block by block in the background.

Filling a wheelbarrow with sand (the first of many). 

filling another wheelbarrow - trying to keep as much sand as possible in the barrow and as little as possible in my lungs.

 

As largely inexperienced volunteers, we weren’t very useful at jobs that required some skill, like mortaring and plastering.  (And I was even more humbled than I expected to be by how difficult it is to stuff mortar into cracks and flick plaster on a wall).  So, our most essential function as volunteers was to serve as warm-blooded conveyor systems.  We hauled cement blocks, hauled head pans of mortar, and shoveled sand and rocks into wheelbarrows and transported them from Point A to Point B.  It was pretty much lift and carry, lift and carry, most of the day.  Not jobs I’m especially well built for (I’m a runner, not a hauler), but I adapted alright, I think. 

lifting blocks

Trying my hand at mortaring - I gave up on using the tools and just used my hands. 

It was warm.  We didn’t have a thermometer at site, but I heard after the fact that the forecasted temps were up to 105 F on some of our work days.  Had I known how hot it was, I might have convinced myself that it wasn’t possible (or at least wasn’t safe) to be doing hard physical labor in those conditions.  It actually wasn’t that bad – uncomfortable, but not unbearable.  You just put on your hat and sunscreen (or long white sleeves, if you’re me), accept that it’s going to feel like a sauna for the next 8-ish hours, and get to work.  And sweat.  A lot.  I went through an average of three 1.5L bottles of water every day, sometimes more.  My shirt didn’t have a dry spot on it at the end of the day.  I guess it’s fortunate for me that I’m used to sweating heavily, as it didn’t bother me much.  Simple tricks like standing in the shade when you’re not working or stepping around the corner to the breezy side of the house made a world of difference too.  Obvious, right?   

Filling a headpan with rocks - with enough arm muscle it would've been faster to shovel the rocks into the pan, but we found it more feasible for us to load the rocks a handful at a time.

Passing a cement block.  Not shown in the photo:  the long, long line of volunteers doing the same thing. 

At one point I started having a mini-epiphany/euphoria moment about the simplicity of it all.  I could count the number of tools we used in a day on one hand.  I could count the number of ingredients that went into each of the building blocks of the house on one hand as well.  I could probably even count the total variety of the meals and snacks I ate on no more than two hands.  The houses we built were not much more than four solid cement walls, a concrete floor, and a corrugated steel roof.  And they were perfectly adequate.  I stayed in one for a week and a half that was furnished (shower, sink, and toilet aside) with nothing more than light bulbs and foam mattresses.  I didn’t miss having a bedframe, tables, shelves, window treatments, wall art, towel rods, light fixtures, closets.  I didn’t miss computers, televisions, air conditioning, or hot water (granted, most of the bath water was lukewarm by default anyway).  The only thing I used on site that had an on/off switch was my camera.  I’ve always been frugal when it comes to creature comforts, but not quite at this level before.  I kind of loved it.  I can see why some people would be inspired upon visiting a place like this to come home and start stripping themselves of all their possessions, giving away everything they didn’t absolutely immediately need or want.  It really is liberating to see, even for a little while, life stripped back to its most basic elements.  It re-sets your priorities.  

High five!

The underwear incident

A brief summary of what I did in my first 24 hours at our build site:  Met my teammates.  Hauled some cement blocks.  And thoroughly, totally, and entirely accidentally offended an entire culture.

Twice a week, all of the volunteers pooled their laundry for washing by a few of the local women.  The women do laundry by hand much more quickly and effectively than us, plus it gave us another opportunity to inject some money into the community.  There was only one restriction given: it would not be appropriate to give the washing women any women’s underwear.  That would be indecent.  (As opposed to men’s underwear, which apparently is perfectly decent and appropriate – but, I digress). 

The day after I arrived at site was the first laundry day.  I took my pile of dirty clothes and separated each item.  T-shirt?  Okay – “safe” laundry pile.  Khakis?  Okay – “safe” laundry pile.  A sports bra?  Um, not sure … better place it in the “self-wash” pile, just to be safe.  I sorted every item like this.  Carried my dozen “safe” clothes to the community laundry pile.  Looked at the pile one last time, nodded my approval.  Might have even prided myself, just a little, on the extra care I’d taken.  Walked away, enjoying feeling that I’d taken an extra minute to show respect to my adopted community. 

Just before dinner, we found our laundry all dried and neatly folded in a stack on the dinner table.  The women did an amazing job.  I had no idea hand washing could work out all that dust and sweat – they looked untouched by the previous day’s work.  I said a silent thank-you to the washing women and started scanning the table for my items.  The T-shirts, the khakis, the socks.   

And, in a pile by themselves, one pair of bright, clean, Hanes six-pack baby-blue women’s underwear. 

OH SHIT.

MY pair of Hanes six-pack baby-blue women’s underwear.  Completely, unmistakably, full-on girly girl women’s underwear, right down to the perky little frills around the edges.  A brazen violation of the “no women’s underwear” rule.  MY brazen violation of the “no women’s underwear” rule. 

They must have been stuck in the pant leg of my khakis.  Or they were rolled up inside the wad that was my khakis.  Did I unfurl my khaki wad before putting it in the pile?  Why didn’t I think to check the pant legs?  DAMMIT.  I shoved the offending pair in my pocket, hoping to muffle the siren I heard when I looked at them.  And tried to re-assure myself that it probably wasn’t such a big deal.  Just one pair.  Clearly a mistake.  They hadn’t killed anyone.  Obviously they did get washed, along with everything else.  Life seemed to be proceeding as normal.   

But, no such luck.  They certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed.  At all.  Our evening announcements started with a very serious talk.  About The Very Serious Cultural Offense that someone (no names were requested) had committed with their laundry contributions.  It was no laughing matter.  Our trip leader had to get involved.  Our Habitat site liaison had to get involved.  Obviously somebody must have managed to say the right words to someone to smooth things over, but make no mistake.  It.  Was.  Serious.    

What I wouldn’t have given for the opportunity to go back in time and snatch the underwear from that counsel.  Thrown it away.  Burned it.  Buried it in some deep plastic garbage bag and never spoken of it again.  My undies are a dime a dozen, the opposite of anything fancy or special; they would never be missed.  They certainly aren’t worth offending an entire culture. 

 Instead, I just sat and listened to the lecture, not caring if anyone noticed or cared that I had a couple of tear tracks on my cheeks by the end of it.

Fabulous start to my trip.  Just.  Fabulous.