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!