One Man's Trash

One Man’s Trash…

The question arises; when living in a third world country (is Ghana actually third world, I’m not sure) what do you do with your trash? I can tell you what they do with it, they just throw it where ever and eventually some stuff gets burned. I hate to burn plastic. I try to give the children any containers that they can make into toys and I hide batteries because they’re dangerous. But what about everything else? What I don’t burn will be claimed and then I’ll see it sitting along the dirt path in front of my house, left behind by whom ever claimed it and deemed it unworthy as well.
I now understand how housing compounds with courtyards began. You enclose yourself, plant a little garden in the interior courtyard, make everything look beautiful inside the walls, then you toss the refuse, rubbish, ugly, unsightly things outside the gate for whom ever else to deal with. Well, that won’t work anymore, our land and water are eating it and so where are we supposed to get clean nourishment from? Its not going to come from the same dirt we’re polluting. I understand though. It is more than tempting to place all of the trash that was left behind by the last three volunteers, the stuff that no one knew what to do with, outside of my gate and forget about it. Since that’s not an option, I need a plan.
I’m here to help with Sanitation and I’m living in the District Capital, there must be someone who wants to se a change. Up here, in the North, people tend to be more conscious. I don’t know it it’s the remaining tradition that still exists or the fact that they’ve been exposed to Western influence since the 1920’s but I think something could happen. Time will tell. I can’t impose my own agenda; I have to help where they want me to, so unless this is an issue that they see needs attention it may go untouched.
When I was packing up my house to move out, I spent two weeks slowly going through everything (I had lived there 7 years) and piled up every single thing that I could recycle, give away, or offer to someone. I managed to make several trips to the recycling depot, Goodwill, and friend’s houses and only threw away three garbage bags of stuff. Everything else was recycled. That’s tremendous and all it took was time, patience, and consideration for the planet and humanity. That’s it! I felt so good about myself after that effort. (In the past, I’d just bag up EVERYTHING I didn’t feel like dealing with and leave it by the roadside for someone else to deal with, Granted, the last time I moved I was only 20, and could have cared less about these issues.) I think that the difference is my attitude. To me, it was a priority to recycle all of that stuff and to take accountability for acquiring it in the first place. I didn’t miss the time, in fact, I felt like it was a loving act to my community. In the end, I was peaceful not having anything anymore, it all went somewhere useful and that was extremely fulfilling.

Mighty Mouse.

I have met my match, he is small and fury and loves my room as much as I do, however, he’s not invited. A few nights ago, I was laying in bed reading and the curtain started to move. I stood up on the bed and just stared at it, paralyzed. Now, I can handle bugs, the biggest, ugliest, scariest insects are no problem, I even scoop them into something and place them outside: it bothers me to kill them. But rodents are different. They’re different somehow. Maybe because they’re bigger and fury and run really fast and squeak and you don’t know which way their going, oh I could go on and on. So this stupid mouse runs into my closet, which is actually just a set of built-in shelves. I sit on my bed unsure of what to do. Finally, I decide its no big deal; he probably found his way out the back and has left. What I failed to take into consideration, silly me, is that I live inside concrete walls, there is no escaping through the back of the closet. The walls are solid. Ok, so it runs across the room and then back and then stays all night, I think.
Next night, mousey runs out, by this point I’m talking to it, threatening to get a cat (but I don’t want a cat because its hard enough to feed and water myself in Africa, I don’t want to take on the responsibility of another mammal). I explain that I don’t want to hurt it, I only want it to leave and then I’m trying to be patient because after all I believe that we invite every situation we experience into our lives, well, what the hell did I want this for? I’m not sure what else happens, but I can’t sleep. With every little noise, I turn on the light and I’m totally freaked out. Then, early in the morning, I’m finally asleep and I hear a tatter on the bed or was it? I’m not sure, was I dreaming? I jump up, onto my knees, facing the pillows, questioning what I heard and felt, then I slowly lift up my two pillows and he runs out and jumps off the bed! I bang to pillow on the bed like a mad woman, so full of rage I want to jump out of my skin and tear the closet out from the wall and just demolish this little rodent.
Night three, I don’t see him anywhere, I’m so happy. I climb into bed with my book but then decide to get some water; I should be drinking more water right? I open my door to walk out and the mouse falls from the door jamb and runs into my closet! I freak out, I’m yelling and banging things, I’ve had it at this point. I’m asking myself what the stupid mouse represents in Native American culture to try and figure out why on earth it’s visiting me. At this point, I am so exhausted from lack of sleep and feel so powerless over this stupid animal, I hang the mosquito net that’s too small for my bed, tuck it in all around me and go to sleep. That night, I dream that mice are everywhere, running back and forth in my room, I can’t tell if I’m sleeping or awake because in the dream I’m beneath the mosquito net and then this big black cat appears and I’m elated, I start to cry. Then, all of a sudden the cat stands up on his hind legs (he’s as tall as me) and begins to claw the mosquito netting, and so I back up until I hit the wall and scream. When I wake, I’m angry, tired, scared and frustrated. Later, I leave for work and close the mosquito net to keep my bed clear.
When I return at noon and walk into my room, the mouse is on my bed, inside the net and is stuck and can’t get out! I’m thinking, what is your problem!!! Why can’t you go away?? There’s no food in my room, nor is it connected to any room with food, its all by itself on THIS side of the courtyard, go live in the kitchen if you want to but get out of my room and off of my bed!!!) I grab a bucket and I’m going to try to capture him and set him free, outside the gate, where he’ll be someone else’s problem, ha ha, but as soon as I return, he’s gone.
Words can’t explain my feelings at this point. Imagine me as Ben Stiller in, well, anything really, I just can’t get a break. I leave the room and leave the door open and tell it to leave whenever it wishes. I see him, later, outside, on the screen of my living room window and I yell and close all of the windows and he runs behind the water tank, so I go outside with a huge stick and start beating everything I can. I’m whacking the water tank, the house, the gate, the ground, yelling at it, telling it to get out of my life!!! I come into my room and duct tape every single crack and crevice and close the door and I haven’t seen or heard him since. Tonight will be night two without mousey and I’m thrilled beyond words.

Painting and Pineapples…

I’ve spent the past two days painting my house and completing other small art projects to make this place more me. I’m tired, filthy, covered in dust and paint and I just sat here, bare feet, on the floor and devoured the best pineapple ever. I was starving and my stove is dismantled while the paint dries, so I grabbed a knife and a plate and this enormous fresh pineapple and began cutting. I dripped juice all over me and the floor and my legs and laughed at how barbaric I must have looked. Seriously, at one point, eating the fruit off the edge of the knife while holding another piece in my hand, I felt I must look like some sort of cave woman having her first pineapple experience.

The Hero’s Journey…

I’m so bummed tonight. One of the girls I’ve gotten close to has decided this place is not for her. She’s one of three amazing women who’ve been on the fence about staying here. I’m so disappointed. Its lonely enough being here, but it increases when those you have made connections with decide to leave. I respect this woman so much and I can’t wait to find out what she ends up doing with herself. I know it will be amazing.
In my grief, I text messaged a friend of mine, back home, who told me she wanted to know how I really felt here and that I should tell her the gut level stuff I go through (she’s a counselor, it makes perfect sense). So I tell her I’m sad and how, just like in AA, when people start to leave and do others things, I begin to question myself. Her response has me in tears. She said, it’s the hero’s journey. They meet companions, but none are consistent. They journey is taken alone and that it is fulfilling. I am connecting with my essence, she says! It is so true. I felt the truth of her statement course through my veins. I am so thankful for her words. They strengthened me tonight. Thanks Keish.

On a lighter note, this morning, at church, the pastor’s wife asked if I’d help out with a single woman’s workshop this week. Its to help single mothers understand birth control options and how to generate income, etc. There are so many topics that I can talk about. I’m excited! And I have two other meetings planned, with the water board and the woman’s bakery. I can’t believe this, I’m actually working in Africa. It just became real on a much deeper level.

Ubuntu

“Being in a foreign country means walking a tightrope high above the ground without the net afforded a person by the country where he has his family, colleagues, and friends, and where he can easily say what he has to say in a language he has known from childhood.” –Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

How amazingly true. He said it so beautifully. I love him.

I was moving at what felt like 80 miles an hour and then someone slammed on the brakes and now I’m moving at 5 miles an hour. But my head is still somewhere around 40, so I think a lot in my spare time.

I’ve arrived at my new home and began work. Or, should I say, began showing up at work. This week, I seem to be waiting for everyone to return from somewhere else. Once this whole thing kicks into gear, I think I will be pretty busy.
The assessment of Jirapa’s water supply and sanitation methods will be quite a lot of work in itself. I look forward to it.
My day is broken into three parts: first, I go for tea every morning at the tea stand around 7 am (or earlier, this is my favorite thing each day), where I read and chat with the locals; second, I go to the District Assembly around 9, greet everyone, ask who needs my help, then its off to the hospital to help there, then home for lunch; last, prepare food for the day and visit with neighbors, bath and go to bed to read or write or draw or whatever. This leaves a lot of extra time for thinking, trust me. I love my little home and today I bought paintbrushes and rollers (thank God, I thought I’d have to brush the entire place) and tomorrow I will begin painting!!

Ubuntu…

My friend Harry, who I met by happy co-incidence, in Las Vegas oddly enough, sent me a wonderful message the other day. It was the word Ubuntu, which means "humanity toward others", "we are people because of other people", or "I am who I am because of who we all are," The interesting thing is that there was a torn sheet of paper, taped to my wall containing this word when I arrived at my home. I love how life flows together. Not a word could mean more to me than this one right now. I am who I am because of all of you! This word originates from South Africa, as does my friend Harry. Thank you Harry for another happy co-incidence.

Eulalia…

My sixteen year-old neighbor has lived through a horrible experience. She became pregnant around 14 and had an illegal abortion, which consisted of someone being paid to shove sticks inside her womb, killing the fetus. This resulted in extreme internal damage, fissures, and ended in her uterus rotting, leaving Eulalia septic and near death. So, with no other choice, she had a total hysterectomy and can no longer have children. In Ghana, this means she will end up a prostitute or go to school, which can be very expensive.

So, my dilemma, she knocks on my door, actually bangs on my door several times early yesterday morning and when I answer, gives me a terrible sob story about needing money to buy paper and pens and a compass for a math project.

I tell her I don’t have the money, which was true actually, and asked what she would do if I didn’t live here. She began to tell me that the previous volunteer would give her money and I stopped her and asked the question again. She said she would ask her parents and that she had and there was no money. So I asked her to think of a way to earn the money. She just stared at me. I said, Eulalia, think think think, and pointed to my head about what your talents are and how you can earn this money.

Now, here’s the other side to this coin. I was just like her. As a teenager, I’d sneak into the house with two boxes of new shoes, after my mom went to sleep and then not have enough to pay my car insurance. It did not stop there and in fact, I misspent money just before coming to Ghana. I don’t want to enable this girl. My intention is to build her up. I know I’m capable of it. To show her a picture of herself that is beautiful, intelligent, capable, talented. Though I am still learning to correctly budget, which is hard no matter how small or great your salary is, I certainly know how to make money. I’ve been working a long time and am so grateful for it.
So, I closed the door and felt a pain in my chest and thought of myself at her age and felt so confused. I’m glad I didn’t have enough to give her because the choice was made for me. There is so much more to do here that water sanitation.

Ramblings from the night…

I fall in love with nearly every writer whose work I indulge myself with. It never fails, male or female, living or dead, I connect so deeply with their work, their characters, so often while reading, I’ll pause and reread the author’s note or stare at their picture. I’m constantly wondering what has brought them to the point where they had no choice but to place their words on paper, for all of the world to see.
I fell in love with a writer just before coming to Africa. After a series of chance meetings, he entered my life at such a time when connection was the last thing I expected, yet there it was, in all its ferociousness. Yet, in the end, we both chose something else. Me, Africa and him, well, I’m not exactly sure what he’s chosen.
This has all been rolling around in my head, so I’ve forced myself out of bed to type it out, in case I cannot recall it in the morning. Though, I suppose once I wake and reread it, it may not actually be the sound reasoning I’d imagined it to be and quite possibly something I’d never wish to share with anyone.
None the less, here it is, my late night wonderings about love and life. I wonder if all this time to think will result in clarity or sanity. I suppose time will tell.
I’ve just begun reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kunderas. I believe he is to blame for my mind set this evening.