Chad's trip: photo montage...

For those of you who prefer to scan the pictures rather than read the articles... this montage is for you.

(Note: the first two days are missing because Chad's camera was stolen, boo...)

After arriving, checking out Accra, seeing a dead man washed up on the beach and taking a 20 hour bus ride with 4 break downs, we finally arrive in Jirapa, exhausted and dirty, but happy to be home.

So, during our five day stay in my town, we:

did laundry


and walked to my favorite spot



and Chad found some bats sleeping in the trees at the hospital







we visited my teen mother group






and then, of course, there are the pigs that sleep beneath my window during the day




After leaving Jirapa, we went to Wachaiu to the Hippo Sanctuary




and took a river safari. On the way, our guide stopped to greet the family of our boat captain and they offered Chad some tea. (Only Chad was offered the tea, since he was the only male traveling in our group)





These cuties wooed Chad with their homemade instrument






The river was beautiful



Chad got to ride in the front



then the rain set in, so we took cover beneath the trees on the bank, which happened to be in Burkina Faso






but then the rain stopped and in the distance, we saw eight hippos playing in the water (they told us it was eight, honestly, i didn't have my glasses and i could only see grey and pink blotches moving around, but it was still pretty surreal)







on the way back, Chad and the guides stopped and picked a few oysters for us to try




The rain left a sunset with nothing to be desired







That night, Chad and I sat around the coal pot talking, something I deeply enjoyed, then we sat on the roof of the lodge and watched a massive storm roll in...

The next day we made our way to Cape Coast, this is how you eat an orange on the move...



after walking in an uphill circle, carrying heavy bags we finally find a hotel room, only feet from where we began...

with an exceptional view





At dusk, he showed me the magnitude of standing on the beach during sunset. At the moment where day becomes night and water meets land. Its a powerful place to be. The body can seem so small amidst this transition. Small yet amazing.












to be continued...

Paradox soup with a side of high expectations…

Before coming to Ghana, there were certain images I held in my imagination about Africa and about my future experience here. Upon arrival, most, if not all were destroyed. I imagined a two year camping trip where I’d be surrounded by indigenous people and traditions, limited access to power and water, and cell phones would be a distant memory. I also imagined impoverished people eking out a living in a mostly undeveloped world.
I arrived in Accra to complete insanity, cars and buses, lights flashing, a two hour mad dash trailing behind police escorts, hurrying us out of the city. My jet lag mixed with shock and surprise left me confused and exhausted. Fast forward 8 months. I live in a town with electricity, where most of the people my age have trendier clothing and gadgets than myself.
I find that I continually expect nonsensical things to occur, always followed by constant disappointment.
For example: I expected people to be stuck in the middle ages, but I find myself angry when they behave uncivilized. I longed to be away from the hustle and bustle, while I secretly yearn for modern conveniences, high heels, and hot showers. I hate the smog and pollution cast off by automobiles but I ride in taxis in Accra as often as I can. I’m saddened to see electronics becoming the most sought after product in the country, even in the Upper West, the poorest region, yet I covet my laptop, camera, cell phone and mp3s. Why is it that I think these people should be grateful for what they have and preserve the ancient traditional methods of life, when I really believe that its better where I live? (not completely better, just the comfort and convenience of it all)
The development here is occurring so rapidly in regards to consumerism, yet its at a snails pace for clean water, toilets and gender equality. I suppose to anyone who’s traveled in the developing world, this is all old news and my realizations are somewhat immature, I just keep astonishing myself with each unrealistic expectation of a place I’ve never even lived before!

Story books

And these, Madame, the ancient voice echoed as the man standing in front of me stepped aside and waved his hand toward the aisle, are all story books. I looked up at the dust filled shelves filled with old books, my eyes darted from spine to spine and my whole being filled with joy. The same joy I imagine Edmond Dantes felt when Abbe Faria stumbled upon his cell accidentally in the Count of Monte Cristo.

This morning, I stumbled upon a library. A library filled with dusty books that I’ve always wanted to read. As I investigated the shelves, I wondered if this man really knew the treasure that lie in this dark old building. Where had all these books come from? Shipped here as donation I suspect. So much to choose from, but how will I ever sort through them all, nothing is in order, then, aha! An idea. I will take on this project. I begin to imagine clean orderly shelves, alphabetical order, nicely painted signs, children’s stories read once a week to local students. Yes, I think so, but not today. First, I must win this man’s trust before I barge into his sacred library and suggest making changes, no, not the white lady. But soon enough.

Books I borrowed:

The Catcher and the Rye
Jonathon Livingston Seagull (one of my all time favorites)
A Room with a View

I’m so excited.

My work…

I’ve rarely written about my work here, for several reasons. From the time I wake until I go to sleep, I am thinking about my work. Work that isn’t happening, work that I want to happen, work that I feel like should be happening. I worry that I’m not doing enough, thanks to my American standards of justifiable “relaxation time” I often push myself to extreme limits, then I worry I am doing too much and missing the experience I came here for. Over analyzing aside, this blog, my sketch book and my photographs are the rare moments I don’t focus on work. However, today I need to describe these new endeavors and how they’ve come about. I’m awed by it all and I know I am one of the fortunate ones who actually has work to keep me busy. Work that I’m growing passionate about.

Culture, art and all that jazz…

Well, my hopes of preserving traditional african art have taken on a life of their own. One day, I simply mentioned a desire to save the dying arts here in the upper west region and the next day, I was being introduced to an artist called Young Peter. Far from young, Mr. Young Peter has been successful at Cultural Preservation in other regions in Ghana and is sort of an expert, if you will, on this sort of thing. He happens to have recently returned home to Jirapa to retire and I happen to be a very lucky girl that he did.

At our first meeting, I sat nervously in his front yard as he explained the work he’s done and the places he’s traveled, proving himself to me, the white lady. At our second meeting, where he assembled an exhibit, for me to view, of the locally crafted products along with his own work, we sat in wicker chairs, in silence, something I’m slowly becoming accustomed to. Finally, something occurred to me. I turned to him and told him that I believed that when one person’s heart has a specific vision, it calls the others who share the same vision, and eventually, the momentum they create unites them into one place. A serious look came over his face and he looked at me, but then he looked deeper into my face, like he realized we do speak the same language. He nodded and his face bent into a smile covering the majority of the lower portion of his head. I knew he knew and that was all I needed.

Now, working with an elder means that I must be “proper” as he’s so used to saying. He calls me early in the morning, when I’m not used to anyone interrupting my silent, breakfast ritual, Erica, he says, Good morning. Can we meet?
Yes, Mr. Young Peter, of course we can, When?
Oh, maybe in half an hour, he says, testing me.
Ok, I’ll be there.

Oh, Erica, we must first meet the man at his work before we meet him at his house, because you know it is the proper way, he says, looking at me, waiting for a response, a grimace or rebuttal. I just smile.

Oh, you see, we must, we must, we must, because, you see it is the proper way.

When he drags me all over town in the middle of the day when no one is even awake due to the terrible heat, the sun beating down on my arms, chasing after a man that supposedly has a color printer, and the sweat is dripping down my bright red face, he turns over his shoulder and hollers that in Africa, when we work, sometimes it means that we give all of our time. I shout back that I’m happy to be here and pedal faster to keep up with him.

I can’t figure his age, but he surely isn’t slowing down any. His wife looks like an Africa queen, high cheek bones, silky smooth skin, glowing eyes and radiant smile. He’s 100% aware of her beauty and so proud to be married to her. He talks about her, shows pictures of her and takes me to meet her as often as I’ll go. I suppose the artist’s eye he possesses misses little, as opposed to other Ghanaian men, who seem to over look beauty for status most of the time.

So, we’re going to actually do it, I think, at least. We have a collective vision: to bring the artists from the village, give them a central place to produce their art and a museum space to exhibit it, sell it, create exposure. It’s a project that will sustain itself and he will, in the end, manage it after I’m long gone. I can’t believe its actually happening.

One interesting situation that occurred, making me aware of the difference in gender roles is that he expects me to be available during times when I’m either cooking or fetching water, which actually means filling the water barrel between 6 and 7 am, both tasks that he does not do because he is a man and his daughter tends to these jobs. He simply wakes, and sits and food is served to him in his chair, as is the scenario for all men across this country. Neither does he fuss over house cleaning, laundry, or buying food. In fact, most men have never once considered doing these tasks, why would they, these are jobs for women. Interesting enough, women are not exempt from men’s tasks, such as farming and trading. In this area, it is common that men don’t do much and women are picking up their slack everywhere. I’m not sure what I make of it all, but I do know that I’m grateful I’m not a Ghanaian woman. The interesting thing is that I somehow get to experience both gender roles while living here.

Another issue, while on the topic, is the harassment that is thrown at me that I often ignore, yet at times I’ve certainly had the urge to deck a few young men. They sit around doing nothing all day either because they’re no jobs to be found or they have no reason to look for one because whether they work or not, there’s still a woman to cook, clean and fetch water for them, be that mom, sister or wife. It isn’t so much that they holler, but that they believe they are entitled to me because I am a woman. I was warned that I’d get marriage proposals and I have, mostly from elder Muslim men seriously wanting to add an additional wife to their family, or elder men who are joking and I joke right back in their language, which always produces laughs, but what these young men bark out is entirely different, a statement that makes my blood boil. White lady, come, I want you. Maybe it’s the lack of vocabulary in Dagaare and the generally aggressive nature of the language, both vocally and bodily, but it makes my skin crawl and I often want to go straight home and lock the door. There they sit, through out the town, slouched back, leaning against a building or a tree or a truck, several sitting in a row, always in a group, just waiting for something to happen and then I ride by, BAM, target, Hey White lady, come, I want you. Laughter erupts, my dignity evaporates. On a few occasions, I’ve slammed on the brakes to my bike, screeching to a halt and turned and yelled not to ever say that to me again, then I just began ignoring it, but today, while riding with Mr. Young Peter, I felt horrible as these young men screamed these remarks. Being belittled as a woman, being disempowered, in front of my colleague was a new experience, one that has left much to be desired tonight.

Xylophone man…

Last night, Young Peter called me and informed me of important business early this morning. He said he’d secured an opportunity for me that he thought I’d enjoy. Of course, he wouldn’t speak of it unless we were in person because it wouldn’t be proper, so I agreed and showed up at 7. He explained that an important Cardinal in the Church had died and the oldest xylophone player would be playing at the funeral. He’d requested permission for me to photograph it if I wanted. He also pulled out an old tape recorder and asked if I could make it work. I told him it needed batteries and a blank tape. Of course, he asked me to find those for him.

So, at one o’clock, we took a long bike ride to a very large funeral. He asked me to sit and wait for his signal, while he greeted all the elders and secured their consent, again. He waved me over and I pulled out the camera, which of course caused a disruption, though I tried to be as discreet as possible. My skin color alone attracts all eyes, a camera just adds fuel to the fire. I watched this man play his instrument, old bells wrapped around his wrists, old voice singing an old song. It reminded me of the way I felt listening to my friend Walter Two Feathers sing songs in his native tongue behind the flute and drum. Walter passed away since I’ve come to Ghana, and today was a little tribute to him in my own way.

The xylophone sounds like those bamboo wind chimes, only much louder and faster. Its hollow, in a rich sort of way, like someone calling into a cave, the emptiness creating its own space. Four men sang in addition to the old man, their old songs piercing the air, voices moving up and down, the intensity of the xylophone increasing as momentum built between the musicians.

Life is Flying

“A new lens passed over everything she saw, the shadows moved on the wall like skeletons handing things to each other. Her body was flung back over a thousand beds in a thousands other rooms. She was undergoing a revolution, she felt split open. In her mattress there beat the feather of a wild bird.” -Excerpt from Evening by Susan Minot

From my journal:

I want to crawl into the book I just finished and have its pages and words wrap themselves around me and allow me to dissolve into nothing. Evening by Susan Minot. It was so beautiful, my heartbeat is pounding in my chest. It was vivid and real and depicted the end of a long intrepid journey that I felt I actually experienced.

I see it so clearly now, one must abandon fear to find passion. I am the embodiment of sensuality. To see, touch, taste, hear and smell, that is why I exist in this body, that is the point.

Easter…

From my notebook on the bus:

I don’t know the date, I’ve been traveling for the holiday. My adventure this time has brought me into so many new experiences. I’ve seen more of this country and seen many new faces. I’ve missed buses, danced in the moonlight, glided in the air over the forest next to a mountain that I ran right off of, and now, I find myself riding on a cramped bus, heading North again. We’ve just stopped in a small town to buy food for lunch. I am alone on the bus, watching people and animals and carts pass by. At the door to my right, is a blind man with a voice of gold and a tambourine, singing a sweet, sweet song that almost makes me cry through my delirium. Now we’re off again and the paved road has slipped away and its too bumpy to write…

Life is flying…

After my mom mentioned a paragliding festival here in Ghana, I decide there is no way I can pass up the experience. I settle on the notion that I may have to make the three-day trip alone, but am happily surprised to find three amazing women who are already planning to go. Mandy, Terri, Caitlyn and I set out for Nkawkaw on little sleep since we stayed up the night before laughing hysterically at stories about our lives prior to meeting.
I sit in quiet excitement mingled with bits of fear while our taxi zigzags up the mountain. We reach the top just in time to catch the end of the opening ceremonies. I sit in the grass, looking down the slope ending in a cliff and beyond to the town below. The pilots are gearing up and I walk over, following my friends, anticipation building. When I’m nervous, I become silent, serious, lost in my own thoughts of preparation. My fear of heights is building and my attempt to destroy those feelings at their start is taking all of the energy I possess this morning. I remind myself that I want to live without regret and that no amount of fear will ever again prevent me from experiencing my heart’s desires.
We line up and pair up with pilots, mine is a nice guy from California, a base jumper who travels the globe jumping from various moving and fixed heights. The pilots’ origins range from America, South Africa, Germany, The Netherlands, Canada, and beyond. He explains the process and the gear and straps a helmet on my head with his own video camera attached to the top. While standing in the cue, waiting our turn, I decide that all fear has ceased from within me and I can do this.
Its our turn, he walks out to the running strip, and begins laying out our chute. I stand, facing the edge, breathing in the view while he hooks me up to the gear. Run, hang, sit, run, hang, sit his directions flow through my mind. He says go, I run with all my might, I’m running, running, running…uuuuhhhh…the wind picks us up and my legs are still running in the air, I drop to hang and wait, my heart is rushing, racing. You can sit now, he says, so I lean back and pick up my legs.
I’m sitting comfortably, hanging over the forest, the wind rushing by me, around my neck, my ears, pushing through my breath, I’m drinking the air into my lungs. It’s so fresh, the air at this height, free from everything, enriched only by the trees and plants growing on the mountain’s edge. He tells me were turning left, and to look over my shoulder. I realize this prevents passengers from becoming sick in the air, always look in the direction you’re turning toward. We turn and I’m facing the cliff, the mountain, we’re higher than where we were standing minutes before. I feel exhilarated. We turn again, I’m looking out and I see a hawk soaring, even with me, yards away. I’m in communion with the enormous bird. We are one momentarily, and then she flies away, soaring to somewhere else. This experience lasts nearly thirty minutes yet ends in the blink of my eyes. Suddenly, we’re heading for the field, faster, faster, wait, he didn’t tell me what to do when we land. I pick up my feet, like I’ve seen on TV, not the right move, so basically, he lands for both of us. We hit the ground, I land on my knees, he falls on top of me, I’m laughing, he’s worried I’m hurt. I’m not. (Well, perhaps my pride, but only a little.)

My Birthday

My Birthday

This weekend, my friend Janet insisted on coming to visit for my birthday. I traveled to Wa to meet her and while we were sitting there drinking tea, three other volunteers walked up to surprise me. They each traveled a long way and I just stood there stunned. The five of us hugged and talked and shared the experience of our first three months at site. Then we got a hotel room and spent the evening sitting on the roof talking. They brought me earrings and cookies and cashews and a beautiful weaved bag from the cultural center. It was wonderful and touching and I still feel like I imagined it. Three of them had to leave the next day but Janet got to come up to Jirapa for a few days. It was wonderful and more than I ever thought would happen. I wasn’t even concerned with celebrating it at all.

My actual birthday, is March 11, which was Tuesday. I was born on Tuesday, which in Ghana means I am called Abina, (Tuesday born). So, I have completed some sort of cycle I imagine, 7 complete four year cycles, seems important, but maybe its not. I’m 28 and it feels as though I only just became an adult. Life moves by so fast.

On my birthday, I said goodbye to Janet and saw her off on her journey home. I went to the office and added some info into the database we are creating then I went home for lunch. In the afternoon, I went to meet a beekeeper, who showed me how to build bee hives. We set out on our bikes and he took me to various spots in the bush where he has his hives set up. Later this week, I’m going to help him set out more hives. Its really a simple process. He told me about his plans to plant cashew trees near his hives because its nectar makes the best honey. At various points throughout the day, I spoke to Chad, my sister, my mom, and my friends Liz and Adria, all surprises which I relished. Later that evening, I was called upon to meet an artist. He is an amazing elder man who has been traveling the world showing his art and teaching art and he has finally returned home and he lives just behind my house. Friday, he is setting up all of the art for me to view. We want to work together to build the cultural center here so that the traditional crafts are preserved. Again, this just came about with out me doing anything. Someone just showed up at my house and told me to come to a spot at 6 pm to meet a man, I didn’t know who or why, I just went. I am amazed still at the preciousness of the map of life that exists before us. Before leaving the artist’s home, he commented on the smell of rain in the air and I told him that I thought it wasn’t supposed to rain for another 6 weeks. He said that it had already rained somewhere near there, that he could smell it, the rain is coming.
Returning home, I met my friend Sandra and while talking, off in the distance I saw lightning strike. She asked me if I could smell rain in the air, she said she could smell that it had rained somewhere earlier, just as the man mentioned.

Rainstorm

Last night I dreamt that I was sitting beneath a tree, the tree that sits at the top of my favorite spot. While leaning against his trunk, the tree whispered to me that it needed rain. It told me it was losing hope and it was beginning to die. Upon hearing this plea, my heart whispered back the greatest prayer it ever uttered, a prayer for the tree to live, for it loved the tree deeply. Watching this act of unconditional love, the sky was so touched that it began to cry, weeping giant tears of joy. The tears fell to the earth, covering the tree and its leaves, covering me and the rocks, then they ran onto the dry cracked earth and fell into those cracks, nourishing all it touched. I raised my face to the sky and wept with thanks. My tears blended with the sky’s tears and both washed deep into the earth.

I woke in the night to a crashing rainstorm, nearly two months ahead of schedule. Rainy season doesn’t begin until May. The power was off and the sky was so dark, I couldn’t see my hand in front of me. In my shock that it was actually raining, I walked outside and reached my hand out to touch it. The air felt and tasted clean. I stood there breathing it all in, then I walked back to bed and laid there listening to the soothing sound of the earth being fed with love.

This morning, I woke and showered in the courtyard, washing my hair in the rain. Close your eyes and imagine this feeling. The water was soft and slightly cool, causing my skin to form little bumps and my sleepy muscles to slightly contract. It ran over my arms and shoulders down the length of my legs and over my feet. It washed my shampoo out of the courtyard in little streams, running beneath the gate door. I wrapped up in my giant warm towel and now I am clean and warm sitting at my desk. This is one of my favorite days in Ghana.

Metamorphosis

From my journal “…I have come to the site. My favorite place. I can hear drumming far away. I can hear the rhythmic chopping of a tree for firewood for dinner. Faster, there is a soft chirping from the tree above me. The wind blows a bunch of dried leaves below me. A fly buzzes. Now a baby shouts out. The drumming increases intensity. Nature is performing a symphony and I am its audience. I am its witness. Two ears, one heart, atop these rocks, hidden from site, absorbing everything.
Now, the crunching of rocks beneath a bicycle. The sun is setting and the music is getting louder. The insects have joined in. I imagine they are percussion, though I don’t really know for sure if that fits.
The wind blows and it looks as though all of the trees and leaves are lightly dancing, swaying to this symphony. I am happy to be here.”

I have undergone a profound change over the past few weeks. I can trace its origin to my travel to Bole, a small town four hours south of here. I visited Janet, a PCV, who is almost 60 and quite amazing. She simply has an attitude of nothing being impossible and if you don’t like it, change it. I spend two days with her, amidst the running water, outdoor shower and new latrine, all built by her own hand and left with quite a lot to think about. Thus the metamorphosis began.
Upon return home, and finding I’d left my mobile phone in Bole, I spent a week setting right those things I’d been whining and wallowing in self pity over. (And a week with no communication by phone.) First, I needed to confront the children who chase and attempt to pull down my bicycle while I’m riding, a truly traumatic occurrence that had taken place more than once. The next time I encountered them, I stopped and stood before these miniature criminals and in the loudest voice I have, told them not to ever touch my bicycle again. They stared at me, and then began to giggle, which made me feel a bit hopeless, though I did not show this. I stared at them, and as solemnly as I could said, I AM GOING TO YOU MOTHER. They stopped mid giggle and stared back, with that, I turned, mounted my bicycle, and peacefully rode away, not to encounter them again.
Next stop, the teen mothers who refuse to work and continue to get pregnant and drink home brewed beer all day with the baby strapped to their back. I stood before them, shaking (inside), with my voice a bit wobbly, though I don’t think they noticed, and I explained that I did not come to Ghana to carry the whole bunch of them up the mountain side. They need to actually walk up it and that I am not willing to work for them if they are unwilling to work themselves. Their complaint about not making soap or tie and dye because they do not have the capital to start, was met with a suggestion that they walk into the bush, chop down some fire wood, bring it to town and sell it, thus providing them with the capital to begin their endeavor. I gave them one week to get a job. The following week, they were all doing something to make money. Now I’ve asked them to spend one week keeping track of what they make and what they spend, this should be interesting.
Third stop, the ominous bakery group, which had spent all of their money, had no way of showing me where, and wanted more. (They actually spent over $10,000 on this project and the community never contributed the 25% they committed to.) After several sleepless moments, wondering what I could do, not wanting to consult the peace corps until all options were considered, the answer dawned on me. I went to them and simply said, I can not get you any more money. The community must contribute, so I suggest taking out a loan. You know, when you don’t lay down like an idiot to be walked, you don’t get walked on, but I so often forget this and just immediately think that every problem is my problem. They spent the money incorrectly, not me, why was I losing sleep over it? So they asked me to gather information about loans for them, amazing! So I’ve arranged for a guest speaker to explain micro-financing to the group in two weeks. Wow, so simple when I stop trying to fix everything myself.
The last thing, the smallest thing, the most uncomfortable thing, is everyone calling me white lady. Well, they call me Nansa Pog, which means white lady and they say it in this sassy tone and when I hear it, I am immediately on the defensive and I’m often rude to the person with whom I’m speaking. Right off the bat, I just want to slug them, but I’ve been taking deep breaths, reminding myself that it’s a cultural difference and grinning and bearing it to the best of my ability. Well, after this empowering week of triumph, I began to softly, simply say, Please, I am not called white lady, I am called Erica. Well, let me tell you, this changes everything. Immediately I am one of them, speaking to them in their language, allowing them to know me, and then they tell me their name and then we’re acquaintances and not strangers and its just been beautiful, with children and adults. I’ve also been taking the time to explain that in my culture, its impolite and offensive to call someone according to the color their skin. This has been so interesting, they all just stand there really thinking about this and then I see the light bulb click on and they turn to me with an understand nod and smile. Its been truly amazing.

So, to further describe the hurdle I’ve jumped, this morning, as I sat at the tea stand with my morning friends, two young white men (ha ha) walked by and we all looked at each other and someone turned to me and said that it seems that there are strangers in our town this morning. I said yes, it seems so and I realized that I was one of them, no longer a stranger, even though I’m white. I can’t describe in words what this felt like. Maybe the words don’t exist, but a feeling peacefully and slowly, coursed through my body and I felt at home in my own skin, sitting on that bench, in Jirapa.

Passion redesigned…

A few weeks ago, I finished the book, The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. An amazing story about an architect with a vision that was suggested reading long ago, and I’ve just now been meant to read. So, I read this story and as I tend to do, fell in love with every moment, idea and character. I pondered the importance of this story in my life at this very moment and the inspiration it provided. I sat for a long time at my spot in the bush and I thought about everything I’ve learned so far.
In the end, I decided that I want to finish what I began and get my master’s degree in architecture. I knew at that very moment, sitting atop that rock, listening the sounds of all that was around me, hidden from view of the few passersby, exactly what my thesis is going to be. It didn’t take much thought or any debate. The idea was born as though it had always existed within me, only until now, it had been covered with an opaque sheet and that sheet had slipped off and fallen to the floor of my mind, revealing a simple and beautiful vision. I am to design a temple for the African Traditionalist. I know the site and sit at it as often as I can, documenting the land and rocks and trees with photographs and drawings. I note the path of the sun and direction of the wind. The sounds one can hear, the smell of the harmattan blowing in from the north. A building, taken from the same rock that it sits on, no sign, no marquee, no promotion. A place that when the elder, walking through the bush, comes upon it, will instinctively know that it has been placed there for him to practice his sacred ceremony. He will not even wonder why or how, he will only be called to enter. This is what I am to design. It’s as much a part of me and this journey as my work here. After making the decision to return to school, I was asked by three people for designs for buildings here. I sat with this, simply knowing and understanding that when you set foot on the path that you are meant to, that foot step resonates with the entire universe and the path opens up effortlessly. Paulo Coehlo describes it as a personal legend that the whole universe conspires to make happen.
So, the designs requested are a Hotel/ Conference center/ Restaurant in Wa, an addition to an International School in Jirapa, and a Cultural Center/ Arts School in Bole. Following this, I was asked to design an Arts Center in Jirapa and a residence. Needless to say, I have been busy, and loving every second of it. These are buildings that will be built while I am here, hopefully, and I could not have made any of this happen, I’ve simply just existed here and allowed life to happen, trying my hardest not to allow fear to speak for me, since its answer is always NO.
Where I felt as though two years seemed like forever, I now wonder if it will be enough time to accomplish all of these tasks. The weeks have been flying by and I’m fulfilled in a way I haven’t felt since leaving my precious community.

More adventures from my kitchen…

Well, let me just say, I am living in the upper west, the land of milk and honey, sort of… When I went to Bole, I discovered cashews and yogurt. Cashews are grown and processed locally, so a large bag sells for 2 bucks, hooray! The yogurt is delicious and after eating yogurt with fresh mango and cashews, I had to find a way to make this at home. I had been given yogurt starter, but its also possible to make yogurt from yogurt. So, I set out to attempt this, at first thinking I’d have to have milk sent form Bole, but as luck would have it, I found the Fulani women selling it in Jirapa!
Now, its not labor intensive, but it is a bit tricky. My kitchen began to look like a lab, mid experiment, with thermometers and jars filled with various levels of white stuff. I’ve made real butter, buttermilk and sour cream. Only the sour cream was unintentional. I’ve also made yogurt, twice and its amazing. The funny thing is that in America, I rarely ate dairy since I felt uncomfortable with the dairy industry and the synthetic hormones and antibiotics injected into the cows, finding there way into my body, making me unhealthy. These cows have never seen an antibiotic, much less synthetic hormones. They are herded by the nomadic, eerily beautiful Fulani people, who wander the land across West Africa, carrying all their possessions and selling milk for money. They will pasteurize it for you, but I buy it straight from the cow and pasteurize it myself, that way, I can make butter. Next endeavor, Ricotta cheese!

“Alcoholism”…


The other day, I attended a presentation about HIV and someone asked how we can get people to use condoms if everyone is always drunk. The room erupted into laughter and the presenter simply said, you are right, ALCOHOLISM is a huge problem in the Upper West. I almost fell off my chair. I couldn’t believe they actually had heard the word, much less knew it as a disease.
I sat with this info for a couple of days, let the fear pass and went to speak to that man. All I told him was that I had experience working with alcoholics and I’d like to be available to anyone wanting to stop that can’t. (I decided not to mention my own recovery since that would be pretty stupid in this tiny town, I’ll cross that bridge when I’m presented with the dying man.) He was excited and has so many questions, he’d been trying to research it on the internet. He directed me to the hospital Public Health department where I found a very friendly man who scheduled a meeting me for me with the Hospital Director so that we can decide what can be done. I left there with eyes filled with tears and I’m crying as I type this. Words can’t explain how easily helping alcoholics is for me and how fulfilling. It’s a message I can’t screw up because I lived it, its part of me. Its like saying my name, or shaking someone’s hand, its that natural. I’ve been given the most beautiful life as a result of sobriety and I didn’t even want to be alive before I got sober. After moving to the upper west, I let go of any hope of doing anything with alcoholics. I wasn’t even interested in attempting because I didn’t think these people were ready for something like that (there I go again underestimating everyone) and so I just accepted that I wouldn’t be doing that sort of thing.
Even if all I do is hold the hand of someone caught between life and death, scared to live without alcohol and let them know that I have known that pain too and that they aren’t alone, because ultimately, you feel like the only person who’s ever experienced anything of the sort, I would be so grateful. I suspect there will be more than only that, but I don’t know what and I’m open to anything.