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.