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.