Advertisement
Published: February 18th 2008
Edit Blog Post
I was living the life I long ago imagined for myself—teaching English to a hut full of native children in a Ghanaian seaside village, learning to see the world as a close-knit society enclosed by palm trees, its perimeter easily scaled in 30 minutes.
I finally reached the destination I’ve been struggling towards, hoping that this would be the final puzzle piece of the map of my life’s purpose. I thought that experiencing the opposite of all I’ve ever known might somehow make sense of the question marks, but even this constant serenity and simple beauty has not illuminated my next steps. Instead, coming across the globe to a remote island proved to me that we can never know what we’re supposed to do, we will never have it figured out.
I never thought that one of my hardest days in Ghana would be here, in paradise. But as I stood there at the front of the palm leaf classroom watching them crying, hitting each other, yelling at me in Ewe, the beauty of my surroundings quickly dissolved into pure frustration. The calming crash of waves was drowned out by three dozen little voices, the sand beneath my bare
Maranatha Nursery School, Ada
enjoying the breezy outdoors...what a place to learn! feet feeling less and less stable.
This sounded like a cool idea, living for free in a hut on the beach between lagoon and sea, teaching ABC and 1-2-3 a few hours per day. But with 40 kids in one classroom, ages two to ten, with no previous education and not enough desks, I began to see what I was really in for. To them, my presence was somewhat of a joke—they knew I couldn’t be there for long, I am just another white tourist here to pick them up and take their pictures. Everything I said in the strange language of English was funny, especially when they sensed I was angry, because they knew I would never cane them. By the third day I had lost any remaining shred of respect they might have had for me; I gave up trying to get their attention.
In the late afternoon, when school was over for the day, I watched the red ball of sun sink below the horizon, naked black bodies walking along the shore in the distance. With each exhalation I tried to let go of my failures and focus on the brilliant pink reflection of the
Chaos in the Classroom
Who knew the ABCs could be so hard to teach? sun setting on the still ocean. As I sat with my feet buried in warm sand, I thought about the villagers gathered around the one TV set in town to watch Ghana play Namibia in the Africa Cup of Nations, and how the kitchen staff at the hotel was preparing coconut food for dinner.
In the middle of this perfect tropical scene, I came to understand that the reason I was here was not for the children but for me. I was not here to wedge my ideas of order into a foreign mess, or to transform the ineffective teaching methods used by the school staff (ie: John Kennedy—the village drunk who reeks of palm wine and often interrupted my lessons with his belligerent rants—and Madam Eunice, a pregnant 22-year-old who beat kids for not being able to read full sentences). My purpose was not to teach but to learn. Even knowing I only had a few weeks, I came naively thinking I could make a lasting difference, maybe get them excited about education.
Of course, I am always one to be crushed by high expectations and this time was no exception. Sure, I may have taught them
the Hokey-Pokey and the Wheels on the Bus, and if nothing else, they received two weeks free of physical punishment, but it’s not like I contributed to anything long-term.
In the end, I lived up to their stereotyped image of a
Yevu (Ewe word for white man). I got on a canoe with my backpack and sunglasses, waving at them crowded on the water’s edge, disappointment weighing down their faces. For the last few weeks I worked to raise myself above their assumptions, by learning their songs, playing their games, letting them touch my hair with their sticky, Banku-covered fingers. I told myself I was better than the handful of foreigners visiting for a day or two, on safari or holiday. It’s true, I came for more than photographs and relaxation, but I left in the same way as the rest.
This experience called me to reconsider the effectiveness of volunteering. In theory, it sounds like a noble thing to do, a good step in the humanitarian mission towards achieving altruism, especially if that’s not the reason you’re doing it. In reality, though, I’m not sure it is always mutually positive. The problem is, the best way to
Beach Pohppy
Headin home after a goodbye kiss from the village puppy make permanent changes is to be somewhere for a long, long time, and dedicate your life to it.
Maybe that’s the reason I came to this village; to realize that that’s what I have to do—choose a cause. And more importantly, I discovered that teaching is not it.
So the search continues…
Advertisement
Tot: 0.109s; Tpl: 0.009s; cc: 11; qc: 55; dbt: 0.0532s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.2mb
jun
non-member comment
empathy
yo tay, i feel you on the whole NPO thing being.. ineffective. let's talk when you get back -