"You can't marry from the same house twice."

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08/28/10
It is midnight between Saturday and Sunday, and I’m currently typing a blog entry while Carolyn is explaining the concept of wizards and witches in an African context . Ghana is a very mystical place, with signs all along the road advertising herbal and spiritual healing. Witch doctors offer alternative remedies for everything from malaria to tooth decay to HIV/AIDS. I almost want to go to one of them to see what it’s like. Apparently, the homeopathic malaria treatment is fairly good, although if you get the quantities wrong, you’re likely to poison yourself. Not a risk I feel like taking, considering I’ve already invested in every precaution to avoid falling sick with it.

Speaking of malaria, Grandpa Asante had a terrible case of it this week. Over here, because every Ghanaian who’s lived to adulthood already has it, malaria is like a bad case of the flu. He was so sick he could barely move, his fever gave him hot spells and chills intermittently, and he couldn’t keep food down. On Friday, he and Grandma went to his village to see his long-time specialist, who diagnosed him and gave him a (conventional) prescription medicine.
I’ve been watching American television programs and feeling surprised by how different our culture is from Ghanaian culture. I hadn’t really gotten a chance to compare the two because I’ve been too busy trying to acclimate my behavior. As soon as I got here, my brain went hay-wire noticing everything different and adjusting to it. I didn’t have time to think about how it was different, just that it WAS different, if that makes any sense at all. I feel bad about watching so much American T.V. Ghanaian programs dominate most of the airways, and I watch them when they look particularly good, but mostly, I prefer American shows. Even the crappy stuff I would have turned my nose up at a month ago, I now eagerly consume. Like the comically melodramatic Latin American soaps. And Ghost Whisperer.

I had a weird thought yesterday as I was watching a commercial that these programs are being exported by America. Ideas are one of our biggest exports. Other countries are consuming the idea of our way of life, buying into the idea of cowboys and playboys and poolside parties. This is particularly bizarre for American world travelers to deal with because we go to other countries where people have preconceived notions of what we’re like and where we’re from that are completely unlike what we experience day to day at home. And we, in turn, have very little understanding of cultures other than our own because ours is virtually the only one we see on television, billboards, the internet, etc.
I met a man at Jerry’s the other day who was wearing a cream-colored Stetson, blue jeans with patches featuring Buggs Bunny and Elmer Fudd, and black leather cowboy boots. He had the most pronounced Southern accent I’ve ever heard, even when I lived in the South, although he was 100% Ghanaian. He said he had been adopted at the age of seven by his uncle, who had immigrated to Arkansas. And he ranted about how he wanted to shoot all the illegal immigrants, and how the whites were about ready to wage war on Mexico to keep the “wetbacks” out. He was all for it, saying that America should be for the Americans. I was offended and amused at the same time. I’m still not sure whether he was serious or just keeping up appearances.

I left the United States thinking that in Ghana, the biggest difference between me and everyone else would be my skin color. When I arrived, I was almost immediately confronted with stark cultural differences in everything from the way people dressed to the way they spoke to each other to the inflection they used when asking a question. Skin color, while definitely used as a tool in interactions, is more of a joke in Ghana than anything else. I am still adjusting to the fact that when someone calls out “Obruni!” they’re being polite rather than insulting. And they are delighted when I respond “Obebeni”, or “African person”. On the other hand, if I happen to make eye contact with a stranger on the street, I am considered rude if I do not smile and greet the person before breaking eye contact. There's so much to get used to! Something funny: When a Ghanaian is referring to an African American, s/he still calls the person "Obruni" or, if trying to be culturally sensitive, "Obebeni obruni". So skin color is secondary to the basic Western affiliation.

There is an overwhelming amount of proselytization on campus. I was politely declining copies of The Watchtower on my way to the library, and a little Asian-looking boy handed me a booklet about the epic battle between the Forces of Good and Evil at lunch today. There was a gospel concert at Central Cafeteria for all the Freshers (freshmen, that is) which appeared to be well-attended. I believe it was sponsored by the school. Even the professors often devote an inordinately large part of their lectures to the discussion of the influence of religion, specifically Christianity/Animism, on their areas of study.

On a less-than-happy note, I was washing dishes for Grandma Asante in the kitchen the other day and she asked me what religion I belonged to. I tiptoed around the question, first telling her that my mom went to a church in Franklin and my dad was a Buddhist. Before I could tell her that I was a Buddhist as well, she shook her head and said that Buddhists scared her. This is the first real religious intolerance I’ve encountered in Ghana, and I was disappointed that it came from someone so close to me. In general, the few people I’ve told have been polite and curious (religion is freely discussed and inquired about here so I have gotten good at deflecting the inevitable question). I feel uncomfortable leaving the religious text I’m reading out next to my bed. It’s not something I’ve made a big deal out of. I’d just rather not have one of my hosts feeling uncomfortable with me for something like that.

I’ve been studying a lot so far. There’s a saying over here: “The day of reckoning is beckoning.” In the case of UG, it couldn’t be a more accurate description of the way grading works. As I mentioned before, or perhaps I didn’t, the only grade we get for 13 weeks of work is our final exam grade, which is almost always a single essay question to be answered as thoroughly as possible using thirteen weeks’ worth of knowledge. We’re expected to do a lot of outside reading for classes, so I’ve been reading various books about sociology and will get started on journal articles sometime this week. Every class has a long recommended reading list, and several books are not to be found at any of the campus libraries.

Balme Library, the largest library in West Africa and the repository for an entire wing’s-worth of United Nations books, looks like it was plucked straight out of the early 20th century. I had to remember how to use the card catalog and “amused” myself for a while getting lost on the tiny stone staircases tucked away into shadowy corners next to leaning bookshelves of dusty old tomes circa 1912. The library is massive. The books are organized very…creatively sometimes. Kirk would be struck catatonic. There are long wooden tables and benches, just like in The Music Man, and a verdant, sunny courtyard in the middle of it all. The paths between reading rooms are all outside on balcony-like walks, and the study rooms are almost reverently silent except for the scraping of chairs, the breeze blowing through the open windows, and the rustling of pages. You are required to check your backpack at the door. They take any satchel larger than a good-sized purse and hold it for you until you’re ready to leave, and there is a serious-looking security guard sitting on a stool by the entrance at all times. I’m pretty sure s/he is packing heat.

08/31/10
This morning, when I went into the kitchen to get breakfast, Carolyn was busy doing something so when she told me she would be there to help me in a second, I reassured her that I could serve myself. Her eyes got wide and she steadfastly refused to let me so much as touch the spoon used to dish out the breakfast (cassava crumbles and okra/fish/tiny crab/chili pepper stew, btw). Carolyn told me that Grandma wouldn’t allow anyone who hadn’t been trained by her to serve food, whether for themselves or others. It was not a duty lightly bestowed on the unworthy, according to Carolyn. Suspecting Carolyn of trying to keep me from working too much around the house (as she is sometimes wont to do), I insisted on confirming this with Grandma, who, much to my surprise and chagrin, verified the story! Apparently, she has a special system and no one who has not been trained by her is allowed to serve themselves food. They aren’t allowed to eat until she gives them permission and they aren’t allowed to serve themselves ever. They must ask either Grandma or her Initiate, Carolyn. O_o

I have decided to drop Francophone African Literature. The students are obnoxious, the professor doesn’t teach, and today, he didn’t bother to show up at all! It looked great on paper but I have learned not to trust ‘too-good-to-be-true’ descriptions here. Especially when they concern either elective classes or dairy products. I missed milk so much, I bought a bottle of Countree brand ‘Mango and Passion Fruit flavored full cream milk beverage’. It was bottled in Belgium so I figured, “Eh, this looks legit.” It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, “legit”. It was foul. Fouler than three day-old okra/fish/tiny crab/chili pepper stew. It was thick and sickeningly sweet, with a tangy chemical aftertaste that made me gag. It had an expiration date two years from the bottling date and did not need to be refrigerated. I am never, ever going to Belgium if that is what they try to pass off as milk.

I also spoke to Kwasi about volunteering at a hospital while I’m here. He said they were taking volunteers at Police Hospital in Osu, one of the districts in Greater Accra. It’s a public hospital in West Africa, with all that that entails. I start on Thursday, provided I get my letter of purpose and my resume turned in by Wednesday. I’ll give a description in full as soon as I start. I’m a bit nervous about working there, because I don’t know how much I’ll be able to help since I don’t know Twi very well yet. Surely, they could always use more help with secretarial work.

The neighborhood dogs like to howl and bark at night. It sounds kind of violent sometimes. Tonight is not too bad. I can hear boys playing hide-and-seek in the street. The sounds in Ghana are what makes it the most different from the U.S. Everything from the sputtering old taxis and tro-tros to the clucking chickens, the bleating goats, and the radio stations blasting High Life with marimbas and congo drums, interrupted every few seconds by some MC commentary. Music is such an important part of daily life over here. Women and men alike sing as they walk down the road and most nights, there are two or three channels out of ten broadcasting musical variety shows. And then there’s the noticeable lack of the gentle whoosh of air-conditioning. That’s why I’m still awake

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