“We Will Succeed”
(South Africa)
I am not going to lie and say that I was excited for South Africa. The consensus on the ship was that we were going to be let loose into a giant playground for sort-of-grown-ups: safaris, bungee jumping, shark dives, sky dives, etcetera. I am by far one of the least fun-loving people you will ever meet, by social standards: my idea of a riot is playing Scrabble, watching a good documentary and socializing with friends over a home-cooked meal.
Because I have become more active over the past year, I tried to get myself psyched-up for hiking and cycling and other outdoorist (outdoorsy-tourist) activities. I had intended to hike Lion’s Head and Table Mountain, to do a township tour by cycle, to cycle in the winelands, to do a Habitat for Humanity project and to visit the University of Cape Town. Along the theme of my voyage: “the best laid plans of mice and men and me,” Cape Town saw a lot of changes. This time the changes were all on me, though.
The day of our arrival, we had to get up early… really, really early. After getting breakfast and my visa, I took some time to relax and get my feet beneath me; our ship was docked right in the center of what seemed like everything, but wound-up being nearly nothing on an emotional and spiritual level. We had a spectacular view of Table Mountain, Lion’s Head and Signal Hill from the aft of the ship, while looking out from the forward decks, we could see the V&A Waterfront: a massive and massively affluent mall. Little boats mulled around the water skirting the ship, and some seals and other aquatic wildlife came to play in the warmth near the hull or bask in the shade between the pier and the ship.
I had signed-up for a Semester at Sea sponsored hike up Lion’s Head; my “extended family” parents, Chris and Jodi (staff-members in their 30’s) were the trip leaders. I was excited until the bus ride taking us up to the base of the mountain; my ears were popping like crazy, to the point that it was somewhat difficult to hear the conversation I was having with Natascha. We got out of the bus and began our hike. Lion’s Head is not that high, but it is very steep, so ascent is rapid. I began to feel nauseous. I left the trip early, but had the occasion to talk with one of the guides, Trevor, for an extensive period of time. That’s when it hit me that I had tried to get into this port against my own values. Yes, I love nature, and I appreciate physical activity a lot more than I used to, but if I am going to go into nature, I need to go alone or with people I love, and what I love even more than nature is meeting good people. I told Trevor about Semester at Sea, he told me about South Africa, we talked about Americans and altitude sickness. I decided to give away my Table Mountain hike ticket. I spent the rest of the day mildly ill with a headache and nausea that persisted until the next morning.
After waking and showering, I still was not feeling too hot and did heave a bit, but I decided to give the day a shot; I could always go home early. I got breakfast and then headed down for a trip I’m sure my mother would not have thought I would ever sign-up for, not in this lifetime: “Full-Day Township by Bike and Interactive Soccer.”
We left the port by bus and went out to a community called Masiphumelele (It’s not as difficult as it looks.); in Xhosa (Yes, that’s one of the languages that uses “clicking.”) the name means “we will succeed.” Positive reinforcement has no linguistic barriers. In Masiphumelele, we met-up with some local men who run a bike shop and youth cooperative known as BEN (Bicycle Empowerment Network); we got our wheels, and a few of us opted to put on helmets, then we headed out in two small groups. It had been a long while since I had ridden a non-stationary bike, but I was, firstly, excited that they had back-pedal breaks, which I find more intuitive, and, secondly, quite an adequate rider, despite the fact that we all had to “drive on the left,” try to keep a single file and respect the speeds of those in front of and behind us. It felt good.
Our first stop was a crèche. “Crèche” is a French word that means… well, a crib, I suppose, but in English-speaking cultures, like in much of South Africa, it is essentially a daycare center. We were each invited to sit with a group of about four children and entered into a drawing competition. I drew a circle, and not much happened on our paper after that: the kids were far too enamored with all of the cameras and had a fun go at wearing sunglasses, too. Most of the pictures the kids attempted to take did not turn-out all that well, but it was fun for them each to have a turn to try. Before we left, they sang us a few songs, including a couple in English, even Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.
Next, we got back on our bikes and headed over to the local sangoma: traditional healers. The occasion to meet sangoma was one of my motivators for signing-up for the trip. When we arrived, we watched them perform a few healing dances. All of the questions I had wanted to ask vanished, and I just found a lot of answers. The steady, fast beat of the drums increases the heart rate: the blood rushes around the body; it gets cleaned more quickly. I did, however, have difficulty containing my laughter at the somewhat humorous nature of traditional healers wearing western clothing.
We visited the home of one woman in Masiphumelele who creates home décor using recycled materials. I have seen plenty of repurposed objects and recycled artwork, but I actually was impressed by some of the things this woman had created. It is inspiring, encouraging, phenomenal and disheartening to know that creative, ingenious people are tucked away into Townships outside of Cape Town, fashioning mounted bulls’ heads out of detergent containers and erect elephants from bottle caps.
We hopped back on our bikes, and some kids from the Township hopped on the backs to catch a free ride. While it made me nervous from that whole motherly “safety” perspective, myself, valuing my noggin, being one of those helmet-wearers, having a young child grabbing my waist, but having little security other than that… I still loved it… because they loved it. They were having a blast, and they laughed at all of their friends who we passed on the streets.
We visited Charlotte for lunch. Charlotte is a strong, brilliant woman who runs Nomthunzie Township Tours (website coming in January). She has two grown daughters; her son passed away from Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, but she still has a wonderful tambour in her voice, a fantastic smile and an openness of heart that nobody can be untouched by. She made us tea and some sort of donut-like thing, but we had packed lunches from the ship. Our crew deserves ten cheers for everything they do for us. We talked with Charlotte about everything from her life to her favorite television shows to her hopes for the future. It was sad to bike away again.
Our next stop was the library, which was nothing short of inspirational. Aside from being well-stocked, clean, beautiful and tranquil, there was a bulletin board covered with news from various clubs and groups that had formed at the library. The philosophy club had posted a paraphrase of ye old Eleanor Roosevelt quote, “Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.” It means a lot to see that in writing on a wall in a South African Township. Apartheid may be over, but the affluent parts of South Africa are still predominately white and Townships are at least majority, if not entirely, black. But what a Township, or, at least, Masiphumelele, lacks in financial wealth it more than makes up for with soul.
We loaded-up a few more local children onto our bicycles and pedaled out to the field where we would have our reckoning. I’ve never been much for team sports, and soccer is far from being an exception. The fact that we were playing on a dirt field, littered with rocks and a few random, abandoned cement foundations did not improve my outlook. We played casually with the kids who had become attached to our bikes, but an actual team sat by, waiting and preparing to play us. Luckily, we had some really avid soccer players on our team, so we only lost by one point, and I think we scored twice. I even kicked the ball, maybe only once. How about that!
We gave out another One World Futbol and then clamored back into our little bus. We made a pit stop on the way back to the ship: we had to pick-up some Hake and Chips. I do not remember the last time I had Fish & Chips prior to that, but it was just how I remember it: greasy, gooey in the weirdest of ways and totally satisfying.
It was not a good day; it was a great day. If I had to live one day of this trip over again and again, this takes the cake (and hake!), so far.
Having given away my trip to Table Mountain, I took the next day to relax on a sightseeing tour with Natascha. In Cape Town, there are two main bus tours: the red line stays in the city, and the blue line goes out to the countryside, after a short jaunt around the city. It was great to see some more of Cape Town’s beauty, but it was even better to spend a couple of hours talking to Natascha.
The following day, Natascha, Mackenzie and I took the red line. We saw many of the same stops and got a lot of good chatting in, but we also decided to brave Table Mountain. I’ll have you all know that we climbed it naked, during a hailstorm, backwards, on our hands, with 90 orphans on each of our backs. In other words, we took the cable car. I did feel a bit nauseous, but after a sit at the top and adjusting to the change in pressure, I was fine to explore and enjoy the view. We enjoyed some room-temperature cheesecake at the top before heading back down to catch the bus again. We got off at the mall and had ourselves some ice cream. A few hours later, Carren and Emma joined us for some amazing Italian food. We were able to discuss a lot of interesting things, including a trip to the Amy Biel Foundation that Emma had participated in, the utter disappointment of Semester at Sea “service” visits, and the ongoing and obvious racism in the area. I had wonderful squash ravioli and some lamb—let me tell you, good food is one thing, amazing food is a totally different thing. We were disappointed with the thought that we could not bring leftovers back on the ship, but Emma, being the complete sweetheart that she is, suggested that we bring our leftovers to port security: the on-duty guard was very appreciative. Having people like Emma around is great.
When I woke-up, I was too tired to stay-up, so I missed my Habitat for Humanity trip. It was not the hugest tragedy. I had a wonderful lunch with some of the most mature people on the ship and, later, went out for sushi with Jeanette. It was a relatively uneventful day, but it was plenty wonderful. My “extended family” was supposed to meet for dinner, but all of my “sisters” bailed, last minute, except for Natascha, who was only “adopted” into the family on the first day of South Africa. We decided to go out for dessert; I had Ferrero Rocher ice cream. I died. I gained seven and a half pounds. I loved it. But really, I loved spending time with my “parents” and Natascha. I had been lacking the “people” portion of the happiness equation, and South Africa was very healing for that.
On the final day, I took a risk: I did what I wanted to do. I ditched my FDP to the University of Cape Town, I ditched an opportunity to film for my documentary, and I went on a trip to learn about the Desmond Tutu HIV Foundation: a trip back to Masiphumelele. We visited the “Tutu Tester” and the “Tutu Treater” and learned about their efforts to test township citizens for HIV, TB and other grave conditions. We also got to see the new youth center they are constructing, directly across from the secondary school, so that kids and teens can get health counseling without the risk of their parents being in earshot, but also so that they can get tutoring, play sports, learn new things and have recreational activities readily available to them other than the sort that spread HIV. I knew on the first day I visited that I would return to Masiphumelele: now I know why.
(To be continued…)
Friday, October 15, 2010
"We Will Succeed"
Sunday, October 3, 2010
You're Ghana--Love It!
My values have been challenged.
I often seem, if only to myself, unshakeable. I am serious business. My personality wears pumps. But I have been shaken: mainly by how unshaken I was by my time in Ghana.
I have never been to a place like Ghana, before. “Like Ghana.” What is “like Ghana?” “Like Ghana” makes me an ethnic minority, but I have been an ethnic minority. “Like Ghana” means a “third world” or “developing” nation, but I have been to “the third world.” “Like Ghana” means a place where it is hot, where settlements grow spontaneously, rather than according to plan, where people pack buses like it’s a fun challenge, a place where the currency has been artificially deflated, a place where the police carry guns—big guns, where people speak a language other than English as their first—a language I have little understanding of, a place where people from back home call you “brave” for having gone out without a tour guide. I have been to all of these places, but none of them were “like Ghana” in the ways that matter most.
We landed in Takoradi, the piece of land closest to 0-degrees by 0-degrees on the globe. Takoradi was once the most major port of Ghana, but it has been strangled by the growth in Tema: Ghana’s only planned city and the port nearest to the capital, Accra. In order to combat the decay in Takoradi, the national government has sought to make some changes, namely charging one port with imports and the other with exports, so that both have a good deal of business, but the one does definitely outweigh the other. Ghana exports a phenomenal amount of lumber and, as a consequence, has a problem with deforestation. Ghana also exports cocoa. Ghana imports most things that are considered high-tech or medium-tech products, including computer-related products, most of their electronics, etcetera.
I knew from the moment that I stepped off of the ship into the port that Ghana was different from other places that I had been… because Ghana is a lot like me. I knew I would never be able to leave Ghana, in full; that a part of me is there, tucked into the eyelashes of a child in Kasoa. I had to admit this to myself when I sat down to write this blog and realized that I only have one photo from four days in Ghana: it is a picture of Jeanette petting a stray kitten. This is the same sort of thing I would take a picture of at home. I did not feel the need to photograph Ghana, although it looks so different from the world I am used to. I also did not feel a moral obligation to not photograph Ghana, how I might feel about sacred places. Ghana did not shock me. Ghana held me. I feel like Ghana is a place we have all been, or, at the very least, it is a set of values that some of us hold, but cannot express actively in our culture. It’s like déjà vu, but it doesn’t hurt: it’s a welcome home.
The first day, I stayed on the ship. I had been recovering from temporary ails and wanted to make sure my immune system was up to snuff before I let it out into the world of malaria, dengue fever, etcetera, etcetera. I did, however, have the chance to attend a lecture onboard given by a couple of Ghanaian NGO workers; the theme was environmental activism and policy in Ghana, but we got so much more than we had bargained for. We learned about all strains and stresses of Ghanaian politics and culture, and we had the added bonus of being trusted to learn about a disturbing, but oddly inspiring situation in northern Ghana.
In some tribal areas, there is still a belief in witchcraft: once a person, usually an older woman, is branded a witch, her community abuses her and drags her through a process of verification with the local fetish priest. Even when the accused is proven to not be a witch, she is barred from reentering her community. There are fetish priests who have been given the charge of providing shelter and purpose to literally hundreds of these women. But there is good news. The woman who spoke to us about this spoke of her organization’s efforts, if not a solution, the first step being education: documentaries produced to be aired on public access networks, talking about medical conditions that might cause strange behavior people would otherwise associate with witchcraft.
The next day, I set off on an adventure Jeanette had agreed to partake in. Yet again, things rarely go as planned, but that does not mean that they rarely go well. We walked out of the port; the air was cool, whereas we were there at the end of the rainy season. It was not the most beautiful port, but it was full of friendly Ghanaian men, that’s for sure. Cab drivers vied for us as soon as we exited the gates. Entering a run-down cab, Jeanette laughed and asked if I knew any prayers about auto safety. Whatever anxieties may have been present vanished to the tune of a female radio host’s voice: she told all of her listeners, “appreciate everything, allow good things into your life.” The station also advertised scholarships and investment plans. It was not American radio.
In the center of Takoradi, we found our way into a minibus: it was certainly high class. It was air-conditioned, shiny and new, and some of the passengers were wearing suits. In order to keep prices low, and they were low, we did not leave until all of the seats were taken. We did not have to wait longer than ten minutes. Shortly after we pulled away from the city center, it began to pour. Nothing changed because of the rain: women continued to try to sell the goods they carried on their heads, children still ran around, our vehicle still pushed forward. The woman on the radio began to talk about relationships between older women and younger men and how what matters most is love and respect. It was not American radio.
I had intended to meet-up with an organization known as the Cheerful Hearts Foundation, located in Kasoa, a suburb of Accra. It was supposed to take around two and a half hours. We alighted in Accra and tried to get a cab back to where we belonged. Our driver told us that he knew where we were going, but I began to doubt him when he drove off of the main road into what seemed to be countryside. Ghanaian men know when to stop and ask for directions: ten minutes after they should. Some bits of life are the same everywhere! But what was amazing about going down these back roads and being as lost as a tadpole in a grocery store was that we got to experience one of the most amazing things about Ghanaian culture. There’s that old saying, “it takes a village to raise a child.” It takes two villages to try to find the Cheerful Hearts Foundation and still not get there. Every single person we asked for help was receptive and interested: some in our odd appearance (mainly children), but most in where the heck 369 Shaributu Road really was, if it really existed. We asked the old, we asked the young, we asked women, we asked men, we asked Muslims, we asked Methodists. And for every person who did not know, we would be given two more people who might.
Eventually, we decided to get to an ATM and an internet café, pay our driver for his fantastic efforts and try to make sense of our mess. The sense we wound-up making was that we would get some food into our tummies, call it a night in Kasoa and try to get to Cape Coast to visit another organization I had my sights set on. Easier said than done. After spending about twenty minutes in an internet café, though we paid for an hour and were offered a refund for something like 40 cents, we realized that we would be free-falling. But we would have to free-fall into dinner before anything else. We were hungry, and Jeanette had spied a Chinese restaurant on our way into Accra.
You can snark at us all you want for getting Chinese food in Ghana, but it is just as valid of a cultural experience as having Ghanaian food in Ghana. If you bring a Chinaman to a “Chinese restaurant” in the United States, he will laugh, then cry, then vomit. International cuisines are always adjusted to the tastes and means of local people, and that was no different in Ghana.
So, we wanted Chinese food, and a bunch of cabdrivers wanted us in their cabs. Looking confused and foreign, we were offered some help. Again, the chain reaction of knowledge-seeking took place: we told them all we knew about the Chinese restaurant with the blue sign, and seven or eight people down the line, we were able to tell a cab driver where we needed to go and have him actually understand how to get us there. On the one hand, these people were probably friends with the cab drivers. On the other hand, the streets are a social area in Ghana: at home, a cab driver wouldn’t have his friends there to stop passersby to get totally random directions.
We got to the restaurant. It was open. They did not have all of the food listed on the menu. But what they did have was amazing. I ate absolutely everything I could. The fried rice had no soy sauce in it, but lots of little bits of meat and veggies. We had wonderful spicy chicken and gooey delicious shrimp. It tasted very little like the Chinese food I am accustomed to: the peanut oil flavor was very strong, and the spices were different. But I loved it. So much.
Noticing how late it had gotten, we decided that we did not want to go to Cape Coast and try to find a hotel in the dark. Conveniently for us, the Chinese restaurant was part of a hotel. A very nice, but well-priced hotel. It happened to be one that catered mainly to Emiratis, so we got to stay up late watching Aljazeera, Ghanaian and Nigerian shows. It was objective, informative and not American television.
Up in the morning, we got in a cab to Kasoa and in a TroTro to Cape Coast. It took at least a half hour for the TroTro to be filled to capacity. Different sellers flocked the TroTro with their goods, but one woman really stuck out to me. She was the matriarchal type, telling people how to arrange themselves and their children into the TroTro, so that everyone would fit and be comfortable. As time passed, I decided to buy some of her biscuits. They were pretty good. I will remember that woman’s face for a long time. I think that part of what I liked about her, aside from her being good to other people, was the fact that she reminded me of my friend Lisa, back home: she had the same humble smile. She was satisfied being good to people.
When you go to Ghana, take a TroTro. Take it to nowhere. Take it to Banana Inn TroTro Station. It does not matter. You’re not in Ghana until you are in a TroTro, until you are crammed between two other women, smelling a roomful of smells in the space between your nostrils. It was the most pleasant experience of Ghana, possibly of my life. Though I was physically uncomfortable, I could not stop smiling. I made faces at babies, I chatted with my neighbors: it was a social occasion. When the police pulled us over for having too many people in our TroTro (by about 50%), I began to worry. We were back on the road again in no time, though, and we were in Cape Coast just as quickly.
We were able to get a cab directly to the headquarters of Women in Progress/Global Mamas. Women in Progress is a Ghanaian NGO dedicated to the socioeconomic advancement of women; Global Mamas is their fair trade distributor for the items their beneficiaries make. I was happy to get to talk to one of their staff members for a few minutes about the state of Ghana and the improvements that WIP/GM has contributed to.
Upon exiting the office, Jeanette and I were distracted by both a stray kitten and a cloth stall with the most beautifully patterned fabric. We took some time to pet the kitty and talk to the women selling the fabric. Not long after that, we got a cab back to Takoradi.
Jeanette pets kitty.
Back in Takoradi, we shopped and were propositioned by, of all people, port security.
Getting back on the ship was difficult: it felt cold, it felt empty… it felt dirty. Don’t yell at the crew, it was just as clean as usual! It felt dirty on a moral level. Yes, there are people in the world who live heart-to-heart, rather than minute-to-minute, and they are more than happy. Yes, there are people who put making a difference above making a dollar, and they are more than happy. Yes, there is laughter in every corner of some people’s hearts. Yes, you are walking away from this. You are returning to a life of schedules and steel rafters, concrete life-containers and rat race rhythms. You are returning to the belly of a machine, after having returned to the womb of your soul’s mother.
I will not lie; I became very depressed during the week between Ghana and South Africa, and I had seriously considered getting a flight back home from Cape Town. That would not have helped. The only thing that can help this is for me to further evaluate and reevaluate and rereevaluate my values, to decide what is necessary for my spiritual health and to make that fit into my personal culture, even if it makes it difficult to function within the local culture of my community.
On to Cape Town...
I have just returned from the world:
a place I never knew I had left;
where the earth is rich with the red of life,
rather than the red of death;
where love is both in the forefront
and squeezed into the margins;
where time is a gift,
rather than a prison,
and it is owned by goodness,
rather than ritual.
I am dirty.
I am sweaty.
I am more alive than life itself:
Yes.
Here reeks of motion:
the bite of human sweat,
sweet grass, by the season, wet.
Oh, Ghana, oh,
Ghana.
My sensibilities are not offended,
but are saddened
by your beat:
your hum and drum hold
half my heart,
but the clock
ʼs tickholds my feet.
