Howzit Cape Town

I kept waiting for the nerves to hit me on the two-day trip from San Francisco to Cape Town, but they never did. I’d spent months preparing and I was ready. All I felt was a very quiet sense of calm. When the plane turned on its side and showed the turquoise ocean against the backdrop of Table Mountain, I knew I’d made the right decision. I landed and found the people picking me up, met some other students from my flight and begrudgingly carried my three massive bags onto the bus.

They brought us to a dorm building at UCT where we’d stay a few days before moving into our apartments and houses. UCT is in a suburban neighborhood called Rondebosch, which is also where my apartment is. There’s a main street with shops, grocery stores, a frozen yogurt place and a popular coffee/café place called CocoWahWah that’s favored by international students. Speaking of international students, there are 580 of us. I’m not as unique as I’d assumed I’d be.

We attempted to settle into our dorms and toured around the city in the blistering heat. We began the process of incorporating Capetonian vocabulary into our own. Instead of “hello” you say “howzit”, “cheers” instead of “bye”, “lekker” instead of “good”, “braai” instead of “barbeque”. South Africa is said as one word and is pronounced, “SouthAfreekuh.” We attempt to blend in and shed our American identities. We can never do this, but we’re accepted just as well. The people are kind and welcoming, laid back and happy.

The second night we went out to dinner and drinks to get better acquainted. Here I met my roommate, Danielle, who’s from Boston and is hilarious. I tried to play it cool amongst everyone and not talk incessantly about Ghana. I didn’t want to spend so much time comparing that I loose sight of what’s actually happening in front of me. I also didn’t want to be saddled with the weird Africa girl stereotype...that girl that doesn’t realize talking about poverty and genocide at the dinner table isn’t ALWAYS appropriate (what?). My plan of being perceived as normal went out the window when my friend Tanya insisted on bragging about it to our new friends. I also gave myself away first, when being unable to contain how excited I was that one of our 49 chickens at Happy Kids had laid an egg and secondly, while talking to eight-year old Moda on the phone about how she’d finished sewing her bag, while in the bathroom at a party. Some guy asked who I was on the phone with and my friend responded “with her kids.” “She has kids?!” he asked. “I have 106” I said. And we all burst into laughter.

It was easy for all of us to become good friends. The people here are amazing. All very smart and driven, all big dreamers that were crazy enough to study abroad in South Africa. We had all made this very drastic decision – this choice to pick up and leave everything we know and everyone we know. And it was hard to leave. I was devastated to leave Santa Barbara, and unlike everyone else who will be returning to school after this semester, I’ll have graduated. I have no home to come back to, no job, no school, no stability. And I know how lucky I was. I knew I would make new friends but I also knew that the ones I have are irreplaceable. I felt foolish moving so far away and ending a chapter I wasn’t yet finished with. I was sad to say goodbye to all of the families that I’d babysat for – for the kids I’d helped raise and loved more than anything. I was sad to leave UCSB, kicking myself for all of the classes I hadn’t taken. I just ran out of time. I feel as if there is a growing pattern in my life – one in which so many of the people I love are in different cities and countries and continents. In this way, I find that no matter where I am in the world I’m always missing someone or something. I was sad to add so many more people to that list.

After a few days of acclimating and nights of going out, we were all anxious to move into our houses on Saturday. They piled us into buses and blocked us in with luggage, the majority of which was mine. Danielle and I were dropped off first. Our apartment is in a complex of two large buildings surrounded by an electric gate. It’s on the third floor and is facing Devils Peak Mountain. It’s a two-story duplex apartment. The bedrooms and a bathroom are upstairs, and our large living room, dining area, bathroom and kitchen are downstairs. All of the walls facing the mountains are made of glass with a balcony on each story. We even have an additional bedroom that no one sleeps in. One of the rooms is larger, has wooden furniture and a king size bed. The other room has it’s own balcony, light teal walls and white furniture all pointing towards the mountains. I liked the smaller room with the balcony because it was bright and reminded me of my apartment in Santa Barbara. Danielle took the room with the king bed. For a while I slept with the curtains open so every morning when I woke up I could see the clouds inching over the top of Devil’s Peak. But one night at 4am I could swear I heard someone climbing up the building and checking the locks on the door handles of the balconies. Our landlord had warned us that people often climb up the metal grating along the building to check for unlocked doors and break in. I rechecked that my door was locked, grabbed my pocket army knife and slid it under my pillow. I waited to see a man peering through the open part of my curtains but at some point in the waiting I fell back asleep. Now I sleep with my curtains closed.

I don’t want to sensationalize the crime here and paint a picture that I’m dodging bullets or fighting gangs. But the crime is worth mentioning. It is mostly crimes of convenience, open windows and unlocked doors. Break ins are common, especially in the neighborhoods where a lot of international students live. The orientation leaders joke that they’re thankful we’ve come to South Africa to donate our electronics and stimulate the economy. We’ve heard stories among friends of broken windows, one as scary as two men who broke into a house and stole two laptops from desks next to the beds of two girls while they slept. If you walk around with your camera out, it might get snatched. Same with your phone. If you are stupid and look lost, you’re more likely to be a target. Luxuries like running to the store alone after the sun goes down are not things that we can do. The only time I feel weary is at night, but we always travel in groups. It’s really only theft that’s a problem, not violence. Living in a big apartment building on the third floor, I think we’re safer. This is just a small aspect of living in a big city, similar to New York. We climb mountains, lay on pristine beaches and have the opportunity to study at one of the greatest Universities in the world. If one of the worst possibilities is that my laptop will get stolen, then that’s a likelihood I can accept. I think there are bigger things than that. It doesn’t take bravery to live here. We are lucky.

We made plans that first night after moving in to go over to dinner at the Lover’s Walk house, where most of our friends live. The house is only a block away and we were already considered “honorary roommates” by this point. We sat out in their backyard while the three boys barbequed. When it was time to eat, we somehow squished 13 chairs against their dining room table and poured cheap boxed wine into each of our glasses. My friend Blake rose his glass and cheersed “to new friends and new adventures.”

On Sunday morning we woke up early for the peninsula tour. All 600 international students piled into massive buses for our all day tour. We drove by the waterfront and through the city, stopping first at Clifton Beach. This gorgeous beach (separated into 4 beaches each with their own character) sits in the shadows of the 12 Apostle Mountains. We posed on boulders atop the clear water and piled back into the bus. After we went to Boulder’s Beach to see the famous wild African penguins. Then they took us to a township called Ocean View for lunch.

This township was established in the 60’s when they forcibly removed all of the black people from the nicer area of Cape Town and dropped them in an abandoned area on the outskirts of the city, a place void of any houses or hospitals or schools. Old newspaper clippings were pasted on all of the walls as we entered a large auditorium detailing the anger and hopelessness at the time. There may not be laws or borders anymore but apartheid is everywhere here – in the shantys in the cape flats that have roofs of garbage bags, on Nelson Mandela Boulevard and in the monuments of Steve Biko. It’s in the air. It wasn’t that long ago, and much of the problems it created 15 years ago are still around.

It’s interesting – in Ghana, everyone is poor. I say this as a large generalization, and although it’s growing and becoming a “beacon of hope” for aid in Africa, the majority of the country still lives on less than a dollar a day. It’s a circumstantial reality – one which everyone faces and everyone understands. In Ghana you’re considered wealthy if you have running water, a book on your nightstand, shoes on your feet. In South Africa, palatial mansions on hills overlook decrepit townships. You can drive ten minutes and be at Louis Vuitton on the Waterfront, turn back around and be in a township. Here, the lottery of birth literally comes down to miles, neighborhoods. Even worse, the locality of such abject poverty in the shadows of such a thriving metropolis is given little notice by much of the population. Everyone talks about it, but few seem to actually do anything about it. These places are seen as a dangerous and unfortunate part of the country, the eyesore of beautiful South Africa. If only shame could give rise to action, rather than avoidance.

From the township Ocean View we drove the few hours to the Cape of Good Hope, the tip of the African continent. We hiked up the hundreds of stairs to the edge of the cliff with a sign pointing to all of the major cities in the world. There was nothing pointing south. All you could see was ocean.

I’m sure it’s seemingly impossible to convey the beauty of this place. It is vast and lush, with tall green lion king trees at the tops of the mountains that surround the city and crystal blue water on white sand beaches. In the mornings, clouds crawl and fall over the tops of the Devils Peak and Table Mountain, one of the 7 wonders of the world. It is the most interesting place I’ve ever been. In many ways it feels extremely modern, similar to San Francisco. But pieces and personalities of Africa creep in, ever so surprisingly. African craft markets sit nestled in the shade of massive skyscrapers. Mini bus taxis yell at you, persuading you to cram into their vans meant to seat 8 but really seat 15. When you go hiking, you’re not supposed to bring snacks because baboons will steal them. It’s a place of tremendous history, an example of both good and bad. I couldn’t feel more appreciative to have the chance to learn and live here.

In the following week we attended a series of orientation meetings and tours, and even had an African drumming lesson with all 600 internationals. One night we hiked up to the top of Signal Hill and watched the sunset over the water and the city below. We drank wine and played music. Another night we hiked to the top of Lion’s Head mountain, a much more strenuous hike that involved rock climbing and inching along steep edges of granite. We watched the sunset go down and ate makeshift dinners we’d packed in our backpacks. As we climbed down, we had only the moonlight to guide our shaky feet down the mountain. It was dangerous and hilarious. This was what I had both hoped and imagined my life in Cape Town would be.

With every additional day I find myself falling more and more in love with this place. I see a life here…a life where I can study and help people and wander, all the while still having access to hot water and consistent electricity. I’m already dreading my departure six months from now, even though I know that only means having more adventures to look forward to. It makes me feel better knowing that I can do this, that I can pick up and start new. This place is right for me. America may be my home, but Africa is my heart and soul.

If I'd never gone to Africa...

Sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like if I’d never gone to Ghana. That I could still exist in a world that was simpler, where my thoughts didn’t reach beyond the boundaries of my university and things were the way they were just because that was the way things were. When removed and distant, I was far more sure that although unfortunate, the circumstances and lives of people on the other side of the world were not inextricably linked to mine. Unable to even care for myself, I considered myself powerless to help. We had all heard the stories and seen the sad ads with fly bitten children’s faces flickering across the television screen. Africa was a dark and curiously lost place, hopeless and wild.

And perhaps if I hadn’t gone I wouldn’t carry the responsibility of children’s lives and progress on my shoulders. My responsibilities would be mine alone, my ambitions focused solely on personal success. I wouldn’t be turning over the confusing reality that a little girl could die because she didn’t have 10 dollars to buy medication constantly in my mind; embedding a fury in my heart and eroding any understanding of why some are born to privilege and some are not.

I never have to ponder this question of an alternative life for too long. I know the answer; that ignorance is not bliss. That though my life has become more complicated in this endlessly confusing and unfair world, I am a part of something larger than myself and my petty fears. That although difficult, transformation can come as simply as a pencil in a child’s hands or a voice being heard by the right ears. That transformation can come just in the knowing that transformation is possible. I know that I am lucky to be afforded the chance to sit at a desk and be taught by some of the most esteemed in academia at my college, but that the lessons and inspirations afforded to me by those I know in Africa is worth more. And while their names may not be known or relevant here, they fight each day for something far more important than grades or roommate squabbles or compensation.

The more time I spend there, the more what I think I know becomes entirely wrong. I watch my misperceptions and stereotypes shatter as the African policeman with an AK-47 over his shoulder approaches me. Fear and nervousness floods through me until I realize all he wants to do is smile, know my name, and say welcome to his country. I’m forced into a constant state of being uncomfortable, with blistering heat and cramped spaces, buses that break down and pot holed roads that throw your head into the ceiling. Goats on your lap and chickens at your feet. Dirt everywhere; in your hair and on your clothes and up your nose. Shocked you realize that no, you really do not need all of those clothes or a hair straightener or a non-fat vanilla latte every morning. All you need is a backpack packed with a change of clothes, a good book, and flip-flops on your feet.

The chaos is, of course, a part of its charm. But even in the clanging metal and hectic market and children fighting with urgency to hold your hand, you find a sense of peace; of calm. Falling asleep to symphonies of crickets and grasshoppers and waking up to roosters and local women chatting outside the window as the sun rises...You find that there are no tones of doom and despair like so many imagine - there is only hope. It's home. And a part of me is always missing when I'm away. I come back and tell their stories, perhaps attempting to help people realize that we are one in the same…they too are silly and ambitious and smart. They too seek a life of happiness, of success, of moving forward rather than backwards.

Though I know I don’t know much about much of anything, I can learn. Even as I stumble and fail, my efforts are better than nothing. I don’t know why or how, but I am one of the lucky ones. I get to witness change spark and multiply. This change comes not because I’m there, but rather because of the unyielding optimism and tenacity sewn into the very fabric of who they are. I've been told before that there is "less value for human life" in Africa. I've never heard anything more wrong. In Africa, people still say hello to one another as they pass on the road. They strive to succeed, but their lives do not revolve around the accumulation of material goods. They do not understand Western depression; they find it legitimately insane that you would be unhappy with any life other than the one you've been granted. I think if anything, Africans retain more value for human life, much of which many of us have lost amid our wealth and time pressed lives. It becomes obvious that happiness is a choice based on disposition, not circumstance. And however happy or hopeful, many still need help, and we are not as powerless as once assumed.

I know that in my awareness of all of this brings the ability to affect change. This awareness evokes both a responsibility to act and a greater hope for human capacity.

"There is no passion to be found playing small - in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living." -Nelson Mandela

It’s been four months. Four months since my third adventure in Ghana ended and I set foot back on American soil. For four months I have been avoiding this blog, allowing the words and the drafts and the stories to well up inside my computer. I allowed myself to be overwhelmed by how much I had to tell although knowing I would have to revisit it and post at some point, because regardless of whether or not anybody reads it, the trip can’t really be done with until this blog is posted. The three-month trip that was the craziest, most challenging, most physically and emotionally exhausting, and the greatest yet. Life after Ghana 3.0 was not like life after the first trip where I was immediately bombarded with questions about ‘how was Africa?’ ‘what did I do there?’ and ‘what was it like?’. Unfortunately people have just become used to the idea that I take off to Africa sometimes…that I love it. That it’s “my thing.” Which kind of totally sucks because this trip was so inherently different than the previous. Before, the lack of questions or even content of questions wouldn’t have mattered to me…I would bring up Ghana at any chance that I could. But upon coming home this time I was shocked to realize that some of my best friends didn’t even know that I was working with an orphanage to build a dormitory, and I thought to myself ‘how much are people even really listening to me when I talk?’ So in essence, I stopped talking about it (as much). And in doing so I feel like I’m harboring all of this information, as if I’m carrying around this massive weight of stories that can’t be said out loud. And saying them out loud makes them feel real, and important. It makes it seem as if I didn’t just dream up this far away place and all of these people that become my surrogate family. It makes me feel as if both worlds can exist interchangeably, rather than separately and between big distances of space and time. So I have to write them down no matter how much time passes, not so much for you, but for my sanity. So I’ll start from where I left off, climbing Mount Afadjato.

One of my larger goals for this trip was to climb the tallest mountain in West Africa – Mount Afadjato. The mountain, notorious for torturing volunteers up its vertical climb, is situated just a mere 45 minutes away from Hohoe. I had yet to take the time to do it but was convinced I'd scale to the top before leaving. So a few other friends and I set aside a Saturday for what we thought would be a brisk, albeit challenging fun hike. My climbing mates, Clare and Carl, are both very fit and energetic. But I’m sure as many of you would point out I am fit too...Or a more appropriate term, skinny. I’d gained weight in Ghana, noticeably enough (a heaping pile of rice and oily tomato sauce diet will do that to you). Hilda thought it was appropriate to continuously mention how I was “becoming a woman” and “filling out” but I generally laughed it off and was never too worried about it. I figured I’d be okay on a climb that most tourists seemed to be able to do. Sure, I wasn’t in the best shape of my life but good enough. I will note though that Clare and Carl (although I’m sure they’d discredit this) are extremely athletic. They’re both avid bicyclists and Clare is essentially a professional skier. Me? Well, the only workout I’d had in the last two or so years was picking up babies at my job or walking from class to my car, which up to this point I’d figured had been sufficient…I was wrong. So very very wrong.

The three of us arrived at the small, seemingly abandoned village at the bottom of the mountain. We ended up finding the “tourist center”; an empty cement house with no floor, windows, or signs – just a bare table in the corner with a guest book on it. We paid a fee and were given a guide. From there we began walking toward the base of the mountain. We took a couple pictures of the three of us – happy, naïve, clean. We would only be this way for so long. From there we trekked to the bottom of the mountain, and began our way up it. The wide path shrunk to a thin and rocky vertical trail that cut through the dense forest. The hike didn't start out easy and only became progressively steeper. And I am a little person, my legs can only bend and stretch to vertical angles so many times. Soon I realized that this was not a hike, but a climb, as we were forced to pull ourselves over boulders and terrain by swinging on tree branches. I struggled to hinge my leg onto the next boulder above me and push myself off of it and forward. Every now and then we would come across notes on rocks “Keep going,” “you can do it,” that only seemed to remind me that I wasn't crazy – this was freaking hard. Half way up we came across another volunteer, she said she couldn’t do it and was waiting for her friends to come back down. I wanted to join her. Badly. This wasn’t like a normal trail that had been zigzagged into the side of a mountain – this was a vertical climb. There were no areas of rest or leveling out, it just got steeper and steeper. And I was in so much pain, forcing myself to push off of each leg one after the other. I just couldn’t get enough air in my lungs. I literally felt as if my heart was going to beat out my chest. I kept having to demand breaks or try to pretend I was taking a picture of the gorgeous view in order to buy me a few seconds to breathe, although no break was ever enough and the pain didn’t subside. Of course Clare and Carl were literally DANCING up the mountain, swooshing from side to side to the Glee Soundtrack as I slowly died on the inside. The guide told me that he was impressed, that most people who struggle this much end up giving up. And I wanted to stop and give up, really. I knew it would totally suck to tell people I hadn’t made it to the top – but this is Ghana, you check your ego at airport security. I figured there was no way this level of pain could be worth it. But Clare and Carl kept me going, being kind enough to put me in the middle so I wouldn’t feel like I was holding us back and motivating me on with their dancing and optimism and jokes. Those two – they're the kind of people that everyone wants to be around, as if their happiness, optimism and determination is contagious. I was continuously shocked at how my legs and arms managed to keep propelling me up that mountain until finally, and I can’t say ‘finally’ enough, we managed to reach the top. The top was a small, leveled platform with a sign that said, “Welcome to Afadjato.” I sat down to breathe and marveled at the view – we could see the village where we’d come from, far off in the distance, and the flat green cascade of trees leading all the way into neighboring Togo. We took pictures and then more locals reached the top and started having a party drinking palm wine out of gasoline containers. I was proud of myself, genuinely proud of what I had accomplished – literally climbing a mountain despite every part of my body telling me not to. And it was worth it, so very very worth it. We hung out for a while, listening to “circle of life” on Carl’s music player until it was time to make our way down. Going down seemed to be almost intimidating as going up – we had to slide down on our butts a lot of the time and go down on all fours. I was entirely covered in dirt but I managed to do okay going down. When we got back to the bottom we said goodbye to our guide and found the “tourist center” to sign the guest book. Under the last entry before us someone had written, “That was the most painful experience of my life.” So under our spot Clare wrote “We almost lost our friend up there, but it was worth it.”

I woke up the next day after Afadjato and every muscle in my body was sore. It hurt to lay sideways, or on my back, or to stand or to walk. I could only walk slowly and bowlegged. This continued for days, and warranted quite a few jokes from my fellow volunteers, who, might I mention – were not sore at all. But I needed my energy and to be productive. That second to last week was meant to paint the inside of the Happy Kids dormitory. It was crunch time now. The electricity had been wired through the building (including light bulbs on the insides and outside surrounding the exterior porch of the building and ceiling fans in each room). The painters had finished with the base and secondary coats and finished all the trim and doors. The windows had bars, wire and a mesh overlay to block out mosquitoes and bugs. It looked like a house now.

Clare, Carl and I planned to spend one or two afternoons painting the inside of both rooms. Clare and Carl, artistic as they are, drew the outlines in pencil of what we would paint. We started with the girls room. I bought the paint, which had to be put in old, empty Nescafe and Milo cans and brought it and the few brushes to the orphanage. The girls room would have butterflies, trees, a unicorn, and flowers on the wall. Above the window when you walked in would be “Welcome” and above the other window would be two bumblebees sitting on each side of “Home Sweet Home.” Carl brought his music player and we spent the afternoon dancing and singing to The Spice Girls and Britney Spears and anything that we could move to. In order to thin it out enough to use, the oil paint had to be mixed with gasoline and so with each brush stroke we would pour a little gasoline into the tops of the Milo cans. By the end of the day we were delirious, dizzy and light headed.

The kids were all so excited that we were painting, and all day Wisdom and Moda and a few others stayed with us, passing us the container of gas when we needed it and covering up our mistakes with the original color of the walls. As it turned out, I’m not a very great painter and would send red paint splashing down the side of the walls, making it look like the butterfly had been massacred. Luckily we were able to fix this, and I got better as the days went on. The boys room was jungle themed; it had a large lion, frog, monkey and trees in it. Both rooms had a vine around the doors that said “Happy Kids.” The day we started painting the boys room Wisdom walked up to me seriously and asked, “Can you please paint ‘home sweet home’ in our room too?” which of course we did. Above the window was also “Welcome,” this seemed to take me years to finish. Whenever we would arrive to work on it the children would rush in, their eyes and mouths wide, and they would begin shouting “This is for boys! This is for boys! This is for girls! This is for girls!” jumping up and down and arguing over which room was better and why. It was Clare and Carl’s last week and they had a lot of other things to do, so I really appreciated their dedication to getting it done even though it took SO much longer than expected. And both rooms really, seriously, turned out so beautiful. They look like real murals, like real cartoon characters. They brought such life to those blank walls. We all knew that so long as that building stands those murals would too. At the end of each day the only way to get the ever-permanent oil paint off our skin was to douse it in gasoline and so for weeks it seemed that gas grew out from my pores. Some of my most fun memories of this trip are of the three of us dancing within those walls that I’d spent the last 2 months watch being built, breathing in those toxic fumes and turning the walls into a canvas with our paint brushes.

In the mornings when we weren’t painting I was always doing a myriad of things. I’d received a couple of extremely generous donations to build the children bunk beds and had to go about getting them built in time. I knew I couldn’t use the same carpenter that I’d hired for the dormitory, he was lazy and I’d been warned that he was horrible with furniture. I was worried and clueless as to who to hire; Hohoe seems to have some version of a carpentry shop on every corner. As I was walking home from the Internet café after hearing that the donations had been made I walked up to a bare shack that I’d seen every day. The only sign it had of being a carpentry shop was the surprisingly well-made dresser sitting beneath the few pieces of tin roof and the words “Call Harrison 233..78…” on it’s door written in chalk. I asked Harrison what it would cost to make 10 bunk beds. He looked at me and laughed as if I must be joking, but I assured him I was very serious. There was something about Harrison that seemed trusting and genuine. We negotiated far below his asking price for 10 redwood beds to be made, each bed being about 120 Ghana cedis. Harrison didn’t seem very convinced that the beds would be finished by my deadline; 14 days. He told me I must be crazy, that just one bed would take 5 days. But I reinforced the fact that I wouldn’t handle this being done on ‘Ghana Time’. I had a day I was leaving the country and the children would be sleeping in these beds before that day. I took down his information and shook his hand. I was worried I’d made a mistake, trusting this stranger to finish this seemingly impossible task. I didn’t really have any other options though. The next day I met Harrison and gave him a payment to buy materials and begin the work and every morning I would check on him, making sure the beds were being worked on and keeping a weary eye as the time seemed to pass faster and faster. I’ll be honest in saying that I doubted Harrison and was sure he was lying to me when he claimed one thing was done but I wouldn’t be able to see it. It always seemed to make more sense to hope for the best but expect the worst. When I wasn’t checking on the bunk beds or painting that week I was teaching at Divine Star and Christ Orphanage as usual.

My last week was by far my busiest and most exhausting week. On Monday I met with yet another carpenter to have him build 2 bookshelves and one large cupboard. I was already worried that Harrison wouldn’t finish the beds and didn’t want to add to his already impossible workload. Over the weekend my friends Clare and Carl had left, as many others had throughout the summer, but some other friends still remained. My good friends Mark and Patti were also coincidentally flying out on Sunday and so we planned to go to Accra (the capital city) on Saturday to celebrate and eat a few real meals before heading back to the Western world. But with the amount of things I was doing, losing one day (Saturday) could be too much. I wanted to go to Accra with them. I would be sad to leave, obviously, but I was ready. I had exhausted every potential resource and knew I could walk away (albeit temporarily) knowing I had done every single thing that I could. But throughout that last week I was never sure if I would be able to leave with them on Saturday or even if I would be able to fly out on Sunday. I had always said that I wouldn’t leave unless absolutely everything was finished, and we were cutting it close.

Because it was the end of term (in Ghana children have 3, 3 month terms a year with a month break in between) all of the kids had been let out for break. This didn’t make a huge difference for much of the Happy Kids because so many of them lived there, but it for the Divine Star kids it meant saying goodbye early. The last day of term is always a giant party, where the kids dress up in their fanciest clothes and bring fantas and dance around while the teachers stuff their term grades into fat, browning envelopes. I was more than happy to say goodbye to my kiddos at Divine Star this way, dancing and laughing and not having to worry about a lesson. They danced around to “Single Ladies” (no, seriously), I danced with them, and I distributed the hundreds of pictures I had brought for them. Most of them never have and will never actually own pictures of themselves. The only time they see themselves is when volunteers turn cameras around to show them (this is why pulling a camera out creates instant chaos). I had become wary of my goodbyes here anyways, always grappling with the guilt of their tears and feelings of abandonment. I knew though that I would see Juliet, Grace, Esther, Ophila and Dennis before actually leaving…they always popped up at my hotel so we could read books. Unfortunately, I was really sad because I had planned to go to Christ Orphanage the afternoon of their last day to say goodbye (as I was buying supplies in the morning) but I found out they got out early and actually didn’t get to say goodbye…Luckily, it’s not like before where goodbyes were permanent, I always know that I’ll be back.

The break enabled some of the children at Happy Kids to visit any living parents or relatives and they were soooo excited for this. I know I’ve mentioned Wisdom in this blog before but I’ll relay his story again. Wisdom is the unfortunate result of bad circumstance. For me, his story exemplifies the unfairness of this world; something I’m still trying to come to terms with. Wisdom has never known his father and the only “family” he has ever known resides at Happy Kids. When Wisdom was 4 years old his mother decided she was unable to care for all of her 3 children. She had an older daughter, Wisdom, and a younger son. Her solution was to choose to give up one of her children. She chose to keep her older daughter and younger son and handed Wisdom, then 4 years old, to the orphanage. Wisdom is kind and so smart. His name could not be more fitting. He takes care of the younger children at Happy Kids without hesitation and he is a happy boy, although it is obvious he still questions why he must live this life while his family lives 10 minutes away without him. It’s no secret that Wisdom, now 11, and I developed a really strong bond. There’s something about this kid, I promise you…something that breaks your heart and pieces it back together all at the same time. It’s his dream to become a soccer player when he gets older, and he’s talented. Whenever he would make a goal on that mangy field he would hold his arms out at his sides and run, his skinny legs stretched over the long, tall grass, and he would fly. For the break Wisdom was allowed to visit his mother, who coincidentally lived just a few minutes from me. I didn’t meet this woman and whenever I asked about her Wisdom would say he had no idea where she was. So in those days that Wisdom stayed at his mom’s he would come see me, sometimes right after I would return from Happy Kids, and we would watch movies or drink glass bottled Fantas and Sprites or just hang out. On Tuesday I was driving around with Godwin running a million errands: buying mattresses, sheets, organizers, going to the bank and the wood shop to check on the beds back and forth. As we were heading down the road towards the shack that sold sheets I saw Wisdom walking on the side of the road: pushing a piece of bamboo that he’d fastened to old bottle caps on the bottom to roll like wheels. I asked Godwin to pull over and called over to Wisdom to get in the car. I asked him to run and tell his mother that he was coming with me but he said that he didn’t know where she was. He looked confused as to why I was telling him to get in the car. When he closed the rusty door I asked Godwin to take us somewhere where we could buy soccer shoes.

We went to the market and found a stall that had pairs of shoes hanging from the metal roofing sheet. The period of time where we were looking Wisdom was in a complete state of shock; he barely spoke and only had this giant smile plastered on his face. Godwin and I went about questioning the shop owner. At this point Godwin was fully into my plan and was probably just as excited as Wisdom was. We found a yellow and green pair of soccer cleats that seemed to be just his size, with some room to grow. They were perfect. They were brand new and had thin, long bleach white laces. We picked out a pair of green soccer socks and a new ball too, to finish out the package. I handed Wisdom the bag, although he hesitated taking it. It was as if he was afraid if he moved or spoke he would wake up from the dream he was in. His face was pure and unadulterated joy. I have never seen a smile so big or so constant. I don’t doubt that this is one of the best days he’s ever had and in that he is not alone, it was one of mine too. All of this cost just around $20 dollars.

As wonderful as this moment was, I was also filled with guilt. I made sure to explain to Wisdom several times NOT to tell the other boys at Happy Kids that he’d gotten the shoes from me but instead from a distant relative. As much as I wished I could do this with every child at Happy Kids, I knew that I couldn’t. My personal funds were dwindling quickly and I’d only accounted for building materials and labor in the dormitory project estimate; something we had surpassed long ago. The opportunity to do this for Wisdom had presented itself and I’d decided to take it. As much as I wish I could do a whole Oprah scene, “you get a pair of shoes! And you get a pair of shoes! And you get a pair of shoes!” I just couldn’t. Of course, the next day Wisdom’s brother visited me at the hotel begging me to also buy him a pair of shoes. It was heartbreaking…but as tough as it was I had to stick to my guns and explain to him that I just couldn’t, and that as much as I was sure he deserved a pair of shoes just as much, that this was a special thing for Wisdom and I couldn’t buy him shoes. This was similar to when I used to give water out to my Divine Star kids when they’d come to read with me, and one time Ophilia’s sister came with and decided to tell her friends that I gave out water. Soon, I became known as the white girl that gives out water to passing children, and the hotel was flooded daily with strange children I didn’t know demanding water. As a volunteer you quickly realize that you can’t change the world and you can’t help every kid. You have to come to terms with the fact that you can only help who you can within your own means, and sometimes this means picking and choosing who needs or could benefit from it most. I don’t have this hugely naïve assumption that I can change the world, but I do know that I can change things for one group of people, or one orphanage, or one village. And if that number is even as small as one child, that’s certainly better than nothing.

On Wednesday I went and taught at Christ Orphanage and did a phonics lesson and worked on addition. After, rather than getting lunch I went straight meet Harrison to check on the beds. After much pushing and prodding, Harrison had said that they would be finished on this day. When I got there, his little shack was bursting with the parts of the beds; which were dismantled and would be put together at the orphanage. It took over an hour but we were able to flag down a truck from the main road and direct him to Harrison’s. At that point we went about loading each part of the beds into the truck. When we got to Happy Kids we unloaded the parts and Harrison went about putting them together, which was much faster and easier than I’d expected. All of the kids kept asking me “teacha teacha what is this?” They were beyond disbelief at the idea of having their own beds. I left Harrison to continue constructing the beds and from there myself and Godsway (Elizabeth, happy kids owner’s son) hopped in a passing trotro and went to the market to buy the mattresses. We filled up two taxis with the 4-inch foam mattresses. They stuck awkwardly out of 3 of the 4 windows and bobbed up and down from the trunk. I was really excited though because this was one of the final steps to finishing the dormitory. We also bought the children a month supply of food. I tried to pick out heavier, denser foods like beans, rice, tomatoes and rice. I wish these kids got more protein rich foods and vegetables than they do rice, which is much of the reason so many of them are malnourished.

When Godsway and I got back all of the beds were built and in their proper places. They were absolutely beautiful; made of redwood, tall and wide and durable in their construction. I personally jumped up and down on each of the beds and shook them to insure their durability. I took the bag of sheets I’d bought the day prior and made every one of the 20 beds. The girls had mostly lavender and patterned white sheets, the boys orange and blue. I set out the multi-colored pop-up hampers that I’d found at the market on both sides of every bed and hung the organizers I’d also found over the doors. Elizabeth found some curtains and hung them over the windows. Letting the children into the completed dormitory could not have been more amazing. Both girls and boys paced the rooms and began claiming their beds. They chanted, “This is my bed! This is my bed!” for close to 20 minutes. They sang and danced and marveled at the hampers, careful not to move anything from its original place. Most of the older kids picked top bunks and sat on their mattresses triumphantly.

Wednesday was also Juliet’s 8th birthday. I’d brought a pink Santa Barbara shirt, her favorite book (The Hungry Caterpillar) and a blow up globe knowing I’d be here for her August 10th birthday. She came to the Geduld in the late afternoon when I’d just returned. I couldn’t believe that she was 8, although she acts much older. It seemed like only yesterday that she was 6 and teaching me (rather than me teaching her) how to count from one to ten in Ewe when I’d walk into class every morning. Juliet was old enough to recognize the corruption of the owner of Divine Star but was still very confused as to why I couldn’t spend all of my time with them. Even though I still visited and taught there every day, our afternoon reading sessions had become much less frequent and I knew it wasn’t enough. Before she took her birthday presents from me she handed me an envelope with a faded 5 X 7 picture of her in it. I knew how much this meant, as pictures are such a luxury and hard to come by. On the back she’d etched “Juliet,” as if I’d needed to know in order to not forget her. Obviously that would never happen. This girl is only 8 and she is very often the teacher (through her own choice) of her 40 classmates. She can read and write, completely self-taught. She could be the president of Ghana if she wanted to. I’m sure of it.

Thursday was a big day – the day I would go to Accra to pick up the pallet of donated supplies. I know I haven’t mentioned it in the blog before because it was such a source of frustration. When I had come in March I brought a suitcase of books and school supplies. These supplies were revolutionary and unheard of in Ghana, so when I was gearing up for the big 3 month trip I figured it’d be useful to collect more donated books and school supplies. I started small – just asking friends I knew and parents at my work. I wasn’t sure how successful that would be though so I started scavenging Santa Barbara – visiting every used books store I could find and old public libraries. I visited elementary schools and even got a HUGE box donated from Barnes and Noble. It seemed that it all accumulated at once and before I knew it I was terrified as to how I would get all of this to Ghana. Luckily my dad’s company has experience shipping freight to and from China, and so offered to do it, figuring it would be simple (oops). With the go ahead from my dad and the knowledge that I would have an entire pallet full of books to send – I went that much more crazy. I asked my dad to send out a company wide email asking for donations and so hundreds more poured in there. I couldn’t help but buy as many as I possibly could myself. I was so beyond excited at the idea that they would actually have books and pencils and erasers. When I left I’d brought a suitcase full again but left the rest behind, which I was told would follow me weeks later. Obviously that didn’t happen, as it was now 3 days before I was leaving the country and customs was still holding the packages. For the month that the pallet had been in the country I’d been dealing with a customs broker named Emmanuel. He told me he “thought” the pallet might be cleared Wednesday before I left, and knowing I had no more time to waste I told him I was coming on Thursday and picking it up regardless.

Going to Accra sounds simpler than it is. The drive alone is 4 hours each way and I had to hire my own trotro to take me – due to the fact that all 15 boxes couldn’t fit in a regular taxi. My schedule was non-negotiable, I only had Thursday to pick up all the supplies and Friday was going to be my last day in Hohoe to get it all set up and say my goodbyes before Mark, Patti and I went back to Accra Saturday. I woke up at 5:30am Thursday morning, met the trotro driver at 6:30 and waved goodbye to my other volunteer friends just waking up – they wished me the best of luck and hoped that when I returned it’d actually be with the supplies. None of us knew if this would actually happen. As we drove through the familiar, bumpy, pot holed roads I envisioned all of the books set up in a library and the kid’s faces. I told myself I wouldn’t be leaving without everything. There was a possibility though that I would have to change my flight because of this pallet. When we got to Accra we waited and then met Emmanuel at the airport – where we then followed him to the warehouse where customs was. Everyone was just standing around in the parking lot waiting, and it looked like they’d been waiting for a while…not a good sign. Emmanuel told me he was still working on it and to wait. So the trotro driver, Prosper, and myself waited in the stiflingly hot parking lot, baking for hours. I hated sitting. I asked Emmanuel to let me talk to someone and he said it would probably make it worse – that they would slow down the process because I was white. This was possible, or they could speed it up. You never really know which way it will go in Ghana, but race always plays a part. For the mean time we decided not to risk it, and so we waited and listened to the symphony of clanking metal and trucks pulling in and out of the warehouse.

Eventually Emmanuel offered to take me to lunch, and I figured what the hell. I would never pass up a chance to visit the Accra mall – which had actual linoleum floors, a pizza place, a chicken sandwich place, and an ice cream shop. We had lunch at the “Chicken Inn.” When we got back Emmanuel left and again we waited, for hours and hours and hours. At 3:30 they said they’d had to change it to a new permit process in hopes of speeding it up. This gave me hope, but at 5 Emmanuel walked up to me and said he had bad news. He said we’d have to wait until tomorrow. I wanted to cry. I didn’t have until tomorrow. I was pissed and told him to take me to talk to someone. We walked into the customs office and I pleaded my case to several people, who looked at me with crooked smirks and amusement. ‘I just wanted to get these books to an orphanage in the Volta Region’, I said, and I would be leaving the country. Finally they told me I would talk to the head of Ghanaian customs. The man at the absolute top. I was nervous but determined to look strong and forceful. Another customs officer knocked on the door and creaked it open, “Boss, I brought you a white woman from America,” he said. “A white woman huh? Send her in.” And so in I went.

On the wall hung an old and tattered poster claiming, “STOP! NO BLOOD DIAMONDS FROM COTE D’VOIR. THOSE WHO ARE CAUGHT WILL BE SEVERELY PROSECUTED.” The boss showed no emotion in his face. He had mean, heavy eyes that stared at me like a mosquito disturbing him at what he thought was the end of his day. But I pleaded, I rationalized, I ran my mouth as much as we would let me. “Please”, I said, “whatever it will take, I need these books to be released today and I’m not leaving until they are.” I paused for his reaction. A smile broke on his seemingly emotionless face. He said he would help me. He said that he would hand-write out the process because the computers were what was taking so long. This paper would have to be hand signed out by every major official at Customs, and he numbered it, starting with him. “Run” he said. “You have 10 minutes before the warehouse closes.” And that is exactly what we did; ran. Fast….weaving through the portables and going back and forth between the suited officials. One of them was a man named “Mr. Stanley,” who agreed to help me only if I promised to come back and visit him the next time I was in Ghana. When I found out that we didn’t have the ONE piece of paper we needed to finalize the process – because the computers had stopped working – I thought we’d ultimately failed. But as we approached the building where Emmanuel’s office was to try for the paper one last time, a woman burst out the door and threw it at us. “Thank your lucky stars,” Emmanuel said to me.

We were given security badges and entered the warehouse. It had no order to it and seemed to be a jumbled mess of boxes lacking labels and purpose and place. I was beyond thrilled to find all of my boxes – tied together in a corner. The customs men began opening the boxes and sorting through them…and there they were, the books I’d packed months ago and left safely in America…The pencils, the baby clothes, the erasers, the map of the world and the thousands of crayons. The warehouse men began picking out their own books to keep, “samples, samples,” they said. And I rolled my eyes – I didn’t have much fight left in me. “They have kids too…” someone said. I was devastated when one of them picked the Big Book of Bedtime Stories with golden-flaked pages that I’d bought specifically myself. But I was happy to get out there with all but about 10 books – considering the circumstances. We loaded them into the trotro at 7 o’clock, a mere 9 hours after we’d arrived. And we left on our way back to Hohoe. We’d somehow succeeded – I was leaving with over 600 pounds of donated supplies for Happy Kids and tomorrow I would build the libraries and assemble everything before saying my goodbyes. When we got back to Hohoe at 11pm we unloaded the boxes and I went to my room. I fell back into my bed and every inch of my body ached.

I woke up at 6am for my last day in Hohoe. I had my typical breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and Nescafe coffee. Godwin picked me up and we drove to the bank so I could give out the last payments to everyone. I bought a bunch of straw mats for the floors and sign to paint “Happy Kids” onto the building. I walked to meet my mason, Prosper, where we picked up the 2 bookshelves I’d had built by a carpenter and a large cabinet to house all of the school supplies. Eventually we loaded everything into a trotro and set on our way to Happy Kids. When I pulled up all of the kids began grabbing boxes and carrying them on their heads into the orphanage.

I spent the next few hours kneeling over those boxes and sorting every book, pencil, etc. One of the large bookshelves was at the actual orphanage and the other bookshelf and cabinet was taken to the school site. I sorted the books based on age, putting the younger books on the bottom shelves and the more in depth novels at the top. I sorted based on if they were educational or stories. I sorted about 3 large boxes to be sent to Christ Orphanage. After I finished that a priest came and blessed the dormitory. It was officially ready to be lived in. From there we took all of the school supplies to the school site and I went about unwrapping every new crayon, pencil, whatever from it’s packaging. I’d bought containers a few days ago and labeled them for every class. This also took hours. When I was done the cabinet was full of about 1,000 pencils, 1,000 crayons, hundreds of erasers, pencil sharpeners, glue, scissors, learning games, almost anything you could think of. I also organized the bookshelf so that there was an entire shelf of teaching books, lesson plans and materials, books about animals and science and math, flash cards and basic stories. When I returned back to the orphanage I taped a world map on the wall of the library, lay a rug down and took a step back…it even looked like library. Atchukwe, the oldest girl, walked in slowly, sat down and carefully pulled a book from the shelf and read silently; the biggest smile on her face. They all eventually went in there and stayed for hours. Just the fact that they will never have to fight over books again is the most incredible thing, and I called the people at my dad’s company who had so tirelessly worked to ship it there and we all left them a message. From there we played, and hung out. All that time Chantal’s chubby little fingers never left mine. I stayed until it was dark and was devastated to say goodbye. I was so sad to know I’d no longer be seeing them every day – and that this wild and crazy adventure was coming to an end, again. When I pulled away with Godwin I did so with a sense of peace – it was easier this time because I knew I’d literally done every thing I was mentally and physically capable of doing. My friends and I had our last meals of fried rice and tomato sauce at the hotel and said our goodnights.

On Saturday morning I woke up early and rode my bike around the village, saying goodbye to all of my friends. I visited my friend Naomi and her new baby, Klenam, and we took pictures together and planned the next time I would be coming. When I got back to the hotel Juliet was waiting for me, standing at the edge of the dirt road wearing the bright prink Santa Barbara I’d given her for her birthday. She was crying really hard though, partly due to my leaving and partly due to the fact that she had malaria. I brought her to my room and gave her water and put on a movie for her while I packed. Wisdom came too and sat in my room with Juliet while I threw my dirty and tattered belongings into my half empty bags. I left a lot of things behind, as always. I wish I could’ve filmed the way the adorable cook, Bright, threw herself onto my small, carry-on suitcase when I said I would be leaving it.

Myself, Patti and Mark packed our suitcases into Godwin’s car and gave big hugs to all of the staff. The Geduld had become my home, and I was so sad to leave it. I hugged Juliet and made her promise me to go to the hospital. Wisdom also handed me a picture of himself with an adorable note on the back calling me “his queen.” Another one of my students, Dennis, showed up. And I asked him to tell my other kids at Divine Star that I said goodbye and as always, would be back. I didn’t have to worry that they’d felt abandoned – at this point they all knew I would be coming back. And just like that we piled into the car and drove off out of Hohoe. I couldn’t wrap my mind around these last few months, or the fact that again I was heading back to the Western world. Crazy how time seems to move both extremely slow and fast at the same time.

On our day in Accra, Patti and I went to the cultural market where I found some beautiful beaded wooden elephants and bowls. For our last dinner we went to meet our friends and fellow volunteers, Eddie and Anne Marie, at their fancy and beautiful beachfront hotel. Walking into it was like walking into an entirely different world, one that I didn’t know existed in Ghana. The restaurant had cloth napkins and even gave us our very own mosquito coil; the definition of class. I tried really hard not to have a panic attack when I saw the menu had an actual cheeseburger on it. My friends caught on to my excitement and reveled in the experience with me. Anne Marie and Eddie had only been there 2 weeks and weren’t quite into withdrawals yet. They had planned to stay another 2 weeks to vacation and travel. Unfortunately Anne Marie had contracted a very horrible case of Malaria and was not well. She was tough and somehow sat through our dinner but spent the following 4 days in the Accra Hospital going through hell. A volunteer getting malaria is not really out of the ordinary, it is an unfortunate fact of life, and we usually don’t worry too much but Anne Marie’s case was especially horrible. Luckily she did get better much later but not in time to salvage her vacation. I still don’t understand how I haven’t gotten Malaria yet but expect that will change soon enough. After dinner me, Mark and Patti retreated with our full and happy stomachs back to our dive hotel. As we drank ridiculous cocktails under the stars in celebration of Mark’s birthday we could feel the mosquitoes literally eating us alive. It’d become a continuous and frustrating game to try to swat them dead before they bit you. We’d left our remaining bug spray canisters in Hohoe for the last 2 volunteers, not expecting the mosquitoes in Accra to be this ruthless. In the morning I counted 54 bites on just my legs alone. I probably had close to 70 including my arms. It was painful, to say the least. I had become a walking, itchy, mess of bumps and was sure I’d get malaria in the following days at home. The 3 of us had breakfast and hung out in the hotel lobby Sunday before our flights left. Mark and Patti were on the same flight and left hours before mine. We said our goodbyes knowing we would see each other again in Ghana soon enough. I was sad to see them go and was slightly dazed when I realized I was again entirely alone.

I must say, you meet the most incredible people volunteering in Africa. The friends I made this summer were amazing: all incredibly intelligent, driven and hilarious. Many were repeaters; people that had volunteered in Ghana before and had caught the Ghana bug and would always come back, like me. During one conversation we were all discussing the types of people you meet. My friend Mark boiled it down to this: “There are people that are dreamers, and there are people that are doers,” –noting that people that come to Africa are doers. It’s interesting because before I’d always considered myself a dreamer – this girl always thinking up these huge ambitions and elaborate plans. I don’t think that I chose to come to Africa because I was a doer. I think it turned me into one…Mostly because there’s no way of being an observer; of sitting idly on the sidelines waiting to be directed. And I don’t mean to make this overly broad, wide-eyed statement, but despite the many failures and challenges that reside there, my experiences in Ghana have instilled in me a belief that anything is possible. Sure, change in Africa typically only happens incrementally in small, bite-sized pieces. But the most wonderful thing about it is that those small, short-term advances can have massive long-term effects. And there are so many warriors out there that will fail time and time again until something positive happens and change is made, and I say warriors because they are battling against the odds, and I know these people. People that continuously sacrifice salaries and time and effort and despite the most heinous and torturous bouts with Malaria will continuously come back never knowing if anything that they do will even stick. I am continuously shocked and honored to be in the company of these people and am so grateful I had the fortune of meeting so many of them this summer.

Once my friends had left I walked to the Internet down the street. I read. I watched the small hand of the ticking clock…until finally it was time catch a cab to the airport and get on my plane back to the real world. I slept, it seems, from the moment my head hit the back of my seat until we were beginning our decent into Atlanta. It was as if I was making up for 2 and ½ months of no sleep. I looked out the window down at highways slithering between giant square plots of land, at tall buildings and perfectly manicured trees all planted in rows; the characteristics of development. It looked like a model world created in the office of an architect, with treetops made of sponges and uniform plastic houses..Far from the world from which I had come. I was back in America. Strange. My plane was late and I still had to go through customs. As I waited in line I wanted to break my own legs off they itched so bad. In seeing that I was coming from Ghana, I was hand picked to go through specialized security where they would personally search all of my luggage. I was going to miss my connection before pleading with the man at the desk to let me through, which he eventually did. And so I ran, from customs to the plane that was supposed to be taking off in 10 minutes. I cursed myself for being so out of shape. I was coming from Africa and still I had the lung capacity of a 400-pound old woman. I ran, tortured, past Starbucks. I had been dreaming of an iced vanilla latte for so long. But I made it to the plane and eventually made it home. When I landed in San Francisco I had 11 dollars in my bank account, but it didn’t matter…I could always make more money.

Adjusting back to American life can be weird. When I’m in Ghana it’s like I’m underwater, fully immersed; time moves slower, all experiences and feelings and memories are dense and thick. I come back and blend back into a crowd, just another college student juggling books and binders and work. I’m getting much better though. I’m getting better at separating the worlds and not letting myself feel so guilty about the people I’ve left behind. I go back to weighing research papers and midterm exams as if they’re the determinants to life and death. These things can bother me but I find it hard to be really upset about my circumstances, I know how lucky I am. I know I still have a lot to learn and am trying to take classes that can in any way be applied to my work overseas.

Among the harder things to get used to being back is the unknown. When I get on the plane, I know that I’m walking into a world of questions. I know that from that point on I will have no idea how any of my kids are doing and how things are actually working out. And for most of them, there’s no changing that. I worry all the time. I worry if the kids have access to the books everyday. I worry if someone has been bandaging up the horrible gaping wounds that Wisdom gets from playing soccer. I worry that one of them walked into the outhouse and got bit by a poisonous snake, like Comfort and Godsway did. I worry that if they get sick who will take them to get medicine. And even still, if they will distribute their medicine properly…which many of them are uneducated about. I worry if the pencils are being used and if teachers are actually teaching them. If their cries go unheard, their strengths; unnoticed. I worry that I don’t know any of this. I worry that I’ll get a call or an email notifying me of something horrible; something easily prevented. I wonder who won’t be there next time, sometimes children and families just disappear. It eats away at you, the unknown. I try to open up lines of communication, handing out my phone number like candy and paying for computer lessons at the local internet café. Even still, all I can do is hope. All I can do until I find my feet placed firmly back on the ground in Ghana is wonder.

And there was something very different about this trip. It wasn’t so much the length of time that I was gone but rather how much I was working, non-stop. I can say honestly that my days would begin at 6:30 and end at 6pm when I would get back from playing on the field with the happy kids, and the sheer exhaustion of it all began to weigh on me while I was there. I was so tired. For the first time, I began to think about what I had left. I began to weigh my sacrifices. And they’d never felt like sacrifices really. Ghana was always the instant choice, the automatic response. Ghana topped anything. I had spent the last year wanting to be there and only there. So without a blink of doubt, I moved out of my apartment. I packed every item I owned into a 10X10 storage unit. I told my friends goodbye. I walked away from the job that I loved, knowing that there was a huge chance it wouldn’t be waiting for me when I got back 3 months later. It was just a part-time job anyways. Just a job at a day-care center; not my career path. But as those days went on, I missed those kids more than anything I could have anticipated. I missed watching them grow up and my friends at work and the comfort ability I felt within those walls. When I was gone some of the kids had learned to talk or learned to walk, and god I hoped I’d get my job back. I missed my friends at home, I hoped things wouldn’t have changed when I got back after so much time. I began to realize that the life that I was always hoping to leave and retreat to Ghana for was actually pretty amazing. And I did get my job back, and I moved into a new apartment, and I see my friends all the time. And I’m forcing myself to go out on weekends. And every time I get to work I still have to hug all of the kids multiple times throughout the day, because I still appreciate it just as much as I did on the first day I was back. And I appreciate both worlds now. I don’t feel the need to escape one for the other. Every time I turn on the faucet and feel warm water, I’m still surprised. Every time I get a paycheck I’m still thankful, in a, “wait, I’m not working for free?” kind of way. It’s a balancing act really. I’m working on the balance.

In retrospect, I’m still so shocked that everything turned out so well. I can really only attribute it all to luck - and the fact that we actually showed up and tried to make things happen. So much of life is just showing up. I think the only reason I was able to handle the pressure of it all was because I only thought of what needed to be done the next day and nothing more. I couldn’t envision the completed building because I just honestly didn’t know what that would look like and how we would get there. All I could focus on was how many 2 by 4’s or bricks we would need and what lesson I was going to teach at Divine or Christ…what books I would bring to happy kids in the afternoon or whether or not I was having rice or noodles for dinner. The little things somehow strung themselves together into this huge, beautiful and amazing thing. And I am so appreciative to Elizabeth, the owner of happy kids. She had faith in me when I didn’t even have faith in myself and I never knew why she trusted me so. A lot of volunteers make promises and close to none of them actually follow through with them, so I’ve gotten used to locals questioning the likelihood of anyone really changing things. It’s a method of self-preservation really, and I understand it. If they got their hopes up every time someone said they would send them pencils or fundraise or said they’d come back, they’d be heartbroken. I hate that it’s come to that, but it makes sense. Elizabeth never treated me this way. She believed me without a shadow of a doubt and never seemed surprised that things were actually happening…it was as if she just knew. Even though I didn’t.

It cost $6,000 dollars to build the Happy Kids Dormitory; and to paint it, and to furnish it and to put electricity in it. In comparison to what people spend $6,000 dollars on in the states it's pretty staggering. That money didn't just build a building either, it built a home. The children are also less likely to be sick and miss school, because they are no longer sleeping on cold, urine-covered cement floors but instead of their own self-contained bunk beds. The ceiling fans increase air circulation and lesson the amount of mosquitoes in the room; substantially lowering the risk of malaria. Not to mention the fact that morale is raised, and they actually have a home that they deserve. I’ve tried to communicate this impact to the people who funded this project. I am just a messenger, just a worker bee. It was their generosity that created this place and this desperately needed change. I hope that even if you are not one of these people and you don’t have interest in financing my projects then you will invest in helping someone else, wherever they may be. I promise you won’t regret it.

So as I’m sure you’re aware my work in Africa is not nearly close to over. I will continue to try my best to help the children in Hohoe, which includes Happy Kids, Christ and Divine Star. They are a part of me just as the bricks are a part of the new building they now call home or the crooked nails that hold their desks together. I will go back to Ghana in the summer and will surely venture to other parts of Africa in the future. I hope that you will join me, and if not, that you will continue to follow and learn with me as I attempt to navigate and help this vast, beautiful, happy and often complex place.

Until next time,
Kels

"I don't want you to be like me, I want you to be more than me." -Mary Afari

Life in Ghana is strange. It sucks you in, strips you of all that you think you know. There are few certainties here. I think that may also be why it is so weird to go home. So weird to be thrust into modern life, and all you can do is wonder how these two places exist in the same world…as they are so different, but still so much the same. And this trip has been so different for me than the last two. Not more of a mental journey but a physical one. I’ve spent less time trying to figure out what it all means and how it’s affecting me and more time just living it. And my days are so long and entail so many different stories that the thought of writing it down at night is too brutal to even attempt, hence the lack of blogs from this trip. I do still think very much with a writers mentality, often describing moments into narratives that swirl around in my head begging to be written down, until the honk of a speeding taxi or a shout of “ye vu! Ye vu!” brings me back to real life and it’s quickly forgotten. And I know how much I’ll regret writing (at all) during this trip, and it does disappoint me…especially when I remember that there are other people that are curious, other people that are invested in this trip, in this project, in these kids, and I know no matter how hard I try the only way I can get remotely close to sharing my adventures is through the written word…so I’ll keep trying. I’ll try to update you on the last 2 weeks, or the moments that stick out. And it may be staggered and confusing, so bear with me.

The Monday after my last blog Cassie and I had arranged for a woman named Mary to speak to the girls at Christ for girls empowerment. Another volunteer had told us about her and urged us to seek her out, so we did just that weeks before. Mary is a strong, skinny older woman that owns a Batik (a special type of fabric printing) and dress shop in town. Our friend informed us that she was building a girls school; the only person I’d heard of who was campaigning for empowerment and working towards it in the Hohoe community. We went to Mary’s shop and were instantly welcomed and instructed to sit down. Mary is a confident woman, and although sweet, you can feel her strength and determination blasting from her eyes. As her glasses balanced on her nose, she told us her story; of dropping out of school early, marrying and then divorcing, always wishing she had gone back to school to fulfill her dreams of being a lawyer. She says she knows it’s too late for her, but maybe not for others. She formed a women’s group in the community where they meet once a month to talk about abusive husbands or oppressive stereotypes or making change. Mary is every definition of a feminist, and I absolutely loved it. On the first day we met she showed us the site of her girls school. I was very impressed, but sad I couldn’t help her as I knew she’d hoped. Her intentions were clear but she, like many, immediately saw us as a potential step towards finishing her school. I apologized, ‘I just want to hear your story. Wonder if you can talk to our girls.’ She obviously has the experience. It makes me mad to get the recognition I receive for my projects, there are so many modern day heroes here; dedicating not just a summer but their lives. There are so many amazing local people to invest in. One step at a time, I told myself. I had enough on my plate, far too much to take on the role of campaigning for Mary.

So Mary came to the school that Monday. We picked her up, laughed as she insisted on bringing her grandson with her. We arranged the girls in the room like we had before, and gave Mary the freedom to talk to them about whatever she wanted for the hour. With a baby strapped to her back, she began by asking the girls if they wanted to be like her. They all raised their hands excitedly. “I don’t want you to be like me,” she said, “I want you to be more than me.” And from there she told her story, her regrets, and it all boiled down to education. The girls empowerment program became more about insisting on education, staying in school, never letting go of your aspirations. She talked about the gap between men and women in the work force, and she was very good at breaking it down to a level the girls understood. Her honesty and passion was emphasized with every word she spoke, and to hear her say repeatedly, “I want you to be more than me,” was one of the most humbling things I’d ever seen.

And that was just an afternoon. A morning previous to that I had stopped at Happy Kids before going to teach at Christ. It was a couple days after I had bought most of the materials and they were supposed to be starting work. Happy kids is literally a 2 minute walk from Christ, so I usually stop by on my way from one place to the other. I had spent the previous day calling back and forth between the mason – only to have him not answer his phone. A million worries flooded through me – I thought I must have been premature in thinking we’d made progress. I suspected the mason had run off from the job, that I’d have to find a new one…go through the process again. I finally had to tell myself to put down the phone; this is africa. There are some things, a lot of things that I can’t control. I can’t sum it up any better than Peter Godwin as he says,
“Most of us struggle in life to maintain the illusion of control, but in Africa that illusion is almost impossible to maintain. I always have the sense there that there is no equilibrium, that everything perpetually teeters on the brink of some dramatic change, that society constantly stands poised for some spasm, some tsunami in which you can do nothing but hope.”

For me, and I’m sure for others, the illusion of control is easier to maintain in the Western world. It’s easier to feel more secure in that world – as if change can only happen incrementally, in manageable, bite-sized portions. With the anchor of history holding you down and the presence of buildings, institutions and possibilities, you expect familiarity and control. Control over your own life – over your own destiny. But here, no such thing exists. People surrender their lives, their fates, and only wait for their cue. So maybe I am becoming more African in my acknowledging that I just can’t control it all. There are a lot of things that are out of my hands. It was good I came to that conclusion as that morning I would have more to deal with.

We had planned on finishing the current building, which had 4 standing walls of bricks. Most of the materials then would be used for roofing, so we had only accounted for that in the budget. But when I walked up to Happy Kids the next morning to find half of the building collapsed – I knew we had problems. Prosper (my mason) explained to me that the bricks were far too old- that as the workers chipped away at parts to make new doors, it simply began crumbling to dust. He clutched a brick in his hand, it looked solid, but by bending his fingers into it, it crumbled. I knew what he was telling me – this needs to be replaced. The current bricks could never withstand the added pressure of roofing, and it would more than likely fall in later years with children beneath it. There was no way in hell I would build them a building that was unsafe, even if that meant I had to dig into my own pocket. I sighed and agreed as we talked numbers. We tested each wall for it’s durability – luckily the back wall had been made more recently and the bricks for good. As for the rest, it would have to be replaced. We needed 600 more bricks, which is 600 more cedi. I cringed, praying that this wouldn’t keep happening. Hoping with everything in me that we wouldn’t run out of money. If such a thing happened I had always planned on using my own money – but only I could give so little, having spent everything I had to get and live here.

We also came to find that Prosper and I had a miscommunication. About 10 years ago the Ghanaian government decided to change the national currency so that it resembled dollars. Before it was very confusing – 1,000,000 would mean only 100 dollars (without converting). So they erased 4 zeros from the old currency to make it easy – 40 cedi meant 40 cedi, as opposed to 400,000. So we, the volunteers, go by the new Cedi, aptly named “Ghana Cedi” but much of the country still goes by old cedi, even though their currency is printed as Ghana cedi. In short, many of them don’t quite get how to convert it. They don’t understand their own currency. As we plowed through that estimate I said a million times “Ghana cedi! Ghana cedi! What is that in Ghana cedi?” but even still there were confusions. By far the biggest was that I had written down 120 ghana cedis for Prosper’s workmanship (which I knew was low, but at the time his work was minimal in comparison to the carpenter which was 400) but what prosper actually meant was 1,200 ghana cedis. Upon talking to a lot of people and taking into account how much the project had grown with most of the building needing to be replaced, I found out that price was fair. I reluctantly agreed to 1,100 ghana cedis for workmanship and in doing so – our costs just rose almost 900 dollars.

I breathed in, begging for this to be our biggest issues. For our costs to stop rising. Of course, added costs continued to pop up. Things were forgotten, separate workers needed to be hired for painting, sometimes we needed more materials than anticipated. Even still, we scraped by. By definition an estimate is exactly that – an estimate, but we were lucky. Thanks to some last minute donations I even had enough to call the electrician to get an estimate. As we sat on the Happy Kids porch, going over the list of materials for the wiring, etc., I had to negotiate again – for his workmanship. Now any time I’m doing this Prosper sits with his head down and shrugs at whoever I’m negotiating with – as if he’s apologizing with his eyes. Each time he laughs, knowing his fellow ghanaians can’t pull a fast one on me. Each time it’s as if he’s saying “I’m sorry, but not only can you not rip this yevu off, you’ll be doing this for less than you planned.” The same thing happened with the painter. Hilda has started calling me “Construction worker/African woman Kelsey.”

There is a girl at Happy Kids named Comfort, age 13. Any time I would come there in the afternoon she would always be laying in the one room in the same position, with a long scrap of fabric wrapped around her legs. At first I figured she just liked watching the one TV they had, something a previous volunteer had bought them. But then when I started coming in the early morning and mid-afternoon I realized that she stayed there all day, every day. When Comfort was 8 she was bit by a snake. They tried to take her to the local hospital (one I’ve heard horror stories from) but they couldn’t help her there. As the venom crept further and further up her right calf, they took a taxi to another hospital; one an hour away – wasting precious time. As it turned out, they couldn’t help her there either. Then, they took her to the capital city, Accra, an additional 4 hour drive. By the time she got there, she was almost dead and her leg needed to be amputated. They operated and replaced it with an artificial leg from the thigh down. But Comfort didn’t have any parents; they had died when she was young. Her grandfather had been taking care of her – but the added strain of her injury, pain and medical costs were too much to bear, so he surrendered her to the orphanage. Now, Comfort has grown but the leg stayed the same - causing her excruciating pain and an inability to walk without falling sideways. Recently it had gottan worse- which is why Comfort had been out of school for who knows how long. They acted like it was temporary, but I could tell she’d been out of school for years. She is 13 and can hardly name the letters of the alphabet. I asked so many questions. I even began researching alternatives – asking people to ask around for me about a wheelchair, pain medication, some kind of alternative that could at least get her to school. Elizabeth promised Comfort’s grandfather would be contacted to take her back to Accra for another operation (no idea who pays for these operations) but I wasn’t optimistic. Comfort is a beautiful girl, she is tall and skinny, although she rarely stands. And she is painfully embarrassed of her leg. The scrap of fabric is constantly surrounding it down to her toes. I tell her she’s beautiful as often as I can. This is what I mean by having too many goals. I can’t help but think the amazing things I could do if only I had access to more funds and resources. And it infuriates me….that a girl could just lay in a dark cement room all day every day without school or companionship and nobody would think twice about it. It doesn’t make sense. So many things don’t make sense. So I added Comfort to my list; before I leave I would make sure she got help.


Some days in the afternoon I take the kids at Happy Kids to the park – just a field cut out of jungle. They play football and sing or just sit with me. But the older girls – like Comfort and Atchukwe (age 12, orphaned since age 4) are responsible for staying at the orphanage to prepare meals and wash dishes. One day I suggested they go with us to the park – their eyes lit up. They couldn’t believe it. And I knew Elizabeth couldn’t say no if I had asked it. So even though Comfort could hardly walk, she came to the park, as they all sang ,“We are going to Pa-hk!! We are going to Pa-hk!! When we got there the boys took off to play football and all of us girls formed a circle. We played clapping games and then they assembled a “culture line” and began dancing and singing traditional Ewe songs for me. Comfort couldn’t stop smiling. She sat down after some time next to me – her leg had obviously been hurting her. She watched her friends, or sisters, the only family she really has, looked over at me appreciatively and said, “Today is our Happy Day.”

I sat in the grass that afternoon watching them – trying to soak up every ounce of their happiness; begging, as always, to try to find some way to take it home with me. I wished those who donated to this project could feel their smiles as I do – how hard they hug me before they say goodbye every day. I wish people knew. It is addicting; the joy they have. Any foreigner is instantly entranced by it. And that is always my goal – to carry it with me on the plane.

Another morning I was at Divine Star, visiting with them. They were in between lessons (meaning the teacher ran out of things to do) so I sat with them for a while as they played with my hair and we chatted. Even though I see them every day, I make sure to tell them how much I miss them – because I do. I say “Do you know how much I miss you??” and they look down, smile and shyly say, “yessss!” and I say “THIS MUCH!” and together we hold out our arms as far as they’ll reach on both sides. I absolutely love the kids at Happy Kids and at Christ, they are happy and beautiful and each have their own personalities – but I love the kids at Divine Star in a different way. I love them in a way that I have watched them grow, I’ve seen them go from learning letters to reading words, their class picture has been the background on my phone for a year, – they changed who I was. I want them to know that just because I don’t teach them every day doesn’t mean I don’t love them – it doesn’t mean I love other kids more. As I sat there, Grace asked me when I was leaving. “3 weeks” I said. She began naming off the few other volunteers they’ve had in their class this past 2 months, only one of which (a friend of mine) aside from me had come back. “First Madame Lana left, and then Madame Nadia, and you are what we have. You are all we have.” I hugged her a little harder before I left.

Not last weekend but the weekend before we went to Lake Volta. Me, Cassie and the new volunteers Carl and Clare (again, love them) piled into a tro tro and journeyed 2 hours away to the worlds largest man-made lake. Cass and I had been there before, but it was an amazing break – a beautiful sanctuary of green and water so smooth it looks like glass. We ate good food and at night went out to an actual dance club. It had about 3 people in it, but at least it had an actual roof with closed in walls and a DJ. Our last day we hung by the pool (yes, an actual pool) and again we were off, back to Hohoe, back to work.

And I continue to be busy. I’ve worked harder here in Africa in this last summer than I’ve ever worked in my life. Which is why it’s funny to me when people refer to this as a vacation. They say, “Well, you’re enjoying what you’re doing, so it’s sort of a vacation.” I have to say, just because I love what I’m doing doesn’t mean it’s not unbelievably exhausting, doesn’t mean I don’t still have to pull myself away from the air conditioner. It’s hard work, both physically and mentally. One morning I spent 4 hours at Christ orphanage working with a little girl named Peace just on writing her name. I made a melody out of the letters and helped her memorize it as she wrote out each one. I repeated, I sang, I guided her hand to write the “P” properly...over and over and over again. She was very behind in class. At the end of that 4 hours she could finally write her own name, while singing the song, without my help. I felt a huge sense of accomplishment. The next day, she didn’t remember anything. She didn’t even know what a “P” was.

Another afternoon me and the Happy Kids were at the park and I turned to find a little boy Richmond crying hysterically. He’s only 3 and absolutely adorable. He has quiet, sweet eyes and every day he wears the same tattered green “Australia” shirt. I am obviously used to seeing the kids cry a lot here – they beat the crap out of one another, even still, my heart sinks a little every time it happens. I walked up to Richmond and kneeled to meet his eyes. I asked him what was wrong but he couldn’t respond, he doesn’t really speak any English – he only repeats a few things and knows my name. But his tears kept falling, so I picked him up into my arms. As I shook him from side to side, trying to calm him, I looked over to see the deep measure of devastation seemingly permanent on his face. But then I smiled at him and miraculously – he smiled back. He instantly stopped crying, his breathing slowed. And I marveled at how quickly he had forgotten that he was sad – just because I was holding him. And I know that happens all over the world, with all kids, but here – the kids don’t get held or picked up. There are far too bigger problems. They’re simply told “Stop crying ok?” And it was just so amazing to me. It was only a small moment, one of many here, but I thought to myself – this is the definition of why I’m here.


So why happy kids? I know a lot of people who haven't continually read are wondering how I could go from advocating to build a school to building a dormitory building for an orphanage. It is simply this: they needed help, and I knew I (or better, you) could help them. As much as I advocate for education, and want schools like Divine Star to improve, you can’t knock the fact that at least those kids have homes. At least those kids have parents, someone to hug them. At least, for most of them, they have basic life necessities. The kids at Happy Kids, most of them don’t have that. When I got into advocating for Ghana, working to raise money, it was originally fueled by selfish reasons –to help the kids I knew. I suppose that’s where it starts for every aid worker – for every founder of an organization. And as much as I’d like to pretend the disaster that was Sankofa didn’t happen – I must credit it for showing me that change was possible. That experience enabled me to build a bridge to find and help those who truly needed it. Now, I absolutely love the kids at Happy Kids and Christ, as I expected I would. They too hold a place in my heart, will encompass my thoughts at home, my worries. I will take them with me, wherever I go. There is one girl at Happy Kids named Chantel. I call her my little Chunk because she’s the only chubby African toddler I’ve ever seen. She’s only 3 or 4 so she barely speaks English. She’s so young she can only pronounce my name as “Telwsey.” Any time I’m there, she is never more than inches from me. Everyone calls her my daughter. She’s spunky and a trouble maker but more than anything she always just wants to be held. I love that little girl.

And my partner in crime, Cassie, had to leave. There was an emergency at home so she left early. She’s been gone almost 2 weeks. I knew I would miss her, but I didn't expect I would miss her this much. Sometimes I still think she must be out at the market or running errands or in the room, just automatically. It was definitely strange the first couple days without her popping in and out of our conjoined rooms. Luckily I wasn’t left alone and have my other friends who I love and have tonss of fun with. It is very strange to see people coming and going, coming and going, and still I’m here.

And I’m happy to report that Comfort did get help. After much pushing and prodding, her grandfather was contacted and she was taken to the hospital and had the operation. She’s even gone back to school and is no longer captive in that cement room. I’m also happy to report that the Happy Kids dormitory building is finished. Elizabeth even asked me to come back another time and manage the classroom project that’s being funded by another volunteer (although the progress is at a stand still). Obviously I told her I didn’t know when I would be back but it made me feel great – as if the progress of the building and its success wasn’t just due to luck but the fact that I’ve been doing it right. And then more people stepped in (or the same people helped further) and as of now bunkbeds are being constructed. I couldn’t be more shocked and excited. I started this blog about a week and a half ago, and now I have 2 weeks left. The trip should be winding down but now it’s crunch time…and I can’t imagine my life any other way than this. Adjusting will undoubtedly be rough. I literally feel like I live in Africa. More updates coming soon, including how I climbed the tallest mountain in West Africa (and am still walking funny because of it).

Love and miss you all and am SO thankful for your support,

Kelsey

"Don't stand against progress."

Ah, Progress. This is what I want to start this blog with, because I can’t tell you how relieved I am to be finally making progress. In a world where “in two hours” means tomorrow and “tomorrow” means in a week…this thing called “progress” can be few and far between. It is all that we hope for, search for, reach for. Yet so many of us, volunteers, spend months meticulously teaching children, or making meetings, or finding the prices of cement blocks, and still we find little progress. It’s funny though, as you walk around Ghana you are so often put face to face with the work of other volunteers…flowers or letters of the alphabet on the walls of a classroom, American books, crayons, old clothes, so much of this country is decorated and built up by the strange foreigners who come here hoping to make progress. But the realities of this place make it difficult; cultural norms insisting that children’s wounds should not be bandaged, the inability to find an educated teacher, etc.…what I find in a lot of cases is that people have been living this way for so long that they see no need for books, or crayons, or paper, or mosquito nets, or paint on the walls…they are a luxury…a far away idea. So anyways, in any case however small or large, it is good to find progress in Africa. And finally, my projects are making progress. But before I get into exactly what and why, I will update you on the most important happenings of these last few weeks, as my writing seems to be getting less and less frequent.

In my second week here I was ready and anxious to get everything started. I was determined to not get so caught up in volunteering that I would forget the larger goal, so I set about getting estimates from masons. The first mason is Hilda’s mason and came highly recommended. The moment he was available we piled into his truck and headed to Wegbe to show them Happy Kids and the building we were to finish. I brought them to the back to view the building, which then stood as four small rooms with doors and windows, no roof, no floor. Just brick walls. The mason looked at the old decrepid building like a passerby looks at road kill; with disgust, confusion, and all the instinct of turning around and running in the opposite direction. I didn’t understand this reaction…I, on the other hand, look at it as possibility. I see tall ceilings and big windows and a porch where the kids can do homework. I see 11 year-old Wisdom not having to share a mat on the floor with 8 other boys in a room the size of a closet. As they surveyed the old bricks and the trees growing inside it (when the building was actually built, nobody knows) the mason and his friend began listing off the massive array of things that they thought needed to be done. ‘Yes the building should be raised…And then we can build a fence, and a shower, one for boys and one for girls, and another room…” It was obvious that they saw me as the white person and instantly thought bottomless pockets. I tried to steer them in the direction of what I would and could only do with limited funds but to no surprise, their estimate was way too high.

The next estimate I received from another mason was too low. I was determined to get as many estimates as possible until I found not only the right Mason but the exact right amount and cost of materials. Another volunteer and friend had just finished building 3 classrooms for Divine star and also highly recommended her mason, so I met with him and brought him to the site. I liked Prosper and the fact that he had successfully built 3 large classrooms from scratch in less than a month for my friend. He also didn’t go nuts with what needed to be done to the building. The walls do need to be raised slightly, and the doors need to be wider. We also decided to knock down 2 walls so there will only be 2 large rooms; one for boys and one for girls. I didn’t agree to work with him yet though. I made sure he was aware that I had other estimates and that I needed detail and accuracy in his. The next day I met Prosper and personally walked from store to store and got the price of all the materials, down to every last nail or different size of wood. Those prices are not negotiable. I then took a carpenter to the site with Prosper and a steel bender came later. They measured the perimeter of the building and discussed for an hour as the warm rain slowly soaked us and the bugs feasted on my legs. After we moved to Elizabeth’s porch we listed out every single material needed and they finalized the amount of everything. When the time came to discuss the fees for workmanship I stood tall, telling myself to look mean and serious…This is not the yevu you will try to rip off. And they didn’t. Or couldn’t, really. I had already become aware of the normal prices for a project of this type from my research, so I negotiated far below that. They stood looking at me with pleading eyes, slapping the back of their hands lightly against the palm of the other in a motion Ghanaians commonly do while saying “Please, I beg you.” I only responded with “Nope, there are plenty of other carpenters I can hire that will do this project. This is what I’ll pay you and that’s it. And I want the work done well and fast.” They were pretty shocked by this and would often turn to each other laughing, they just couldn’t believe a ye vu was such a stickler on price. Building here is obviously different than building in the western world. Neither the mason nor the carpenter make any profit from the materials I buy, they only make the workmanship that I pay them. I buy the materials from the store directly, hire a truck and pick it up and bring it to the site myself.

That afternoon the kids from Divine Star came to my hotel and we read books and sang songs. In between the projects I stay unbelievably busy, constantly shuffling around volunteering or spending time with the kids…trying to expand whatever help I can give at whatever moment I can give it. It is a result of the regret that flooded through me after my trip last year that I was lazy and just didn’t do enough. It seems common that I go nearly 3 places every day. Godwin says I am working too hard. Another volunteer noted that I am a ‘little ball of energy.’ And the heat it takes so much out of you. The sun is so strong that it feels as if it’s pulsing directly through you, as if it’s sucking every ounce of energy from every muscle and all you want to do is lay down. But I force myself to do a lot because I know that even though this trip is going by slowly…I know I’ll be back home in no time, reliving the moments that I often have to pull myself away from the air conditioner to experience.

Some mornings I teach at Christ orphanage. I chose to work with the KG2 class while I’m there and focus on working individually with the children. The kids are bright and pretty ahead from what I expected of a kG2 class (ages 5 and 6). One day their teacher was sick so I unexpectedly was teacher for the day. I danced around and made up a new motion to learn the parts of the body for the lesson. It was like the extended version of head/shoulders/knees and toes on crack. They loved it, and it was effective. Another week I took them out one by one and did Phonics with them, sitting on a bench and shielding ourselves from the heat under the roof of leaves and bamboo branches and sticks. Working with them individually is tedious but very needed considering that many of them are struggling but get no help. At recess they find patterns out of my freckles, play with my hair and trace the lines of the tattoo on my wrist. They sing songs and play soccer with a fallen orange and beat the crap out of one another. Their wounds are healing though, thankfully. I like Christ a lot because it is different than any other place I’ve been in the sense that it is very progressive. The teachers are actually pretty good and every child has a pencil. A lot of things have already been well established to enable Christ to grow even further, including almost every child being sponsored. That is why Girls empowerment is good to do there because they have the resources to carry on similar activities if they want and the bigger things; like infrastructure and school resources, have already been improved upon.

The next interesting day was when I bought all of the materials for Happy Kids. Well, not all of the materials, about 1/3 of them…with the rest being bought as needed. I went to the bank early in the morning and waited for the mason and the carpenter to meet me. From there we walked from the wood shop, to the nail shop, to the place to buy wire rods and cement…And not without receiving mass marriage proposals from the workers at each place. They thought it was hilarious, this little white girl buying building materials. I got receipts for everything, meticulously counted each material and felt the sun mercilously burning my sunscreen-free face and shoulders until my wallet was empty of the $1,000 cedis I had filled it with earlier that morning. I hired a truck, which noteably had “Don’t stand against progress” painted above it’s rusty bumper and went back to each store to pick it all up. I waited (and sometimes tried to help, although I’m not good for heavy lifting) as they hand carried each unbelievably heavy item and lunged it into the truck. We piled into the truck’s front seat, the driver, then me, then my mason, and the carpenter dangled on top of the wood in the back and we were on our way.

The truck bounced from side to side, creaking and croaking and squeaking as the driver maneuvered over each pothole. I was sure the wood (which only had the carpenter weighing it down) or the carpenter himself would fall out of the vehicle. I laughed to myself, squished beside two large African men in a squeaky rusty green truck putting down a dirt road with $1,000 cedis worth of building materials hanging over it’s sides. If only they could all see this, I thought. My parents would be so terrified (lol).

Before we turned around a bend, the driver slowly pulled over to the side of the road. He reached for a tattered notebook on the dash and tore out a half piece of paper. He then pulled from his pocket 2 ghana cedis and folded it carefully into the piece of paper. “Police,” he shrugged, as everyone else burst into laughter…laughing at their corrupt legal system, corruption in general, the corruption in which they support. We turned around the bend and sure enough there was a police checkpoint. The driver pulled over as instructed, placed the folded paper into his palm and got out of the car. When he got back in he placed the empty folded paper on the dash. “It’s empty!,” “ahaha, empty…ooh police” exclaimed him and prosper. And again, we were on our way. Now having taken materials in the truck many many times, I’ve become very used to this “procedure” and even still everyone turns to each other, shrugs and laughs while saying “police.”

The next morning I taught at Christ and then walked to Happy Kids to check up on everything. Whenever they see a car pull up they instantly begin screaming “Kelsey Kelsey Kelsey.” After getting hugs from everyone, another car pulled up and it was my carpenter. He had the 2 by 4’s sticking out of the back of the taxi, which we were unable to get the day before because they needed to be cut at the machine shop. He set down the long heavy pieces of wood and I picked one up under my arm and walked into the orphanage. After setting down the wood I turned around and was shocked to see all of the children following behind me, balancing one piece each on their heads. Most of them are around 3 or 4, the few older ones are 10 or 11, and they struggled proudly to hold each 2 by 4 before putting it down. It was the most hilarious and adorable thing I’d ever seen…this string of little babies so desperately wanting to partake in the building of their new home. I tried really hard to get them to stop, that it was too heavy, but they refused and continued to go back and forth until every piece of wood was safe within the orphanage fence of trees.

Another day that sticks out in my head is one where I was teaching at Divine Star. Having taught them last year, it is incredible for me to see how far they’ve come. Last year they struggled to learn the ABC’s, numbers, colors, anything really. So when I came back 3 months ago I was so proud and happy to see them writing their names and learning to read. Even though learning is still based soley on memorizing rather than understanding, it seemed that they were all progressing in some way. For the hell of it, I decided to take them out one day just to work on reading individually. I had phonics flash cards with me and had planned on working on sounding out the words on each card. I started with the first kid, Augustine, who is in the first row. Augustine is smart and hilarious. He is a trouble maker, but I expected him to be somewhat ahead. However, as I put the cards in front of him…I found him struggling to even recognize some of the letters. And then I realized he was still only shortly ahead of where I’d left him last year…he was just joining the crowd in unison while “reading” in class. He was nowhere near what they were doing. He needed to go back to being taught basic letter sounds – rather than reading 4 letter words. I figured this was just Augustine but as I continued onto my next kid, and the next, and the next, I realized…they were all in the same place. A lot of them still couldn’t distinguish between the letters H and K, B and D, S and X. And I was devastated. I sat their knowing that I couldn’t help them as much as they needed to be helped this summer, that I couldn’t dedicate it to teaching when I had bigger projects to fulfill. Every letter that they missed was like a personal shot to the chest, until all of the hope had drained out of me. Until it took everything in me to keep teaching, keep trying to tell them good job, keep trying not to show the traces of disappointment in my face. All the while flies feasted on my legs, and I swatted at them to no avail. When I left I had 15 new bites on my calves that hurt, and I kept telling myself that I needed to care less. I was worried for them, for who they would become. I wondered if change in Africa was more like a rocking chair, moving back and forth, back and forth, and only giving the comforting illusion of progress. Either way, I knew a part of me had to accept the reality that I could only do so much with that school right now. It was a tough, shitty, devastating reality to accept.

We also started girls empowerment at Christ a while ago. The first day Cassie and I took the girls from the P2 and P3 class into a separate classroom and asked them all what they wanted to be when they grew up. We talked about how boys have an unfair advantage, that girls often think they can’t get far enough in the job market. We did an activity where we had all of the girls draw pictures of what they wanted to be when they grew up, a good 80% drew pictures of a teacher, the rest a nurse, and one girl, a bank manager. Then we pulled out a dry erase marker and started listing out all of the things the girls could be…musicians, doctors, lawyers, dress makers, etc…Until all of them were regretting their previous pictures and saying they’d changed their minds…they want to be a doctor. It was an amazing thing to witness, their own realizations. And as cheesy as it was, it felt so incredible to be able to sit there, look them straight in the eye and say, “You can be anything you want, you can be anything in the whole world.” We talked about how the main way to get there was to stay in school, to get to university, to not let anyone tell you different. We explained that the boys would be doing dishes at the school from now on, or at least for the next week…and I would say it started off with a bang (and continues to go well).

Over the weekend Cassie and I decided to take a mini vacation to a place called Kokobrite. It is a very famous beach town, known for it’s reggae vibe and the many volunteers that refer to it as their second home. It is only 5 hours away (feels like nothing here), about 45 mins past the capital city Accra. We trotro’d it there and got a taxi to our hotel ‘”Big Millys.” As we pulled into our hotel we had to do a double take, are we really in Africa…or cancun? The beach stretched out for miles on both ends, with crystal ocean washing up on shore. An actual bar served real (and safe!!) margaritas. We had our own little bungalow (albeit with little electricity and a shower literally on top of the toilet) and it was totally an escape. It was like a secret paradise that we were shocked we had yet to discover it. It had a real restaurant that served actual food…like mashed potatoes, and chicken breast, and garlic bread. We were in heaven. We lounged on the beach and swam in the ocean. I was surprised by how much I missed the ocean, by how at home I felt crashing into the waves. I told myself then when I get home I really will start surfing again, ah I miss it. At night we had dinner, met other volunteers and danced at the bar to a live reggae band. It was exactly what I needed after working myself so hard and getting so caught in the stresses of normal Hohoe life.

There are far too many things I’d like to do that I can’t. I have too many goals, too many ideas. Some new volunteers came, Clare and Carl. It is their first time to Ghana and they are teaching at Christ. They’re hilarious and really fun. They’re so fresh eyed and excited about Ghana. I like to look through their eyes to the africa they see. Because in a way, the novelty of being in Africa has worn off. It no longer feels like this new, fresh experience but more just like daily life. For example, last week I was in the middle of a cold shower and the power went out, but I still stood there, shaving my legs…in pitch black darkness. It felt entirely normal, although funny..just like, you do what you gotta do. That’s why it’s so interesting to see how they’re experiencing the trip, to remind ourselves of how it once was. Because contrary to what most people know, long term volunteers that leave here never leave feeling a sense of accomplishment or resolve. They leave jaded, frustrated at corruption, frustrated at the realities of this place that transcend logic or morality or anything at all. Because no matter what you do and how you do it, you leave knowing that it was not enough, that it can never be enough. And once you find that feeling it never goes away; it lingers and simmers at the bottom of your mind…either while in Ghana or somewhere else, you will always know that there are some things you cannot change…some kids that will go on suffering, and most who never venture to Africa may never know the difference. For many, this feeling is enough to stop them from coming back. Africa becomes a fantasy memory – blurred by distance and time. But for some of us, we fight it. We refuse to believe that the work we did once would be left said and done, that the kids would go on without pencils, that change…even in the most horrific circumstances, couldn’t be made. And many of us, we fail. We set ourselves up with the highest of hopes. Investing our lives, our savings, our waking thoughts; and even still we know we are against the odds. In the end, there is never peace in this tug-a-war of emotions and realities. In the end, getting on a plane, you resolve yourself to one thought and one thought only: what I did was better than nothing.

And it’s easy to become cynical on the bad days. But the majority of the time, we remain in constant state of hope and determination. The building at Happy Kids is progressing faster and more beautifully than I ever could’ve thought. It was only a week ago that I truly realized how amazing it was what was happening…the workers had put in the new window frames and the new bricks and they had crushed the old bricks to level the floors…and then it hit me. I had talked about it and imagined it, but now it was actually happening. I wasn’t just building them a house, I was building them a home. And I understand then that I’m doing far more than I knew was possible, that I’m impacting individual lives. That I am helping, and happen to be helping the ones that need it most. And that’s only made possible by the amazing people that put their faith me and wrote checks and turned a sad story in an email into a reality. And I do believe the girls empowerment program is effective. And I do believe that every kid that smiles or laughs or learns at school from my efforts are well worth any kind of bad day.

More coming soon. I started this blog literally 3 weeks ago. I will admit that aside from my growing stomach (damn you all carb diet!!), the blog is suffering from the most neglect during this trip.


Until next time,

Kels