There is an old-fashioned English party game, which became very popular with my family around four years ago, called Sardines. The object of this game is essentially to fit as many people into as small a space as possible. Now I play this game every time I get onto a tro-tro (the local minibuses).
Quite how they managed to fit My Roomie, The Scientist and I, The Rev. and another local pastor, twenty schoolchildren, five teachers, a large amount of building materials and several sacks of cement in a minibus designed to fit twelve people will forever remain a mystery to me. It was only once we were all crammed inside, with poles under my feet and two excitable children on my lap, that I realised I desperately needed a wee. The ensuing journey (over incredibly bumpy roads) was one of the most painful of my entire life.
All the volunteers travelled to Cape Coast- My Roomie, The Scientist and I came bouncing down the country in a tro-tro that seemed to be mostly held together with bits of string. The terrain around Achiase is incredibly hilly, and every road is full of holes. Coming over the crest of each hill you can see for miles- then the bus goes careering downwards at a truly alarming rate, the momentum only broken by the wheels hitting the many potholes in the road and sending everyone inside the vehicle shooting upwards out of their seats. The Scientist suffers the most from this, being far too tall to fit comfortably inside a tro-tro in the first place. We've considered investing in an ice-hockey helmet, to save his considerable brains from being mushed to pieces before he starts at Oxford in September.
Our weekend at Cape Coast was spent forcing as much Western food down our throats as we could possibly manage. Chips! Chips! My GOD I had missed chips! Even more alarming was that there were white people everywhere. Having become accustomed to being the only Europeans for a fifty-mile radius at home in Achiase, Cape Coast was a complete culture shock to us. Our return to the UK will probably bring on a complete nervous breakdown. It was fantastic to see all the other volunteers, who have been living the high life in and around Takoradi since we left Accra. My Roomie and I are eagerly awaiting the opportunity to roam around the country, visiting more beaches and waterfalls before the rainy season begins.
School continues in the usual leisurely fashion, with the Lost Boys having bravado contests left right and center; (today it was who was the tallest. Mr I. strode around accusing everyone of being dwarfs, in fact he's the shortest of the lot) The children still climb up me at every opportunity- I can't sit down without six little girls immediately starting to pull and braid my hair. They are all incredibly bright, and very eager to learn, and a complete pleasure to teach.
And I have started my own choir. Yes. I am the Maria Von Trapp of Ghana. It was the first time I have ever strode into a room, shouted "Who knows KUM-BY-YAH??" and been met with completely blank faces. Following that initial hitch though, the first rehearsal was a complete success. There is a Diva; who leads the fanatic singing at every church service, and bullies all the younger girls. It's going to be a joy working alongside her.
Love to everyone. Akwaaba.
Tuesday 23 February 2010
Sunday 14 February 2010
A Note On My School
All week, My Roomie and I have been observing the classes at our small church school, to try and pick up the necessary skills for when we begin our teaching this coming week. It's been a very enlightening experience.
The school consists of two buildings - one is the wooden church, and the other is a concrete block making up three classrooms. During the school day, the church is partitioned into six class spaces by large blackboards, and fits almost a hundred children. Most of the work is done off a blackboard- the kids' learning is more or less down to recitation and reading off the board. All the teachers have 'pointers'; thin wooden sticks, which they alternately draw attention to the board and hit the children with. The kids are remarkably keen to get involved with the beating process- on my second day in the school, three little girls came dancing up to me, presented me with one of the pointers and asked if I wanted to 'play the caning game.' I declined, and tried to explain that in my country you would go to jail for hitting your pupils. They all laughed hysterically at this.
I thought I'd be more upset at having to watch them get hit, but I've gotten used to it surprisingly quickly. Perhaps this is because the kids seem so unaffected by it- they get hit, and go back to their seats positively beaming. At every break and lunch time, my Roomie and I are mobbed by all of them. Wherever we walk, we are followed by two children carrying chairs for us, and if we ever want to sit down, we have to wait while they clean the chair with a cloth for us Once seated, around twelve of them will try to climb into our laps all at the same time. The littlest ones, around three or four years old hover anxiously at the edges of the crowd, staring at us with deep trepidation. The older children take delight in forcing them closer to look at the Obrunis, upon which the little ones burst into terrified tears, hysterically afraid of the ghostly women. Wherever we go, we find ourselves surrounded by cries of "Madame! Madame!" and get pulled in all directions to look at this picture, or this toy. They are enthusiastic about absolutely everything.
The teachers are a strange bunch. I had a fifteen minute conversation with the Head of the school a couple of days ago without understanding a single word of what he was saying. All the women handle the younger children- the nursery class of seventy children, and the first form. The older children are taught by a group of young men I have collectively termed as the Lost Boys. They have finished High School, and are teaching as part of their National Service, necessary for them to be able to go on to university. There are five of them, all twenty years old, all totally gorgeous, and all absolutely hilarious. Lacking the imagination to name them as individuals, I'll simply refer to them as D, M, R, E, and I. The five of them often sit around my Roomie and I, and try to teach us Twi, or ask us endless questions about England, where they all want to go one day. On wednesday, R noticed I had scribbled 'shortbread' on my hand with my pen (the results of several failed attempts to remember giving a gift to the rev.) and asked me whether I was worried about getting cancer. I explained that you couldn't get cancer from drawing on yourself, and handed my pen. He spent half an hour delightedly drawing pictures all the way up his arm. Easily pleased.
The School had a big celebration on Friday for the last volunteers, who are leaving Ghana in a couple of weeks. We all had to sit on a sort of raised dais bedecked with flowers and ribbons. Very exposed. There was a lot of dancing and singing (of course), and a new school bus got consecrated with holy oil in a spray bottle. After the party was finished (about five hours of sitting on that platform)- the Lost Boys took us into the church where we all sat and ate a local dish called Fufu off some upturned boxes. I can't really describe it, except that it involves a big lump of dough, a beef and salmon stew- Okra- and a lot of eating with your hands. It was the best thing I've had since I came here. Beef and salmon really shouldn't work in one pot. But it really, really did.
Yesterday, my Roomie, The Scientist, the Veteran Volunteer and I, and the Lost Boys all crammed into a small hired bus and went bouncing off over the hills to visit the Big Tree. A fairly self-explanatory name. The biggest tree in western Africa, 404 years old, in the middle of the surrounding rainforest. It was amazing; D tried to climb it, and got as far as the end of the roots before giving up. Trekking through the forest was like being in an Indiana Jones film; as the scientist commented, only the Nazis were wanting. Our bus got pulled over by the police on the way back- there was some problem with the license of our driver, which I would have been less concerned about had there not been a couple of rifles involved in the argument. We got back safely though, though rather shaken- round here you're considered boring if you drive anywhere at anything less than a hundred miles an hour, and seatbelts are, of course, totally out of the question.
The school consists of two buildings - one is the wooden church, and the other is a concrete block making up three classrooms. During the school day, the church is partitioned into six class spaces by large blackboards, and fits almost a hundred children. Most of the work is done off a blackboard- the kids' learning is more or less down to recitation and reading off the board. All the teachers have 'pointers'; thin wooden sticks, which they alternately draw attention to the board and hit the children with. The kids are remarkably keen to get involved with the beating process- on my second day in the school, three little girls came dancing up to me, presented me with one of the pointers and asked if I wanted to 'play the caning game.' I declined, and tried to explain that in my country you would go to jail for hitting your pupils. They all laughed hysterically at this.
I thought I'd be more upset at having to watch them get hit, but I've gotten used to it surprisingly quickly. Perhaps this is because the kids seem so unaffected by it- they get hit, and go back to their seats positively beaming. At every break and lunch time, my Roomie and I are mobbed by all of them. Wherever we walk, we are followed by two children carrying chairs for us, and if we ever want to sit down, we have to wait while they clean the chair with a cloth for us Once seated, around twelve of them will try to climb into our laps all at the same time. The littlest ones, around three or four years old hover anxiously at the edges of the crowd, staring at us with deep trepidation. The older children take delight in forcing them closer to look at the Obrunis, upon which the little ones burst into terrified tears, hysterically afraid of the ghostly women. Wherever we go, we find ourselves surrounded by cries of "Madame! Madame!" and get pulled in all directions to look at this picture, or this toy. They are enthusiastic about absolutely everything.
The teachers are a strange bunch. I had a fifteen minute conversation with the Head of the school a couple of days ago without understanding a single word of what he was saying. All the women handle the younger children- the nursery class of seventy children, and the first form. The older children are taught by a group of young men I have collectively termed as the Lost Boys. They have finished High School, and are teaching as part of their National Service, necessary for them to be able to go on to university. There are five of them, all twenty years old, all totally gorgeous, and all absolutely hilarious. Lacking the imagination to name them as individuals, I'll simply refer to them as D, M, R, E, and I. The five of them often sit around my Roomie and I, and try to teach us Twi, or ask us endless questions about England, where they all want to go one day. On wednesday, R noticed I had scribbled 'shortbread' on my hand with my pen (the results of several failed attempts to remember giving a gift to the rev.) and asked me whether I was worried about getting cancer. I explained that you couldn't get cancer from drawing on yourself, and handed my pen. He spent half an hour delightedly drawing pictures all the way up his arm. Easily pleased.
The School had a big celebration on Friday for the last volunteers, who are leaving Ghana in a couple of weeks. We all had to sit on a sort of raised dais bedecked with flowers and ribbons. Very exposed. There was a lot of dancing and singing (of course), and a new school bus got consecrated with holy oil in a spray bottle. After the party was finished (about five hours of sitting on that platform)- the Lost Boys took us into the church where we all sat and ate a local dish called Fufu off some upturned boxes. I can't really describe it, except that it involves a big lump of dough, a beef and salmon stew- Okra- and a lot of eating with your hands. It was the best thing I've had since I came here. Beef and salmon really shouldn't work in one pot. But it really, really did.
Yesterday, my Roomie, The Scientist, the Veteran Volunteer and I, and the Lost Boys all crammed into a small hired bus and went bouncing off over the hills to visit the Big Tree. A fairly self-explanatory name. The biggest tree in western Africa, 404 years old, in the middle of the surrounding rainforest. It was amazing; D tried to climb it, and got as far as the end of the roots before giving up. Trekking through the forest was like being in an Indiana Jones film; as the scientist commented, only the Nazis were wanting. Our bus got pulled over by the police on the way back- there was some problem with the license of our driver, which I would have been less concerned about had there not been a couple of rifles involved in the argument. We got back safely though, though rather shaken- round here you're considered boring if you drive anywhere at anything less than a hundred miles an hour, and seatbelts are, of course, totally out of the question.
Monday 8 February 2010
Off The Beaten Track
Well, here I am at last, having finally made that connection with the western world... There is a chicken poking about under my feet. Unusual for an internet cafe.
I am writing to you from Akim Achiase, in the Eastern Region of Ghana. I moved out here in a pickup truck after a whirlwind of activities in Accra with the other sixteen volunteers. Since I flew out, I have just about managed to cope with the heat; (when I touched down in Accra on the 30th of Jan it was eleven O' clock at night- and 29 degrees), being proposed to by every man I meet, and drinking out of a plastic bag. After a week of intensive tanning and teacher training, all the volunteers were split up and scattered around Ghana. After driving for two hours to get out of Accra, The Scientist, my Roomie- (Hull girl born and bred, and proud)- and I were chucked into the back of a pickup truck and driven across country at a hundred and twenty miles per hour, bouncing over increasingly rough terrain. All our luggage was dumped in the back of the pickup, and I spent most of the hour and a half journey twisted in my seat, terrified that the bouncing truck would scatter our cases out into the road. However, we arrived relatively unscathed.
Akim Achiase is a small town, built primarily along a single main road. Everyone walks about carrying their possessions on their head, and all the children we meet point at us and yell "Obruni! Obruni!" This literally translates as "White Man", and our response is normally to reply "Obibini!"- (black man).
God forbid I should ever attempt that exchange on the New Cross road.
My Roomie and I are living with The Reverend, who is a small, rather shy man, but who has been very welcoming to us both. There is no running water in the house, so we have bucket showers- (actually surprisingly refreshing, and very much growing on me)- and the toilet has to be flushed by collecting water and pouring it into the top basin, before you pull the handle. Actually, I broke the toilet this morning. Oops. The Scientist is about two minutes down the road, living next to his school, with his host, The Headmaster. He has two dogs- one named Thy Will Be Done, the other Atomic Energy. Atomic Energy is an eight-week old puppy with huge sticky out ears. Together they have done absolute wonders for my Dog Deficiency. Our houses are surrounded by palm trees, and banana trees- there is a paw paw tree in our front garden. Across from our house is a farm, and small goats wander all over the place going "aaaaahhh!", or something similar. There are also, monster-sized chickens. The road itself is in the side of the valley, with bush and rainforest all around us. It's very, very green, even with the dry season and absolutely no rain.
Everyone is pathologically friendly. Thought I knew the meaning of 'community', until I arrived out here. The Scientist mentioned to me yesterday that someone had crept into his bedroom and written a marriage proposal on his wall while he was out. People have been trying to teach me basic phrases in Twi, (the local dialect) but it's going in one ear and out the other. I am completely in awe of the skill with which everyone can carry huge weights on their head. My Roomie and I were staggering down the road, trying to carry a huge plastic bag containing around thirty water sachets- (about fifteen litres of water and it cost us the equivalent of 25p- unbelievable), and a tiny girl, about half hour size, came trotting up and offered to carry it for us!
"No, no...." we wheezed, staggering along, "We're fine, really...."
All in all, I am absolutely loving it thus far. One issue, however, is the waking up. At five every morning, the local mosque uses industrial sized speakers to call all the muslims in the community to prayer. It's bloody noisy. My Roomie manages to sleep through it, but I've not perfected that talent so far. An hour later, punctuated by constant symphonies from the many roosters around the house, the singing starts again, this time calling people away from prayer. I wish I'd included earplugs in my case after all....
I went to Church on Sunday, purely out of interest. It was an incredible experience- put all the people standing stiffly behind pews chirping "he who would valiant be" back home to shame. My Roomie and I had hoped to stand quietly at the back and observe; turned out that wasn't actually an option. Was pulled into a conga around the room, waving a tambourine and shouting "HALLELUJAH!" When The Reverend introduced us both, you couldn't actually hear him speak over the yells of "AMEN!" and "YOU ARE WELCOME!!"
To cut a long story short, it seems I will be starting a church choir for about thirty adults with only a basic grasp of English....
And I have grown two left knees. Those bloody mosquitoes.
I am writing to you from Akim Achiase, in the Eastern Region of Ghana. I moved out here in a pickup truck after a whirlwind of activities in Accra with the other sixteen volunteers. Since I flew out, I have just about managed to cope with the heat; (when I touched down in Accra on the 30th of Jan it was eleven O' clock at night- and 29 degrees), being proposed to by every man I meet, and drinking out of a plastic bag. After a week of intensive tanning and teacher training, all the volunteers were split up and scattered around Ghana. After driving for two hours to get out of Accra, The Scientist, my Roomie- (Hull girl born and bred, and proud)- and I were chucked into the back of a pickup truck and driven across country at a hundred and twenty miles per hour, bouncing over increasingly rough terrain. All our luggage was dumped in the back of the pickup, and I spent most of the hour and a half journey twisted in my seat, terrified that the bouncing truck would scatter our cases out into the road. However, we arrived relatively unscathed.
Akim Achiase is a small town, built primarily along a single main road. Everyone walks about carrying their possessions on their head, and all the children we meet point at us and yell "Obruni! Obruni!" This literally translates as "White Man", and our response is normally to reply "Obibini!"- (black man).
God forbid I should ever attempt that exchange on the New Cross road.
My Roomie and I are living with The Reverend, who is a small, rather shy man, but who has been very welcoming to us both. There is no running water in the house, so we have bucket showers- (actually surprisingly refreshing, and very much growing on me)- and the toilet has to be flushed by collecting water and pouring it into the top basin, before you pull the handle. Actually, I broke the toilet this morning. Oops. The Scientist is about two minutes down the road, living next to his school, with his host, The Headmaster. He has two dogs- one named Thy Will Be Done, the other Atomic Energy. Atomic Energy is an eight-week old puppy with huge sticky out ears. Together they have done absolute wonders for my Dog Deficiency. Our houses are surrounded by palm trees, and banana trees- there is a paw paw tree in our front garden. Across from our house is a farm, and small goats wander all over the place going "aaaaahhh!", or something similar. There are also, monster-sized chickens. The road itself is in the side of the valley, with bush and rainforest all around us. It's very, very green, even with the dry season and absolutely no rain.
Everyone is pathologically friendly. Thought I knew the meaning of 'community', until I arrived out here. The Scientist mentioned to me yesterday that someone had crept into his bedroom and written a marriage proposal on his wall while he was out. People have been trying to teach me basic phrases in Twi, (the local dialect) but it's going in one ear and out the other. I am completely in awe of the skill with which everyone can carry huge weights on their head. My Roomie and I were staggering down the road, trying to carry a huge plastic bag containing around thirty water sachets- (about fifteen litres of water and it cost us the equivalent of 25p- unbelievable), and a tiny girl, about half hour size, came trotting up and offered to carry it for us!
"No, no...." we wheezed, staggering along, "We're fine, really...."
All in all, I am absolutely loving it thus far. One issue, however, is the waking up. At five every morning, the local mosque uses industrial sized speakers to call all the muslims in the community to prayer. It's bloody noisy. My Roomie manages to sleep through it, but I've not perfected that talent so far. An hour later, punctuated by constant symphonies from the many roosters around the house, the singing starts again, this time calling people away from prayer. I wish I'd included earplugs in my case after all....
I went to Church on Sunday, purely out of interest. It was an incredible experience- put all the people standing stiffly behind pews chirping "he who would valiant be" back home to shame. My Roomie and I had hoped to stand quietly at the back and observe; turned out that wasn't actually an option. Was pulled into a conga around the room, waving a tambourine and shouting "HALLELUJAH!" When The Reverend introduced us both, you couldn't actually hear him speak over the yells of "AMEN!" and "YOU ARE WELCOME!!"
To cut a long story short, it seems I will be starting a church choir for about thirty adults with only a basic grasp of English....
And I have grown two left knees. Those bloody mosquitoes.
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