Typical, Part 2

Jeanna: I can play the drums on your stomach!  Drums on Abigail’s stomach

Abigail, 12-year-old girl: I can play the drums on your stomach! Drums on Jeanna’s stomach . . . and higher.

Jeanna: Abigail!  You can not drum on those!  I am small-small.  They are not good drums.

Abigail: Yes, they are good drums!  Continues to drum rapidly with much fervor.

Jeanna: No! Covers self protectively.

Abigail: Yes!  They are very good! Continues to drum.

Jeanna: Has a vagure memory of picking up a small child as a human shield at this point.  Details are fuzzy.  A common experience of newly arrived obrunis.

A Few Minutes Later . . .

Abigail: Are you the senior?

Me: Yes.

Abigail: But your breasts are small and your sister’s are big.

Me: Ummmm . . . .

Abigail: They are perfect drums!

Me: Lacking back story at this point so is slightly confused and very unsure of the appropriate response.

Abigail, turning to Jeanna: I will drink from your breast!

Jeanna: No!  There is nothing there!

Abigail: There is milk.

Jeanna: No, there is no milk!  There will be no milk until I have baby and I am not even close to that!

Abigail: I will drink anyway.

Jeanna: With some difficulty distances self from Abigail.

Abigail, turning to me: I will drink from your breast.

Me, absentmindedly scooches Abigail to one side while continuing to play Thumb War with Ella.  This is old hat, as I already had a similar experience with one of the Faustina’s several months ago.

 

And no, I have no explanation for this whatsoever.  Also, before I forget to tell you, when we walked to the post office in Penkye on Wednesday we met a boy carrying a beautiful little monkey on his shoulder.  And Jeanna has already learned the way from roadside (walk through the clean yard, go by the topless woman . . .).  And I was proposed to in sign language by a toothless elderly gentleman while we were buying mangoes.  And that’s a quick summary of my sister’s first two days in Winneba.

Don’t you wish you were here?

Photos from my sister

Challenging Heights, Winneba!  http://www.facebook.com/#!/media/set/?set=a.3276119110021.2128661.1478782723&type=1

Chapter XIII: In Which I Arrive at the Airport to Meet my Sister – 27 Hours Early

There are worse things that sitting in an open-air courtyard (complete with potted cacti) eating French Fries (for only the second time in 8 months) with vegetable sauce.

It would, of course, have been wonderful to have my sister there with me but beggars, or in this case, people who don’t read Orbitz e-mails carefully, can’t be choosers.

I was quite proud of myself for following Grace’s directions and making it to the airport by myself with only a leetle bit of help from the guy in the back of the tro-tro who wanted my number.  I called my mom to give her a cheery update on my travel status so far.

“Mom, I’m at the airport!  Everything went fine.  I got here in really good time.”

Blank dismay in the voice: “Oh!  What are you doing there!?”

Haha, silly Mother.  I guess the international phone connection isn’t the greatest from this spot.  I wonder what she thinks I said?

“No.  I’m at.  The airport.  To pick up.  Jeanna!”

Crickets chirping (in English).

 

 

“But she hasn’t left yet.  We haven’t even taken her to the airport.  Her flight doesn’t come in until tomorrow!”

Crickets chirping (in Fantse – no wait! Twi!  We’re in Accra now).

 

 

“No way!”  My first thought was for my Young Mentors and the ICT Center guy, who are expecting me to be in Winneba Wednesday morning at 8 am.  My second thought was for the 4 bananas I had left sitting in my room.  My third thought was to wonder if I had left any appliances plugged in.  (Ghana, you will note, has domesticated me to an extent most wonderful to behold.)

And that’s how I ended up eating French Fries with vegetable sauce in an open courtyard with only the cacti for company.  The facial expression of the guy at the Salvation Army Hostel brought to mind neither the words “Salvation” nor “Army” but at least he knows how to give directions to good chop bars. 

And at 7 cedis a night (about 4 dollars) the price was definitely right for a bed in a dorm and bathroom with a real shower.  It was pretty wonderful to wash 8 months of shampoo buildup completely out of my hair even though the shower head kept veering to one side as if it preferred to shower the occupants of any stall but mine.  (The downside of bucket baths is that there is simply not enough bucket for the hair.)  But I tell myself that a little extra shampoo in the hair is extra protection from all the dust.  Right?

Silver Lining #2:  The Hostel l is within walking distance of the Global Mamas Fair Trade Store where I spent a wonderful hour browsing this morning and came across a Ghana cook book that has a recipe for, drum roll please, bofrot!!!  (And I may have also purchased a Fair Trade bracelet.  And a Fair trade bar of soap or two.  And a Fair Trade shea and cocoa butter body cream.  Oh, and maybe a couple postcards.  But that’s all, I promise.  For today anyway.  I think my sister might like to stop by there tomorrow )

I wonder what the chop bar is serving for lunch?

 

 

Typical

A teenage boy wants to know if you are going to church.  “I want to go with you.  I have not been to church in a long time.”

Get sick.  Grandmother Mary takes down all your laundry and delivers it to your door because “the rain is coming.”

The drain in the outdoor shower is clogged so you have to use a broom to sweep out all the water.  The girls are incensed and forcibly remove the broom from your hand.  “Madam Sarah, no!  You have to let us do!”  “You should not be doing.  Any time that you bath, leave it for us.”  “We are not just at Challenging Heights for learning – we are here for training.”

Walk home from market with a backpack and a heavy bag.  A total stranger on his way with some friends to a party stops you to take the bag from you and “escort you small” even though it is out of his way.

Stand at roadside in a tiny village waiting, waiting for a taxi to come by.  A guy you have a passing acquaintance with stops and waits with you – “I have to make sure you get taxi” – even though he is on his way somewhere else.  Then he turns to you and says, “Can I offer you a chair?”

You come home after a long day of tro-tro rides, working with kids, and walking long distances.  The Artist greets you with, “Sarah, you are looking so beautiful!”

Watching X-Men with the kids when the rain comes.  Ema jumps up and dashes outside (and doesn’t even ask you to pause the movie and wait for him).  About 3 minutes later, you remember that you have laundry hanging outside and jump up and dash out, too – only to find that he took down all your laundry for you and put it in his room before it got wet.

You wear a new dress.  Multiple boys a) recognize that it is a new piece of clothing and b) compliment you on it.

You walk to market and back on a rainy day with three of the girls and get mud all over yourself.  Mary (The Nurse) takes your handkerchief and stands at the side of the road cleaning you off.  “I am going to keep it so I can wash it when we get back.  Then I will give it to you.”  “Mary, no!  It’s my handkerchief and I’m the one who got dirty.  I can do.”  “Madam Sarah.  Who used the handkerchief?”  “You did, but – “  “That’s right.  So I have to wash it well for you.”  And she does.

Get sick.  Ema comes to check on you.  “What did you eat?”  Just fruit.  “It is okay?  If it is not okay, I will make for you any food that your stomach wants.”

You have three pots (that the kids often borrow).  King George scratches the this thing – your name – on the each of them so they will be “very nice and they will not get missing.”

You buy the ingredients.  The kids cook the food, serve the food, wash the dishes, sweep your floor, fetch buckets of water, and then thank you.

The Boys of Ghana: The Belly & The Stomach

My version of a security blanket is Desmond’s belly.  Hugging it makes my life complete.

Desmond was one of the first little guys I met at Challenging Heights School.  I noticed him right away, because seeing him was like looking into the face of Victoria and Alexandria ‘s little brother Christian.  This was a good thing in the days when I was homesick and hadn’t realized it yet.

There is a very specific order to our greetings.

“Obruni!” Throws arms around legs.

“Desmond!” Lifts up into arms and squeezes the bowful of jelly that is his tummy.  He fits so perfectly.

“Obruni.”  Hugs neck.

Pull back.  Look at each other.

High five.  Bruise (i.e. fist bump).  “Kees” (i.e. air kiss).  Buh-tocks.

Wide open eyes and mouth.  “Ohhh!”  Forehead (this part always hurts).

Life is good.

One of the great tragedies of our time is that he is growing out of the baby-fat stage and starting to get lanky.

At times, it’s all I can do to seek him out, because I don’t want to be brought face-to-belly with a diminishing girth.  But then if I don’t seek him out, I don’t get to hug the belly . . .

Either way, it is a hard thing-oh!

But I can always hope that when he gets a little bit older, he’ll be another Samuel.

Samuel’s stomach, much like Desmond’s, has magical properties.  It’s purpose, however, is not to protrude in a tempting “hug-me” fashion but to serve as a substitute pillow.  (And no, neither of them have any say in the matter.)

Most Ghanaian children have hard, muscular stomachs because of all the work they do.  Or gnarly belly buttons, because of the way the umbilical cord was tied, I think (if you’ve ever been to Ghana, you know what I mean).  They do not a good pillow make when there is none to be had.  Samuel’s stomach, no doubt awaiting the day I would arrive in Ghana and we could meet, fought the good fight and retained it’s softness, even though Samuel is a skinny little guy.  I discovered this quite by accident one day and have been hooked ever since.  Not to mention indebted to his mother’s midwife.

My goodness-oh!  One of the best things in the world is to lay my head on his stomach as it gurgles pleasantly.  Occasionally it breaks into the jiggles when Ema cracks a joke but overall, it is quite the soothing experience.  No matter what the temperature, his stomach always emits the heat of a really good water bottle.  Or the inside of a perfectly toasted marshmallow.  Or the fleecy side of a homemade quilt.  Maybe even the leather seat of a vehicle that sat baking (windows up, of course) under an October sun for about eight hours.  I can’t really decide which is the most apt description but I am sure that one of my purposes in life is to keep this boy well fed.

After a few minutes of basking in the glow it becomes a question of “To turn or not to turn?”  To allow one side of my head to absorb all the gurgles and warmth, or to share the wealth with the other half.

Also, my seester arrives in Ghana Monday (!) and will be in Winneba Tuesday (!!).  I’m trying to decide whether or not I will share the Stomach at some point during her three-week visit.  Hmmm . . .

Aren’t you glad I came all the way to Ghana to deal with the tough stuff life throws at one while living in a developing nation?

Chapter XII: In which a tooth is Lost

In Ghana, our version of biting into an apple and losing a tooth is biting into the dried fish in a stew.

Ishmeal’s (The Artist) tooth was the first one ever lost in my room and I looked upon this event as a christening of sorts, not unlike the bottle of wine that is broken over the hull of a great ocean liner (do they still do that, by the way?).

I gave him 40 pesawas and told him about pillows and parents and tooth fairies.

In hindsight, this may not have been the wisest thing to do, as we were a large dinner party of fourteen and the other guests immediately began discussing ways to dislodge their own pearly whites and making experimental stabs at the gum line with their forks..

Plus, not a day goes by that someone doesn’t ask me if I still have the tooth (a large molar).  As long as this state of affairs continues to exist, I simply cannot throw it away.

Would it be too weird if I soaked it in Omo clothes washing powder (to remove that little bit of blood) and kept it on the same plastic lid as my hair pins (to satisfy their curiosity)?

Never mind.  I think I just answered my own question.

I’m putting it to a vote . . .