Wednesday, March 10, 2010

BEST WEEKEND OF MY LIFE, PART TWOO

Sunday I wake up with the sun and the goats, dazed and dreamy on a rooftop in Larabanga. Time for elephants! Abraham and his cousin Yusef drive us on motorcycles from the village to Mole National Park. I hold on tight to Yusef as we take yet another twenty minute roller coaster ride. Yusef has little dreadlocks all over his head and is almost never seen without his super cool sunglasses, tan hoody, and cubic zirconium studded belt. After four days without washing and several motorcyle rides, my curls are starting to dread too. Are you a rasta? Yusef asks, hoping for a love match. Not quite. He seems very disappointed.

Yusef may not be the classiest of Larabangans but he does manage to get us a spot for the 7am safari and a guide named Osman. We head off into the bush with Osman who is outfitted in huge boots, camouflage pants, and a shot gun to do. Five minutes in to the safari we see a large, grey, wrinkled tushi peeking through the trees- "oh, woah, that's an elephant" janet notes.

The safari is not as thrilling as I had hoped. There are few animals out and the highlight is really an impromptu face off between Janet and a warthog. (On a side note, I would like to add that warthogs are quite possibly the most unattractive organism I have ever seen, making Pumba in the lion king an exceptionally misleading character.)

The four of us take a break from the large safari group and sit at a nearby restaurant for some lunch. Several gangs of baboons are lurking nearby and there are frequent terrorist attacks as the baboons literally run into the restaurant on two feet, stealing bananas, mangos, french fries, whatever they can get their hands on. A girl of no more than two years runs after the baboon in her diaper, waving her wooden stick and seeking revenge. The children keep a look out and scream baboon! when they see them approaching but these animals are relentless! I hold on to my french fries for dear life and we shoot the baboons a good death stare. Oh no you don't!

Tired of being on baboon watch, we ask Osman to take just the four of us back into the bush. After a short walk through the forest we come to the watering hole and our eyes and mouths grow wide as we have just stepped into the pages of national geographic. I can't help but feel that these magnificent animals are very old and wise men with remarkable tales of their journeys across africa- the places they've been, the people they've seen. They spray water on themselves and each other, playing like young children as white birds sail across them and deer observe from the shore. We spend a good hour just watching the elephants, amazed by their size, beauty, and simple existence outside the cages of a zoo. What a treat, I think.

The sun is beginning to fall so it is time to hop back on our motorcycles, dreads blowing in the wind, and copper earth settling in my laugh lines. Upon returning, I spend my afternoon by the woman's canopy, pounding cassava (fufu) and holding babies, in particular a pair of two month old twins, adorned with beads and gold jewelry for good luck. Abraham watch the boys play football and discussing the enormous challenges of educating women in a Muslim community.

It is now a saturday night and about 40 girls have come to Abraham's courtyard in hopes that they might have a turn at reading one of the fifteen books he has had donated. The girls are not just hungry, but starving for knowledge. Abraham teaches out of a standardized Ghanaian teaching manual, this one on information technology. I doubt these girls have ever seen a computer but we sit in on Abraham's class and watch as he uses a stone wall as a chalk board and spells words (sometimes incorrectly) like "mouse" and "hard disk" as the girls dictate. One by one they stand up and mistake or no mistake, Abraham says, "clap for her!" and we all clap as such, CLAP-CLAP- CLAP CLAP CLAP - CLAP. By nine thirty the girls are becoming restless and the little ones are dozing off. Time for sleep, says Abraham. The girls hurry through the village to their beds and we follow suit. I am woken by Abraham the next morning at 3:30 so we can take the 4am bus back to Tamale, Kumasi, and then Accra. We walk to the bus station (a wood table manned by a gentleman my grandfather's age) in complete silence, dreading our departure and goodbyes. My eyes are heavy with tears but I try so terribly hard to keep them in and hide from Abraham. I already miss you, he tells me.

I don't want to leave Abraham, or Labrabanga, or the girls. I especially don't want to be the tourist that intrudes on a community for just a few days, makes empty but appealing promises, and never returns to make good on them. I don't want to be that person, I think. So Abraham and I hug and say, until we meet again. No goodbye.


This is the constant struggle of the do-gooder. So many bandwagons to jump on, charities to donate to, ngo's to volunteer with, mouths to feed, bodies to cloth. Talk about a migraine and a heartache. Like mother, like daughter, I tend to feel this enormous responsibility to take care of everyone, to fix things that are broken and heal people who are hurt. But I am learning that even though the puzzle may be a bit of disaster, while there are so many problems and not enough solutions, it's ok to take it one piece at a time.

Larbanga is my piece. Larabanga was, is, truly special. And I can't tell you what or who pulled at my heart strings so forcefully, but they're still tugging.

THE BEST WEEKEND OF MY LIFE (broken up into two parts to deflect lengthiness)

There are moments in life that warm your heart, crinkle your laugh lines, and fill your eyes with tears- people, places, and experiences that will stay with you always. My adventure to Mole National Park and the muslim village of Larabanga in northern ghana was truly an experience that I will forever carry in my heart.

I set off at 5 am Thursday morning with three of my girlfriends to catch the 8 am bus from Accra (capital city on the coastal south) to Tamale in the north, where we will catch a ride to the town of Domongo, Larabanga, and then finally to Mole. The drive is an exhausting 20 hours, so we decide to rest a bit and spend the night in a precarious motel in Tamale. Sarah and Janet pay for a room with one bed and the other two of us sneak in after the porter has gone. Janet snaps a picture of us as we enter the room, "this is what you looked like when you saw where we were sleeping- surprise!" We look mortified.

I feel menopausal in this heat so the four of us sleep horizontally across the single bed, trying to minimize all contact with our own body parts and with each other's. After fourteen hours of traveling, a jar of nutella and white bread, we pass out by 1 am, hopelessly sweating in our underwear. What a day.

And so we head off that next morning to Domongo and then Larabanga, which is roughly a six hour roller coaster ride, minus the seat belts and souvenir picture of yourself. When we have finally arrived in Larabanga we are greeted by our host, Abraham.

Abraham is handsome, charming, and drives a motorcycle. Despite his casual demeanor and carefree persona, he has more on his plate than my brother at a buffet. At twenty three, Abraham is single handedly attempting to rejuvenate his weathering community of 4,000, three quarters of which are children. He is a devout muslim, son of the old Imam and chief of Larabanga who passed away some years ago, and so he too will one day fill these shoes. Until then, Abraham has sacrificed his dream of becoming a doctor to stay in Larabanga and build a school and a special learning center for the local girls who until very recently, were denied any sort of education at all. One hundred and twenty girls between the ages of 6 and 18 gather in the courtyard of his family's home ever day, which is really a collection of mud huts within the labyrinth that is Larabanga.

This courtyard serves as a central gathering space for the entire community and visitors alike. Upon arriving in Larabanga we are escorted to this area where we meet Abraham's large and hospitable family, including his grandmother who sits on the floor of her mud hut, spinning thread on a wooden stick from a tuft of freshly picked cotton. I walk around the village and mother's hand me their babies, most wearing nothing but a strand of beads. I am in heaven! sometimes holding up to four little ones at once. I sit on a prayer mat under a canopy which has been built for the women and their children. I join them in a circle and they speak in the local dialect but it feels much like a chatty lunch date with my girlfriends. They breast feed whoever is hungry and hand me a crying baby, a bit disappointed but mostly amused that i can't be more helpful. Even the great grandmother who is more than 100 years old is breastfeeding her great grandchild. I am still completely baffled as to how this is physically possible, but more power to her.

Baby sitting duties come to a close and after a hearty lunch of an identifiable protein (it's a toss up between grass cutter and gizzard), we walk a mere 10 yards to what is West Africa's oldest mosque, built in 1421. In Larabanga, this mosque is simply the local gathering space for prayer and cultural festivities- i wonder if they know that it is one of 100 endangered world monuments.

The sun is high and hot, so a siesta and several oral rehydration packets seem in order. I wake up hours later and Abraham invites me to shower before dinner which is currently being prepared by his mother and aunties. I first go to the bathroom in what is simply a small mud hut and must do my business on the floor. After gathering my shower items, Abraham redirects me back to the hut where I am now supposed to take my bucket shower. I used to say that in Ghana I am hygienic, but perpetually dirty. I'd say this severely blurs those lines. C'est la vie...

Now a much lighter shade of copper colored earth and smiling from an exceptional first day in Larabanga, we sit down with Abraham's mother and enjoy an entire pot of Fufu (smashed casava), ground nut soup, and fresh fish.

Around this time Sarah does not feel so well and starts to look very pale so Janet and Abraham accompany her to the nearest "clinic" which is simply a midwife stationed in another town twenty minutes away. I get nervous when I don't hear back from either of the girls but then I receive a text message from Janet: "Omg, she just dropped all her money down the s--t hole!!!" Seems that Sarah dropped about 100 cedi (75 dollars) down a five foot deep defication hole! I must admit that if I had dropped 100 cedi down a poop hole I would have left it without hesitation, but 100 cedi is more than some of the people in Larabanga will make in an entire year! When Sarah came out of the bathroom and shared the news, Abraham did not waste a moment hesitating before he used two five foot poles as chop sticks to fish the money out while Janet caught the bills one by one in a plastic bag. GOD BLESS ABRAHAM!!

Janet arrives back in Larabanga to share the story and we all have a good laugh, utterly impressed by Abraham's bravery. He informs us that the community will be having a traditional dance and drumming celebration tonight so a few of his students come to the courtyard to dress Janet and I in traditional clothing. Three eight year olds boss me around as I stand in my underwear, arms out, taking barking orders from these tiny seamstresses and stylists. One of the girls yells at Janet, "too big, too big!" as she tries to fit a top made for an infant.

But after twenty minutes of preparation we are ready for our Larabanga coming out, and spend the evening dancing with the girls and other members from the community who have come to watch and join in the festivities. As the party comes to an end, we sit together in the courtyard listening to a few of the girls recite their poems, including "Education," "Power," and "A Good Listener." The most precocious of the bunch warns, "boys, be very afraid of girls. we are so powerful." The girls sing one more song together, perfectly harmonious. When asked if the americans would sing a song, we break out a shamefully unpleasant version of "Lean on Me" which begs a sea of boos rather than the riotous applause we receieve from Abraham and his girls. Abraham concludes his night with his own poem about the importance of female empowerment and education; he exudes relentless passion and I can see that his fire is lit- my heart is warmed.

These words ring true as the four of us lie atop the roof of the mud hut and reflect on an overwhelmingly beautiful day. The roof is cool and the stars are bright- orion's belt so vivid and the north star a familiar and comforting sight. I call my mom from this mud hut which overlooks the sleeping goats in the village of Larabanga, nestled by the forested homes of elephants in northern ghana. This must be your fairytale, she says. From her mouth to god's ears. I go to bed on the roof of the mud hut that night with the giggles of school girls ringing in mine.