My bathhouse is a cement cube, with no roof, and with a groove along the base wall with an opening to let water drain out. So recently I have found this nice, tidy, pile of droppings strategically placed at the drain. Not sheep or goat, which are everywhere at my site, but kinda similar. Not quite rabbit pellets, either. The night screamer has been back, and locals tell me it looks like a small rabbit, which might be close. They say the screamer is nocturnal and lives in trees. So before it comes down at night to feed it sends out about 20 minutes of bloodcurdling screams, to scare away any predators that might be at the base of the tree. When I first came here it was just terrifying, but I got used to it, And he apparently moves around, because there will be weeks at a time when I don't hear it.
But I wondered about snakes. I've seen only two since I've been here, and they seemed kinda small compared to the size of the pile, but maybe. It's just so damned TIDY, I can't think of an animal so fastidious. Well, actually, we once had a Siamese cat that got locked in the house one day by accident. She very carefully pooped in the garbage disposer in the kitchen sink. But Siamese cats are not like any other animal I know. Needless to say, we didn't lock her in again.!
I'm promising one blog update a week until I leave here, which is in about nine weeks. So this one is short, but it's a start. And I'll have something more interesting next week. In the meantime, if you have any ideas about the mystery pooper, let me know.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Calendar update
When PCVs were working with students for the calendar competition they mostly worked with a few students in their class, a school club, etc. Because I went to so many different schools, and got so many entries, it was easy for me to spot work that was copied. When I got three identical versions of the same piece, I started asking questions, and learned that many students here don't see any difference between original art, a copy, or even a tracing. Many of the pieces that were submitted to me were copies of earlier HIV education materials. One young man did an identical piece of "original" work for himself and two of his friends, and one girl actually traced a picture of Cinderella in a coloring book - but she put a soccer ball in her hands. So I rejected anything that I was sure had been copied. The kids just didn't get it. "But Madahm, it is my hand that held the pencil, so it is my work!" "But it is not your vision, and it did not come from inside your brain." Round and round, but I held firm. If it was copied from an earlier poster, or a teaching manual, it was out.
So time went on, we finally got names of the winners and then the actual calendars. You can imagine my consternation when I saw that at least some of the winners submitted the same copied work that I had rejected! January was sort of a copy, but had enough new detail added that it seems OK. Same with April. July is not only flat-out copied, it might have been traced. Same with December. So I have calendars to distribute to the participating schools, and then the visits began. Students saw that someone won with the same work they had copied and I rejected! The head mistress at my winning student's school agreed that it is a problem she deals with over and over. But, she said, "Some times in Ghana when you do the right thing you make somebody angry." I assured her it was the same way in my country, but I still took a lot of flak. From an angry parent, an uncle who had paid for the photograph that accompanied work that was rejected, another parent, a weeping child, etc. A lot of unhappy campers, let me tell you. And I am sort of cranky, also, because some of the work I did turn in was much better than the copies that won...only nobody realized they were copies.
We were already talking about a different approach next year, so that a nine-year old girl isn't competing with a 20-year old guy, and hope to find a better way to handle the categories. And now this. I don't see any way we can memorize every piece of HIV info that's been published in Ghana over the years, but all the teachers agree that we should not accept work that is copied. Maybe just some sneaky interview with each student, along the lines of What a good idea, how did you ever think of that, etc., etc. But I won't be here for the next competition, so somebody else can wrestle with that one.
We had a similar problem with the applications for the GLOW camp last year. Each girl had to submit an essay about her best role model, and some of them were flat copied from somewhere else, like an encyclopedia, a news article, etc. One of the main purposes of the essay was to determine a girl's English skills; we didn't care about spelling or grammar so much as ideas and comprehension. So this year the essays will be written in the presence of a teacher, a PCV, etc. It sorta makes sense, because almost all teaching here is done by rote and in unison. An art teacher told me that when he gave the kids blank paper and said it was free time, they just sat there. "But you didn't tell me what to draw!"
So time went on, we finally got names of the winners and then the actual calendars. You can imagine my consternation when I saw that at least some of the winners submitted the same copied work that I had rejected! January was sort of a copy, but had enough new detail added that it seems OK. Same with April. July is not only flat-out copied, it might have been traced. Same with December. So I have calendars to distribute to the participating schools, and then the visits began. Students saw that someone won with the same work they had copied and I rejected! The head mistress at my winning student's school agreed that it is a problem she deals with over and over. But, she said, "Some times in Ghana when you do the right thing you make somebody angry." I assured her it was the same way in my country, but I still took a lot of flak. From an angry parent, an uncle who had paid for the photograph that accompanied work that was rejected, another parent, a weeping child, etc. A lot of unhappy campers, let me tell you. And I am sort of cranky, also, because some of the work I did turn in was much better than the copies that won...only nobody realized they were copies.
We were already talking about a different approach next year, so that a nine-year old girl isn't competing with a 20-year old guy, and hope to find a better way to handle the categories. And now this. I don't see any way we can memorize every piece of HIV info that's been published in Ghana over the years, but all the teachers agree that we should not accept work that is copied. Maybe just some sneaky interview with each student, along the lines of What a good idea, how did you ever think of that, etc., etc. But I won't be here for the next competition, so somebody else can wrestle with that one.
We had a similar problem with the applications for the GLOW camp last year. Each girl had to submit an essay about her best role model, and some of them were flat copied from somewhere else, like an encyclopedia, a news article, etc. One of the main purposes of the essay was to determine a girl's English skills; we didn't care about spelling or grammar so much as ideas and comprehension. So this year the essays will be written in the presence of a teacher, a PCV, etc. It sorta makes sense, because almost all teaching here is done by rote and in unison. An art teacher told me that when he gave the kids blank paper and said it was free time, they just sat there. "But you didn't tell me what to draw!"
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Small Victories
There has been a lot of HIV/AIDS education in Ghana, but there is still a lot of misinformation and stigma surrounding the entire topic. There have been cases where someone who tested positive went home and drank DDT because he believed his life was over. Others who tested positive and were open about their situation have been evicted from their homes, driven from their villages, etc. I even spoke with a pastor whose Christian congregation made him leave their church.
There is a US Presidential funding source for HIV education, and last year Peace Corps in Ghana developed a theme and had students around the country design posters or other art to promote that idea. They then chose twelve and published a calendar for 2010. This year the theme is MY FRIEND WITH HIV IS STILL MY FRIEND, and volunteers were asked to help spread that message as part of a national effort to reduce the stigma attached to the condition.
I went to the headmaster of a nearby school, and asked if he would be willing to let me speak to his students about HIV sometime. He called them all into an assembly on the spot, and I just started in. My intro was like, “your pastor, your teachers, and your parents have told you all the different ways you can contract HIV. Today I want us to talk about all the ways you WILL NOT contract HIV.” It was pretty successful, I thought, and the kids seemed interested and involved, but I figured they were also glad to get out of regular classes. However, before long other teachers and schools asked if I would come talk with their students.
Before it was over I spoke at nine schools, including public and private, Catholic and Muslim, with between 30 and 65 kids at each session. I had about a 30-minute talk, which was then translated by the teachers into Twi and Krobo, so the students heard the message several times. They were always quite shy at the beginning, but someone would ask the first question and we would then get into some pretty good discussions about playing, eating, and working together. Then I offered them the opportunity to design a poster for the 2011 calendar. Peace Corps provided the art supplies, and the first version was done with colored pencil and crayon. I got drafts from 82 kids! Last year each student who applied got top quality art supplies, but there was such a good turnout this time that PC let us submit and give poster paints and good quality art paper for only 10 entries. I chose what I thought were the 10 best, and each of those students then did a full-size poster that I submitted.
I don’t know how many students from all over Ghana submitted work with their local PCV, but it was well over 300. I was relieved that a committee in Accra had to make the final decisions, and it turned out that one of the students from my village won a place in the calendar on the month of May. His school is very proud, and for me it is one tangible thing I can look at. I often have to remind myself that whatever we can do, small-small, can make a difference.
The whole topic has some built-in dissonance. You want people to get tested, do the treatments, and live the best lives they can free of hassle and discrimination. The Ghanaian government supplies the anti-viral meds for only five Ghana cedis a month and there are good counseling services available. On the other hand, HIV is damn serious and you want everyone to recognize that fact and protect themselves in all the ways they have been taught.
There is a US Presidential funding source for HIV education, and last year Peace Corps in Ghana developed a theme and had students around the country design posters or other art to promote that idea. They then chose twelve and published a calendar for 2010. This year the theme is MY FRIEND WITH HIV IS STILL MY FRIEND, and volunteers were asked to help spread that message as part of a national effort to reduce the stigma attached to the condition.
I went to the headmaster of a nearby school, and asked if he would be willing to let me speak to his students about HIV sometime. He called them all into an assembly on the spot, and I just started in. My intro was like, “your pastor, your teachers, and your parents have told you all the different ways you can contract HIV. Today I want us to talk about all the ways you WILL NOT contract HIV.” It was pretty successful, I thought, and the kids seemed interested and involved, but I figured they were also glad to get out of regular classes. However, before long other teachers and schools asked if I would come talk with their students.
Before it was over I spoke at nine schools, including public and private, Catholic and Muslim, with between 30 and 65 kids at each session. I had about a 30-minute talk, which was then translated by the teachers into Twi and Krobo, so the students heard the message several times. They were always quite shy at the beginning, but someone would ask the first question and we would then get into some pretty good discussions about playing, eating, and working together. Then I offered them the opportunity to design a poster for the 2011 calendar. Peace Corps provided the art supplies, and the first version was done with colored pencil and crayon. I got drafts from 82 kids! Last year each student who applied got top quality art supplies, but there was such a good turnout this time that PC let us submit and give poster paints and good quality art paper for only 10 entries. I chose what I thought were the 10 best, and each of those students then did a full-size poster that I submitted.
I don’t know how many students from all over Ghana submitted work with their local PCV, but it was well over 300. I was relieved that a committee in Accra had to make the final decisions, and it turned out that one of the students from my village won a place in the calendar on the month of May. His school is very proud, and for me it is one tangible thing I can look at. I often have to remind myself that whatever we can do, small-small, can make a difference.
The whole topic has some built-in dissonance. You want people to get tested, do the treatments, and live the best lives they can free of hassle and discrimination. The Ghanaian government supplies the anti-viral meds for only five Ghana cedis a month and there are good counseling services available. On the other hand, HIV is damn serious and you want everyone to recognize that fact and protect themselves in all the ways they have been taught.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
More Thoughts on Slavery, Then and Now
What I said about our role in the industrialization of human misery is true, and the guilt is properly shared by Brits, Americans, and other Europeans. But I always thought it was Americans who put an end to it. Although I never believed that crap they taught us in school about states’ rights, I always thought it was our citizens, a combination of the Suffragists, Abe Lincoln, and a few pinko liberals in the North, who were determined to stop the human suffering. But not so. I recently learned it took the whole of Britain, at great personal and national sacrifice, to put an end to it. So this little piece is just an attempt on my part to be fair and historically accurate. According to Kristof and WuDunn, it was almost single-handedly a Brit named Thomas Clarkson, who was just doing a little research while a student at Cambridge. It was he who documented the actual implements of torture and gruesome restraint, and brought the information to the British public. Profiteers tried to have him killed, but he persevered and in a single decade the British people were so revolted by the facts that as a nation they demanded an end to the suffering. Britain banned the slave trade in 1807 and freed its slaves in 1833. France followed in 1848, and we as a nation eventually caught up.
In Half the Sky the authors also tell us that Saudi Arabia did not make slavery illegal until 1962, and Mauritania in 1981. Even if you are a teen ager now, and those dates seem waaay back, you should make them part of your basic history lesson. Maybe, as we internalize this stuff, we can find a path to make some changes in our own world. We can at least think about it.
In Half the Sky the authors also tell us that Saudi Arabia did not make slavery illegal until 1962, and Mauritania in 1981. Even if you are a teen ager now, and those dates seem waaay back, you should make them part of your basic history lesson. Maybe, as we internalize this stuff, we can find a path to make some changes in our own world. We can at least think about it.
The Slave Castle At Cape Coast
The castle is really grim, and it is almost as tough to write about it as it was to walk through it. We went there in March, but I’m still not able to tell you everything I saw and felt. Slavery has long been a part of human history; defeated warriors became slaves, the father asked his slave to prepare the Fatted Calf for the Prodigal Son, etc. The Greeks, the Romans, the Visigoths, and Native Americans all captured or held slaves and whatever women became the spoils of war. However, it took the Brits and the Americans to industrialize it, and the stain is with us still.
We had a terrific guide, a young Christian Ghanaian man, who was very professional and knowledgeable, and who never glossed over the fact that it was other Africans who raided villages and sold their kinsmen for the best price possible to the slavers. You can even visit another site where the prisoners were held and evaluated for strength and capability before being moved to the castle for the final sale. The guide’s professionalism slipped a bit, just once, when he talked about white men and women worshiping in a chapel they had built directly above the women’s dungeon. Somehow he was personally offended by that. Me too. But we all came out of the dungeon with such strong images that it was hard to blink in the daylight. A young black woman from the US wept openly, and I also would have but felt she was more entitled to her tears than I was to mine. Then the guide asked us to read an inscribed marble plaque at the exit. It asked us all to remember what we had seen, and to pledge that we would never permit such a thing to happen again. Ever. To anyone.
I couldn’t speak, because I knew that even as we read it a 12-year old girl was being pimped out of a 4-car garage in Southern California, a 9-year old was being molested by her father in Iowa, some parents somewhere in Asia were selling their prettiest daughter in order to buy food for the rest of the family, and other parents have locked their daughter in a small room until she agrees to marry her cousin. So it is happening, not again, but still; and we don’t really want to know, because we feel so helpless to change it. Please at least just think about it, and maybe our collective energy can fashion some kind of global change. The book, Half The Sky, by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn, is a bit hard to read at first, but it’s not sensationalistic and they do offer hope and some real strategies that could make a difference.
Back to the castle, being witness to such commercialism of pain and squalor is pretty tough. And I’m not saying that slavery was ever a good thing for any nation, so don’t be sending me any hate mail. But sometime later, when I was alone at home, I lit a candle to honor the ancestors. I wanted to celebrate the fact that they survived such horror, and to express my gratitude that because of their strength and courage their descendents, my black friends in America, are living where they are.
We had a terrific guide, a young Christian Ghanaian man, who was very professional and knowledgeable, and who never glossed over the fact that it was other Africans who raided villages and sold their kinsmen for the best price possible to the slavers. You can even visit another site where the prisoners were held and evaluated for strength and capability before being moved to the castle for the final sale. The guide’s professionalism slipped a bit, just once, when he talked about white men and women worshiping in a chapel they had built directly above the women’s dungeon. Somehow he was personally offended by that. Me too. But we all came out of the dungeon with such strong images that it was hard to blink in the daylight. A young black woman from the US wept openly, and I also would have but felt she was more entitled to her tears than I was to mine. Then the guide asked us to read an inscribed marble plaque at the exit. It asked us all to remember what we had seen, and to pledge that we would never permit such a thing to happen again. Ever. To anyone.
I couldn’t speak, because I knew that even as we read it a 12-year old girl was being pimped out of a 4-car garage in Southern California, a 9-year old was being molested by her father in Iowa, some parents somewhere in Asia were selling their prettiest daughter in order to buy food for the rest of the family, and other parents have locked their daughter in a small room until she agrees to marry her cousin. So it is happening, not again, but still; and we don’t really want to know, because we feel so helpless to change it. Please at least just think about it, and maybe our collective energy can fashion some kind of global change. The book, Half The Sky, by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn, is a bit hard to read at first, but it’s not sensationalistic and they do offer hope and some real strategies that could make a difference.
Back to the castle, being witness to such commercialism of pain and squalor is pretty tough. And I’m not saying that slavery was ever a good thing for any nation, so don’t be sending me any hate mail. But sometime later, when I was alone at home, I lit a candle to honor the ancestors. I wanted to celebrate the fact that they survived such horror, and to express my gratitude that because of their strength and courage their descendents, my black friends in America, are living where they are.
Dee Dub Is Tired and Cranky, July 3, 2010
But just barely amused. Yesterday I rode three hours on a rickety tro with no springs to interview some girls who have applied to attend our leadership camp. Just a few basic questions, and got mostly the same answers from all. Tell me some qualities that you think a leader needs to have. “Neatness, punctuality, and dependability.” Tell me one or two things you know about the United States. “Obama is president, and Ghana beat the US football team.” One girl also said she had heard that two men got married to each other? And had to go to court? But that probably isn’t true. Then three and a half hours back, on three different tros, and it’s the end of a long day. My backside does not have enough padding any more for such long rides in such dilapidated vehicles.
So today I want to just take it easy, and I am sick and tired of insects, goat poop on the porch, ants in my closet, warm beer, no electricity, petty village feuds that are just like office politics at home, and, mostly, sick and tired of kids. These kids have definitely taught me the difference between status and authority. I have lots of status here, and so does the kid who can talk me out of a biscuit, a pen, or an empty water bottle. However, I have absolutely no authority. None. Zilch. So no matter how many times I tell them not to go through the garbage, they do. If I catch them they run away laughing, but always come back. And there is nothing there they want, so they just leave it scattered all over the ground and the porch. I have fantasies about rattlesnakes, or mouse traps, or thoughts of botulism, etc. I know you are all proud of the work I am doing here, and especially the mature, adult ways I have learned to deal with conflict resolution. So you will be pleased to learn that I called an eight-year old boy an asshole. At the top of my lungs. And then threw the rest of the garbage on the ground and slammed the door. Way to go.
Talked to Colleen later, and she reminded me that at home scavengers go through their recycling, and then leave what they don’t want on the ground. And she often wants to shout that they are assholes, but it’s two am and she would have to get dressed and go outside so she just shines it. So all things are the same, and I giggled a lot while we were talking, and then it was late enough I let myself pour a glass of box wine and count my blessings.
July 4, 2010
Today is better. Last night I made a nice soup for dinner, and yesterday in the lorry station I actually found some fresh green beans. I am cooking them with some cocoa yam and bacon bits, so it smells sort of like the way my Texas grandmother cooked green beans, ham hocks, and potatoes. I think maybe I’m homesick, as well, but didn’t realize it. I am prepared for that at Christmas, Thanksgiving, and my children’s birthdays, but not the Fourth. Sometimes I do feel like such a stranger in a strange land, but it’s because EVERYTHING here is different, and I usually get over it. I remember spending July 4 in Paris alone, not the best way to be in Paris, ever, but I joined a bunch of strange Americans. Not weird strange, you understand, just travelers who were mostly unknown to each other. There was a restaurant that put on a little celebration for American tourists and ex-pats, and it was a nice way to spend some time. Another time I was in Peru at about 14,000 feet with some other American hikers, and we had some wine and a lot of laughs. Then last year, here in Ghana, I and some other trainees were at a tourist site at a small hotel at the top of a mountain. No wine, but the staff built us a bonfire and we sat around and told stories. Ghanaians don’t get the thing about bonfires. Everybody has a burn pile in their yard, and most people cook outside using wood or charcoal, so they don’t understand why we would waste wood just to sit and look at the flames. So ordinarily I wouldn’t be so nationalistic, or miss home on this particular day. But it’s Sunday morning, the church drums are really firing up, and I will go eat some distinctly American food. So Happy Fourth.
So today I want to just take it easy, and I am sick and tired of insects, goat poop on the porch, ants in my closet, warm beer, no electricity, petty village feuds that are just like office politics at home, and, mostly, sick and tired of kids. These kids have definitely taught me the difference between status and authority. I have lots of status here, and so does the kid who can talk me out of a biscuit, a pen, or an empty water bottle. However, I have absolutely no authority. None. Zilch. So no matter how many times I tell them not to go through the garbage, they do. If I catch them they run away laughing, but always come back. And there is nothing there they want, so they just leave it scattered all over the ground and the porch. I have fantasies about rattlesnakes, or mouse traps, or thoughts of botulism, etc. I know you are all proud of the work I am doing here, and especially the mature, adult ways I have learned to deal with conflict resolution. So you will be pleased to learn that I called an eight-year old boy an asshole. At the top of my lungs. And then threw the rest of the garbage on the ground and slammed the door. Way to go.
Talked to Colleen later, and she reminded me that at home scavengers go through their recycling, and then leave what they don’t want on the ground. And she often wants to shout that they are assholes, but it’s two am and she would have to get dressed and go outside so she just shines it. So all things are the same, and I giggled a lot while we were talking, and then it was late enough I let myself pour a glass of box wine and count my blessings.
July 4, 2010
Today is better. Last night I made a nice soup for dinner, and yesterday in the lorry station I actually found some fresh green beans. I am cooking them with some cocoa yam and bacon bits, so it smells sort of like the way my Texas grandmother cooked green beans, ham hocks, and potatoes. I think maybe I’m homesick, as well, but didn’t realize it. I am prepared for that at Christmas, Thanksgiving, and my children’s birthdays, but not the Fourth. Sometimes I do feel like such a stranger in a strange land, but it’s because EVERYTHING here is different, and I usually get over it. I remember spending July 4 in Paris alone, not the best way to be in Paris, ever, but I joined a bunch of strange Americans. Not weird strange, you understand, just travelers who were mostly unknown to each other. There was a restaurant that put on a little celebration for American tourists and ex-pats, and it was a nice way to spend some time. Another time I was in Peru at about 14,000 feet with some other American hikers, and we had some wine and a lot of laughs. Then last year, here in Ghana, I and some other trainees were at a tourist site at a small hotel at the top of a mountain. No wine, but the staff built us a bonfire and we sat around and told stories. Ghanaians don’t get the thing about bonfires. Everybody has a burn pile in their yard, and most people cook outside using wood or charcoal, so they don’t understand why we would waste wood just to sit and look at the flames. So ordinarily I wouldn’t be so nationalistic, or miss home on this particular day. But it’s Sunday morning, the church drums are really firing up, and I will go eat some distinctly American food. So Happy Fourth.
Dead Chicken, No Water June 19
Dead Fowl, No Water June 19
KB has come to help me work with my computer. The drillers have not returned, and we are wondering if another ceremony will be required when they do come. Sunday morning we find that the chicken is dead, and then we really wonder. Where you wait for transport is just outside the Presby Church and Kathryn is waiting to return to her site. When church is out we are talking with my counterpart and the committee chair, and the fetish priest joins us. All three assure us that nothing more is required when the crew returns to work. Everything is OK. KB says it’s certainly not OK for the chicken, the chicken is dead. Everybody laughs, but I explain to the priest that although we are laughing we recognize that what he does is serious. He then assures us that the fowl knew her role in the process and accepted it. I can certainly testify that seemed to be the case. During the course of several days she was tethered to a rock, then moved to a tree, to the porch out of the rain, and then to another rock. She scratched around in the dirt, but she never squawked, flapped her wings, or gave any sign of complaint. Interestingly enough, a dog that roams around the site sniffed her out a couple of times, but always wandered away. It seemed to me that the fowl was quite sanguine about the entire process, so don’t be calling the animal rights people, OK?
KB has come to help me work with my computer. The drillers have not returned, and we are wondering if another ceremony will be required when they do come. Sunday morning we find that the chicken is dead, and then we really wonder. Where you wait for transport is just outside the Presby Church and Kathryn is waiting to return to her site. When church is out we are talking with my counterpart and the committee chair, and the fetish priest joins us. All three assure us that nothing more is required when the crew returns to work. Everything is OK. KB says it’s certainly not OK for the chicken, the chicken is dead. Everybody laughs, but I explain to the priest that although we are laughing we recognize that what he does is serious. He then assures us that the fowl knew her role in the process and accepted it. I can certainly testify that seemed to be the case. During the course of several days she was tethered to a rock, then moved to a tree, to the porch out of the rain, and then to another rock. She scratched around in the dirt, but she never squawked, flapped her wings, or gave any sign of complaint. Interestingly enough, a dog that roams around the site sniffed her out a couple of times, but always wandered away. It seemed to me that the fowl was quite sanguine about the entire process, so don’t be calling the animal rights people, OK?
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