Sister, brother, Jesus is sitting right beside you.

The first day I walked into my African Traditional Religion class, I was met by a booming voice lecturing about the benediction of God. I was quite taken aback, and thought for a split second that maybe it was God Himself speaking, the way the words reverberated off of the walls, and blessings bounced at me one after another. But after locating the man behind the voice standing at the lectern, I could not help but wonder what kind of religion class I had signed up for. I did not realize that being born again would be on the final. I would probably have a better chance at passing if I were being tested to walk on water.

But as it turns out, before classes begin, before the actual lecturer gets there (always around 30 minutes after the class is supposed to have started), there are preachers who, when not talking about homosexuals who are gripped by sin (homosexuality does not exist here), are surprisingly enough very encouraging. As one proclaimed unto us: “Jesus has saved you today. Jesus is still here. My dear sister, he is sitting right beside you.” Upon hearing this, a smile stretched across my face and shone down upon the world, for I knew I had a pal in Jesus, and that I could snooze during the class and copy his notes later.

Because that is what you do during classes here: snooze. Would I were a poet, I might love these classes with their constant use of repetition. Yes, the teaching type is tautological here. In my religion class, not only have I learned that the lesser gods found in nature can change residence, but I have also learned that they can leave the place where they live, and that they do not have a permanent residence. All of this information came from one class period too!

All of my classes follow this same structure. Even drumming, where we, sitting in a circle shaded by trees, drums between our legs, sticks in hand, beat the same rhythm over and over again for two hours, and dance, where we perform the same two dances every single time we meet. But I don’t mind this so much for dance because I have a lot of work to do to perfect my African moves, my flexing torso and my butt shimmy.

At long last and after much frustration adding and dropping classes, I have my final class schedule. I am taking:

African Traditional Dance

African Traditional Drumming

African Traditional Religion

Colonialism and African Response

Medical Geography

Twi

Upon coming here, I did not realize to what extent I would be surrounded by Twi. Unfortunately, because you can get by speaking English here, there is nothing forcing me to learn the language. And the class certainly does not motivate me. But it just kills me when I have the same conversation with everybody that I meet, and their faces are beaming, so happy that I know some Twi, and I am screaming in my head, I have been here for over a month and I am still at where I started.

But Twi is a rather fascinating language. It uses tone, not stress, so it’s rather songlike. There are very few words for colors. To show the color blue, you would say black like the sea. As for brown, well it’s even more poetic than the color blue: chicken poop is the color of my true love’s hair.

Days on campus are very long and exhausting. The sun is hot and only getting hotter. Classes are at the least a twenty minute walk away. And there is no direct route to any place. My idea of a productive day has completely changed. I don’t understand where my time goes because I never feel like I am doing anything.

Yet, I have done so much.

We crashed the UN’s Accra International Women’s Forum. Women’s organizations were gathering to reform the Paris Declaration on Aid Effectiveness, hoping to give it more clarity and to place a focus on reducing poverty and inequality rather than on aid management. I am not sure what I got out of the actual forum, and even though I didn’t know what was really going on, it was interesting to see the whole revision process of the proposal that would be submitted at the end of the conference. It’s too bad that I am not interested in doing this kind of work in my life, for I could have gotten connections with people all around the world. Instead, I resigned myself to partying with them, drinking free wine and letting my sweet sweet moves loose on the dance floor.

We have explored much of Accra: the colorful, bustling markets where women, some with babies slung on their backs in a brightly patterned fabric, others with sewing machines, baskets of groceries, or treys of eggs, groundnuts, and other edible delights, balanced on their heads navigate their way through the narrow pathways lined with vendors selling fish, shoes, buckets, cloth, and all other necessities; the National Museum; the National Theatre, very modern and Chinese in style; the Nkrumah Memorial; and the lighthouse (I thought of you, mother).

We went to Fort Ussher, which since being used as a slave fort, has been used as a prison in the 90s to hold students who were attempting a coup, and later, as a Sudanese refugee camp. It was the closest to the Sudanese crisis that I have been, and goosebumps ran down my arms as I was reading the engravings on the walls: I am Sudanese; Remember Darfour.

The Liberian Refugee Camp that we went to was nothing like I imagined. It was a little piece of Liberia inside of Ghana, complete with its food and culture. Now that the war is over, people are returning home, so the camp didn’t seem so bad because it wasn’t crowded. I can’t even imagine what it is like to be a refugee, what that must do to your identity, to your national identity. Especially to be born a refugee, and then to have to go back to your “home” country when all that you have ever known was a camp.

There are a lot of Liberians who come to campus, targeting the international students for money. As I was walking back to my dorm, I was stopped by a man with an extremely swollen foot. He told me that he was dying, his wound was going to kill him, he needed to go to the hospital to rest. He showed me the gash on his calf, the rotting flesh that was eating away at his leg. He said not to not look at his personality, that didn’t matter, I didn’t have to like it, but to look at his pain and suffering. He said that if I helped him I could go back to my room, and write in my journal “I saved someone today.” He said that he should be the one taking care of me, like a father, and he wished he didn’t have to be asking me to help him. What was I supposed to do? I was about to explode inside, but all I could do was stare. Here stood before me a man who was all alone in the world. The only thing he had was himself, his pain, and whatever god he believed in. And there I stood, someone with everything. Someone whose biggest problem in the world is being heartbroken. I walked away and laid on my bed, my head spinning.

Nothing I have seen before compares to what I have seen here. I have been in areas of extreme destitution (the poverty line here is 90 cedis (basically equivalent to the dollar) a year), the land covered with bodies, trash, and an endless line of tiny stalls crammed together, leaning on each other and about to fall. I have seen so many deformities, so many infections, so many cross eyed children. So many people’s belly buttons are messed up here, some looking phallic, the flesh extending outward three inches or so. After you see all of this, what are you supposed to do? I just know I can’t let it slip from my mind.

Here, you walk down the street, and all of a sudden, there is a child at your side, holding you with one hand, and extending the other one for money. Some come from Niger, whose parents put them on the street instead of in school where education is free. Sitting at a street bar, sipping a beer, there are beggars that stand like statues, waiting for money to rain from the sky.

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But Ghana is really a beautiful country. The ground glows warm with red. And the sky stretches for an eternity. The air is so light, but becomes heavy with sun and smoke. And smoke is everywhere. Riding up through the mountains, looking down on the land below, smoldering fires were as natural to the landscape as trees. Driving along the coast, the sky and water can lose their distinction—is it the waves crashing, or the clouds?

My eyes are very hungry to see, and they eat up everything in their path. The hike to Wli Waterfall was amazing. Butterflies (there are so many of them here, oh the variety, oh the beauty!) acted as temporary guides, and ants paraded across the paths in lines that you dare not step in. Nearing the cliffs, the squawking sound of fruit bats filled the air. We swam in the waterfall, each of us shouting in unified joy as the spraying water blinded us and grazed our backs.

I can’t get over how loud it is here. I don’t know if I even remember what silence is. There is a war of noise, as horns honk, music blasts, and commotion is being had. The only sound that cuts through all the noise is the infamous tttssssssssssssss that people hiss at you to get your attention. Creatures buzz and chirp all day long, the noise heightening as the sun goes down, and dogs howl to the moon in a cry that sounds like the end of the world is near. This all makes for one cacophonous night. It is enough to make you go mad if you don’t block it out.

When it gets dark here, it gets dark; which gives the night a big contrast to the day. My eyes struggle to see as my ears struggle to not hear.

We went to a festival at Cape Coast, but missed the festival. But the President was there, as was Anta Mills, who is one of the men running for president. As the President was giving his speech, I was sitting on the rocks in front of the fort with one of my friends. As we were watching the ocean’s waves crash in front of us, the boys who had been following us told us we needed to go. I thought that they had said the man with the cocaine was coming, so I, not wanting to be locked up abroad (Ben!!!) decided it was time to bail out. As I turned around, I saw everyone else scrambling, but I did not see a man with powder, but rather a man with a cane. Shirtless and muscles perfectly chiseled, he was swatting people away. My heart raced as I raced. Turns out, some people had been swept off the rocks and killed there the week before, so they did not want another incident.

Last weekend, we went to Togo. Once you cross the border, what a different world it is, and French speaking! My French is rather limited these days, and it was very interesting to try to communicate, but amazing how much you can get across using few words and many gestures.

Togo is much quieter than Ghana. And the music that is blasting is not American hip hop as it is in Ghana! It was actually Togolese music, and it was good. Horns are not constantly sounding—the roads are not crowded with trotros and taxis but are swarming with motorbikes that serve as taxis. I got quite addicted to them, fell quite in love with them actually that instead of tattooing taxi-moto onto my arm, I branded my calf with the exhaust pipe.

In Ghana, women and children balancing treys or boxes of food and water on their heads swarm around your car, trying to make a sale. In Togo, you do not have this, probably because most of the vehicles on the road are motorbikes that zoom on by.

Togolese street food is so delicious. I miss the fresh French bread with avocado, tomatoes, onions, oil, and lemon juice spread onto it. For those sandwiches alone, a trip to Togo would be worth it.

Togo is much darker than Ghana. In mood, in land. The dirt is darker, it is missing that warm red glow. Even the umbrellas in the market were blacks and grays.

You can definitely see the difference between French and British colonialism. While the British seemed to have planned the city out based on exporting goods, the French seemed to have taken advantage of the landscape, with a grand boulevard running along the coast, lined with palm trees.

We went to the Marché des Féticheurs, where animal skulls and heads, dead chameleons, voodoo dolls, and snake teeth necklaces were displayed on tables, to be sold and used as medicine and for voodoo. Carcasses lay splayed by the fire as the dismembered heads were placed on a grill above the flames to dry. We went into a voodoo hut where we were shown talisman for good luck, safe travels, and intelligence.

We took a pirogue, a wooden boat, across Lake Togo to get to Togoville, a fishing village. Then we went to Aného, to a picturesque beach where the sea was stunning and two toned from the mixing of the lagoon with the ocean.

The ride back from Togo was a real thrill. We were in a van, and the driver was crazy, going speeds I have never before gone in my life, weaving in and out of lanes, speeding into oncoming traffic. There were a million police checkpoints along the way, which would only serve to slow us down for a brief moment while the policeman shined his light in our vehicle and flashed us on, and boy did we flash on.

The driving in Ghana really is crazy. I always try to see how fast we are going, but all of the speedometers appear to be broken here. Instead of using caution and obeying the rules of the road, drivers use their horns, and some aggressively so. I have decided to modify the names on trotros and taxis: The Finger of God is Flipping You Off, Asshole; God Our Hope in Life is that you’ll get out of my fucking way; With God, I Will Run You Down.

But, with God, one day we all will go. Today I went to a funeral. I really want to go to a traditional one—I have driven by some where women, donned in red and black, are processing down the street banging on sticks and singing—but the one today was pretty similar to what I know. The funeral was held in a nondenominational church. The casket was displayed in the front, and you had to file around it before sitting down.

I am always ripped apart by other people’s grief. One woman’s wails echoed around the room, seeming to orchestrate the movements of another woman, convulsing at the dead man’s side, her face ridden in tears and nose dripping.

Before the service began, the casket was closed and covered with a brightly colored green, blue, and yellow kente cloth that seemed to melt away the somberness.

People were dressed in dark traditional African clothes, none of which I know the name for. The woman wore skirt and tops and wrapped black fabric around their heads. Some men wore pants and an African patterned shirt, while others wrapped fabric around themselves in a toga like fashion.

After the funeral, there was a reception where people sat around eating, drinking, and talking. Nothing too exciting, and as there is also nothing too exciting going on in my head anymore, I am going to end this post.

Maaha!

Never before have I been to a place where everywhere you go you are told that you are beautiful. Men tell you that they love you and talk about the day that they will marry you. It is not an actual proposal but it is their way of telling you that they are interested. Very straightforward.

Some tell me that they like white skin, white girls, but I think that Africans are beautiful. It is them that the sun loves, not me, always having to protect myself from being scorched.

But it is me that the mosquitoes love, with my sweet sweet blood. But I don’t want to share it. Malarial symptoms don’t come on for a week or so after being bitten, so I am still waiting. It needs time to get to your liver, where it multiplies and shoots all over your body. But it is treatable, they know how to treat it here, so as long as you take care of it, you are fine. At least six international students have already gotten it. One poor girl has both malaria and typhoid. How unlucky.

There are so many bugs and creatures over here. In fact small red ants are crawling in and out of my keyboards as I type this. There are termite mounds 10 feet high and lizards seem to think that they own your rooms. I went to take a shower, and there was a toad sitting in the drain. If you leave your clothes out to dry, triggers will get to them. Vultures circle around in the sky, dogs with flies swarming around them follow you on paths, and goats meeeeeh at you as you pass by them.

Being on campus is much different than staying with Philip. I am very glad that I was able to stay with a “real” person before coming to the university. Each morning, 6 am I was woken up to the calls of the roosters—not just one but a whole chorus of them. Joining their noise was the blasting of music next door, with a bass that made the bed vibrate. So started the morning.

Philip lives in a housing unit, one level as most places are, where each person had a single room, and the bathhouse was shared. There was no running water, so to bathe, I stood in a small insect infested, cement walled room, dumping a bucket of water over my head.

Bathrooms certainly are not the same as home. One “bathroom” I used was just a stall with wooden walls about six feet high, a drain on the cement floor, and a stool. I wasn’t sure what the stool was for, or what to do if you were going to have one.

I have seemed to have joined the Loose Stool Rebellion Against Ghanaian Food. The battles have just begun, but I hope the war will be over soon.

The food here is pretty good. But the portions are so huge. I come no where near completing a course, and I feel so wasteful, but there is no way I can eat an amount of rice that would at least serve five in America along with meat and fish on top of that.

Only having encountered Northern and Eastern African food in the States, I had no idea what to expect. They really like spicy food here. And rice. I especially enjoy eating with my hands. It heightens the eating experience; it is more intimate, bringing you closer to the food and the others you are sharing it with. Kenkey is a gooey ball of maize that comes wrapped in plantain leaves, and you eat it with a spicy sauce, pepe. Banku is similar but stickier and made of both maize and cassava. Fufu is something I am not sure I will ever eat again. It is made out of cassava (surprise surprise) and plantains, and has the consistency of bread dough. It comes in a spicy soup that burned my throat. People do not chew over here, and it is very hard for me not to. Every time I go to swallow, I have to prepare myself for it.

At the vendors, fish comes on a stick, whole, complete with scales. You eat everything, bones included, eyeballs too. But I didn’t go that far, only eating the scale covered meat. It was fishy.

I have also had Fear Factor type meat, cow I am assuming—the kind where you don’t even know what part of the animal it comes from, nor do you want to find out.

But peanut soup is the most delicious dish, especially with omo tuo (rice ball). And how juicy the mangos are! And how sweet it is to drink directly from a coconut, then split the fruit in half, and scoop out the rest of the flesh.

Football is huge over here. I love it. What a very different game it is though. The fields are so rough, with a hard dirt ground covered with craters. There might be a patch or two of grass, but more likely a few blades. Chickens cluck next to players’ feet (shocking that they are never mistaken for a ball) and with no bathrooms around, men pee on the sidelines. Apparently, one of the Ghanaians I met signed me up for the football team…

Driving is crazy over here, yet so much fun, probably because it feels dangerous. Everyone cuts everyone off, tailgating is a rule of the road, and horns are constantly sounding at the people in the street who casually meander along rather than dodge out of the way. Drains that are about 3 feet deep and a foot wide line the streets, and sometimes cars get stuck in them, or people fall in them (I have only seen internationals do this though). Only the main roads are paved (not many of them), the rest are dirt, and are very uneven, having holes, rocks, and mounds of earth all over the place. On these roads, you don’t drive in a straight line, but go back and forth, trying to find nonexistent flat land.

I love to ride the trotros. Everyone is crammed together in a big van, usually falling apart, with a religious name such as The Finger of God and pictures of Jesus stuck to the back window as the mate calls out to the people on the street where we are headed, but with words incomprehensible to the English language, so you come to recognize the sound to know which trotro to take.

I don’t think I have ever been in such an overtly Christian place before. Granted, there are Muslims, and you can hear their prayers to call in the city, but Christianity has a strongly pronounced presence, with stands called God Bless My Uncle African Wear and God’s Good Grace and Christian music about Our Father the Creator blasting outside of my window during the day.

Ghana is a very warm and welcoming country, but sometimes is a little too warm and welcoming. As one of my friends says, I appear to be the African type. Everybody loves me here, and it’s getting to be a little ridiculous. Maybe it’s because I am blonde? I feel like a celebrity or something sometimes. Whenever we travel in a group, I am the one everyone stares at, grabs onto my arm or puts theirs around my shoulder, and tries to walk with me and get my number. I never give out information about myself. The name that I go by with these people is Abena, the day of the week I was born on, so it’s not a complete lie. At first, I was telling people a bunch of different names and places I was from, but then as I experienced the other day, you do run into people again, so I am now trying to stay consistent. Although, sometimes I tell people that I do not have a name, that I wasn’t born with one, just as some people are not born with arms or feet, I was not born with a name and for the rest of my life I am on a quest to find one. Unfortunately, sometimes my humor makes them cling to me even more.

My biggest problem is that people are so insistent and persistent that they do not take no for an answer. I don’t know whether they are being rude when you tell them to leave you alone and they don’t or if it’s a cultural thing. I am always so proud of myself when I can shake people off of me. But usually, I am not so successful and we end up walking down the street with a big entourage.

I went to the beach the other day, and have never been in water with a current so strong and waves so forceful. You really do have to be careful. Not only with being taken away to sea but avoiding all of the trash that is floating in the water. With each wave comes a new bag of goodies, diapers, tampons, plastic. Hopefully, one day, Ghana will see clean beaches.

There is no sanitation here. People throw trash everywhere. And when it is collected, it is burned, so thick black smoke attacks the thin air. I don’t know why I was not expecting such a polluted country.

Apparently, this is the coldest month of the year. But my body is telling me that it’s not that cold as my skin reddens and darkens and clothes dampen. The smell of sweat lingers in the air, but it’s just so natural that it is not bothersome. Even though the weather isn’t too hot, I feel so much grosser here, so much dirtier. Dirt settles into your skin. I once thought my legs were tanning nicely, but then I rubbed them, and found my whiteness under the layers of dirt. There really is nothing nicer than a nice cold shower, and cold is the only option.

For once in my life, I am in the minority here. As a female, with a 30-70 ratio of females to males, and as a white. People do stare. And call you obruni (white person). Small groups of children all grab each other and giggle as they repeatedly say obruni, that is if they can make the word come out of their laughing lips. Gentlemen nod their heads and say obruni, etisen (how are you). You can’t go anywhere without hearing the word.

The university is really nice. And big. I spent two hours today wandering around campus trying to find where everything was, unsuccessfully. Classes are supposed to start this week, but don’t really since no one shows up. And the teachers are on strike so there is no point in going.

I am excited to be here for Ghana’s presidential election in December. I am trying to learn about the current political situation, the issues, and the people running. I probably will be gone before the results are in, which might be a good thing. Hopefully, all will run smoothly, no one will incite anything, and there will only be peace and no violence. Hopefully, Ghana will not be another Kenya.

But, as many people I have met have told me, everyone here loves everyone else. There is no fighting, only love and brotherhood. One peace, one love. And now, I am a part of it.