Pictures!

I have loaded a bunch of pics onto facebook, because the picture loader for this blog site is a lot slower than fb. So here is the link for any of you who are interested.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2113472&id=39201087&l=850327280d

Sh*t

No, you didn’t read that wrong; I actually intend to write a whole blog post dedicated to shit.  And I don’t mean the derogatory reference to random things, but the actual fecal matter itself.  Let me explain.

As any Peace Corps-experienced person will tell you, once you enter this exclusive club, you get used really quickly to talking matter-of-factly about shit.  Yours, your friends’, your community’s, the cow’s, the goat’s…anybody’s really.  We all get sick at some point and the most common bodily reaction to anything here is the runs.  You must realize that sterile, clean, healthy, and private places in which to conduct this business is not really normal outside of the Western world.  Somehow, the West has come to a place where it is unthinkable to build any kind of public or private structure without some kind of bathroom.  In most of the developing world, including Ghana, this is not the case.  Running water is still a rare commodity in Ghana, but as I’ve learned, one doesn’t need running, chlorinated water such as we have in the US in order to be clean and sanitary and healthy.  Flush toilets are not really an accessible goal here, though they are in many places, but that does not mean that pit latrines (yes, for the less technical—big hole potties) cannot be bug-free, odor-free, and just as comfortable (the one at my house definitely will be).  NGOs for decades have built public latrines, but without the infrastructure to maintain and care for them, they quickly deteriorate into I’d-rather-shit-my-pants status (such as the one in Techiman that I walked into and immediately out of).  For the Health, Water and Sanitation field of the Ghanaian Government itself, the promotion of latrine use and the elimination of open defecation and hence, childhood diarrhea, is priority one.  Many communities in the Northern Regions are significantly poorer than the south and have not historically been able to afford latrines, especially when there is an endless supply of “bush” in which to shit and when you’ve always done it that way.

These last two weeks have been reserved for technical training.  This is where they have split us trainees into our “sectors.”  I am with the other 12 Health/WATSAN volunteers in a village called Gushie, learning about Peace Corps Ghana’s sanitation goals, how to educate about a variety of different health issues (shit-related and not shit-related), and different borehole (water pump) mechanisms.  We joke that as WATSAN volunteers we will be spending our two years talking about shit, but we really have a wide variety of issues to tackle and tasks to be involved in.  These last two weeks I have:  educated 5th graders about the causes of diarrhea (shit yet again), 8^th graders about HIV/AIDS, and farmers about malaria.  I have dug a latrine pit, tossed rocks into a soak away pit, weighed the cutest newborn babies, and learned how to teach treatment for malnourished children.  (I also sat on a live crocodile and got kicked out of a national park, but those are stories of minor importance.)  All of these things, I know I will do at some point in my service while living in Damanko.  But still, shit reigns supreme.  There’s just no getting away from it.  Especially when there are some cases when it is not taboo.  Many cultures throughout the world, especially those in which cattle play a major part of daily life, use shit for many purposes—though it’s normally cattle and not human.  Other UN projects have found a way to make biostoves that use human excrement for fuel which cuts down substantially on the collection of firewood and the work load of women.  While in Gushie, we witnessed such a task.

Every several years, any normal household needs to redo its compound's floor.  It is a large task--too big for one person or household to do alone--and so it is done through an event called the zuha.  The old floor is torn up, and lots of dirt is gathered.  Then, the women gather their female neighbors together for the floor pounding exercise.  Each woman has a stick with one flat side and they spread the dirt and water mixture (read: water and cow shit) over the floor, then a specially chosen singer leads the group in song and all the women beat the floor together in rhythm until it is smooth, compact, and hard.  There are dozens of songs, all proverbial prayers for the house, and all in sing and response style.  Drums, and singing and dancing are a way of life and entertainment here in Ghana, especially in the rural regions, and one can rarely find a collective activity where not one of things is present.  As the women pound away at the mud on the floor, it is a beautiful sight to see--all the women coming together as one, making the mundanest of tasks a celebration of community life and sisterhood.  When the floor is pounded, it undoubtedly splatters everywhere.  By the time we were done participating, we were covered in shit.  But the most beautifully-gotten, hard-earned shit possible.

Who needs rollercoasters when one can take a tro?

“I am at peace.  All is well in my world.”

This was a mantra that one of the volunteers I met often consoled herself with when overwhelmed by the rigors of traveling.  I don’t know how to describe the state one must be in to travel in Ghana, but one definitely has to put on a game face.

Three days ago, we left our homestays for a workshop at one of the local agricultural colleges.  This was the event where we were to meet our counterparts and then proceed with them to our site for a short visit and introduction to our next two years.  This is a very important, yet unheralded occasion as our counterparts are the people we will be working with for the next two years.  Let me give you a brief description of the process for achieving development in Peace Corps Ghana:

We have now passed the time when the West gives development to Africa—at least, they are trying desperately to leave that.  Instead, Peace Corps is doing its darndest to be a part of Ghana developing itself.  Our training staff is run by an all Ghanaian team (with assistance of current volunteers given the title “trainer”) and they are working within the system(s) Ghana has set up for development.  These sectors we are split into—Health/Water and Sanitation, Environment, Small Enterprise Development, and Education—are all sectors within which we work with the Ghanaian government.  Our trainers are all products of these divisions are trained phenomenally well and their capacity for creating sustainable development is well established.  (One could argue about who is really pulling the strings in development if all the staff is educated in a Western tradition and influenced by tropes of quality of life outside of Africa, but that’s my development research talking.  To be expounded upon later.)  In addition to a Ghanaian training staff, Peace Corps Ghana (as well as many other PC countries) has set up a system whereby they pair the volunteers with people in the community who are working for that community’s development.  These people can be people working for an NGO or people with other occupations that volunteer their time to making their community better.  These are our counterparts—our Ghanaian partners who are not paid by Peace Corps but who volunteer their own time to work with us.  Each volunteer has a supervisor and a counterpart.  The supervisor has the general roles you would expect—he acts as my boss more or less, keeps me on track and guides project design and implementation.  The counterpart is more an equal, a person assigned to work with you in the same way as the supervisor, but to act more as a cultural guide and a ready-made friend, helping to integrate and make sure you don’t do anything in ignorance that will get you immediately kicked out of the community.  Three days ago I met mine—Alfred, my supervisor and Kofi, my counterpart (and because this is the internet, names have been changed).  Neither one of them work for an NGO as many of my other volunteer colleagues’ counterparts, they have other day jobs.  Alfred is in his forties and works as a farmer and mechanic, and Kofi is probably not more than 25 and on the Ghanaian police force. 

So, yesterday morning, we prepared ourselves for the long day of traveling ahead of us.  Four of us volunteers and our counterparts climbed into a tro (small bus type ride) for the first leg to Hohoe.  This was uneventful, except for the minor chaos in the morning trying to figure out who was going in which tro, how many there were, making sure all the drivers had passengers, etc.  At Hohoe we changed tros, this time for one to Nkwanta in the northern Volta.  On the way to Nkwanta we dropped off a few people at their sites until it was just me and Tricia at Nkwanta with our counterparts, and that’s where the real fun began.

The road from Nkwanta to Damanko is not good.  It’s actually kind of comical how bad the road is.  There are great gaping holes with lakes in the middle of it in places.  Kofi was stressing out about this the whole trip.  Such a bad road makes the going very very slow and he was all day trying to get everybody moving so that we could get to Damanko before dark.  It was all mostly in vain.  As always, the tro was packed full, with little individual space and we were all bouncing along like an old Disney cartoon.  At Kpassa, we left Tricia and her counterpart and then had to get off ourselves and charter a taxi the rest of the way to Damanko.  Oi vey. 

One of my trainee colleagues once said, “I think Africa is where cars go to die” and I think that statement is rather true.  These roads are hard on vehicles, but the fact that some of them can still run in their condition is really a minor miracle.  I can’t describe the dilapidated state of cars who have long lost any interior they once had short of the seats.  Really, they are metal boxes with an engine.  Six people plus two children crammed into our little taxi and then the driver’s friends gave us a push as he tried to spark the car from the wires beneath the steering wheel.  Alfred was not in the car with us, he had run off to somewhere, and I asked Kofi, “Is Alfred coming in a later car?”  “No,” Kofi replied, “He will ride on top.”  Well, okay then.  And sure enough, as we drove up the road a piece, Alfred came out and climbed onto the top of the taxi.  You can bet Peace Corps will not be allowing me to do that.  If I can’t ride on a motorbike under threat of being sent home, you can bet I can’t ride on top of a taxi. 

We went down the road like this and about halfway to Damanko, the car quit.  The hood was smoking and so water was poured into the engine.  But try as they might, the guys couldn’t get it going.  We pushed it multiple times but it never sparked again.  In Kofi’s words: “That car is disqualified.”  After about 45 minutes, a couple of guys in a small Toyota truck came by and were able to tie the dead taxi to it and tow it along.  Everybody climbed into the back (except me and Kofi because Peace Corps also forbids me to ride in the back of a pickup truck and since the Country Director claims that he reads our blogs, I must prove that I can follow the rules) and continued on our journey. 

Everyone has stories of traveling in Ghana in various sorts of vehicles that encounter an equally various range of problems, and I think I got them all in the next two hours.  After about a mile, the Toyota quit after apparently hitting the end of its petrol tank.  After the guys managed to siphon the gas from the taxi into the truck we climbed in and took off again.  After another mile the driver stopped since now the front tire was flat.  After changing the tire, we tried to continue again and were good for another mile until the tow rope broke.  They retied it, but it proceeded to break 7 or 8 more times, due mostly to the condition of the road.  At one small village we dropped the car and picked up about five more people and a truck bed’s worth of more stuff.  Once we abandoned the taxi, we could make it the rest of the way to Damanko with no trouble.  A one hour trip turned into three and patience was wearing thin, mostly for Kofi and Alfred.  I couldn’t help but laugh, really, as all the typical car troubles seemed to happen in the span of ten miles.  I was anxious to be done with the journey, but not really stressed since I wasn’t by myself and I knew they were more upset not having things go right on my first trip to Damanko.  It was also becoming dark and Peace Corps also does not like us traveling after dark.  This was also not the most convenient way to travel.  They would have much preferred to just hop on a motorbike as those are more reliable and the choice mode of travel, so we had to suffer through this.  Though I’m not too sure I want to ride a motorbike in Africa…. 

Anyway, we finally got to the house and I have to say, I hit the Peace Corps jackpot.  But seeing as this entry is long enough, I will describe it another time.  But anyway, we did some cursory sweeping, as there was a layer of dirt over everything, including myself.  After a bath, I was presented with an egg sandwich and some hot cocoa, cementing Kofi’s status as the best counterpart ever.  There will be bragging to the others.

After a couple days here, I will leave to meet the others in my sector in Gushie—another whole day trip—for two weeks of technical training before going back to our homestay families in Anyinasin.