On the Road to Damanko

8/17/10

So this is it.  I am sitting here in my new house in Damanko.  Now the work begins for real.  I have hit the deep end of the water now.  It seems to me that training has been an act of removing a series of safety nets one by one until you’re finally left alone, standing on your own.  From what I have now observed and experienced, Peace Corps training creates a continuum for us new trainees to move along from “fresh off the boat” to “fully integrated.”  When I first arrived, I was enmeshed in a large group of people in my same situation—here for the same purpose, from the same country/culture, and similar walks of life.  Though we all came from different experiences and backgrounds, we all became comfortable in our shared backgrounds and sense of purpose that stood in stark contrast to our new surroundings.  Peace Corps kept us more or less isolated, restricted our activities on our own pretty severely, carefully monitored our food, provided for much of our transportation by private Peace Corps car, and made sure every place we stayed for any length of time was highly fortified for our protection.  And all around treated us real delicate-like.  At first it was a little aggravating, having been used to striking out and exploring things on my own, but they repeatedly told us it was for our safety, and for our comfort, so as not to overwhelm us too soon and increase somebody’s risk of terminating early.  After a time of careful isolation, time used to get to know our fellow American and develop bonds we would use for the next two years, Peace Corps gave us a little language skill and sent us out in groups to travel to a current volunteer’s site as our first introduction to life and operation in Ghana.  Upon return we were placed into homestays which incurred a higher degree of culture shock than previously encountered, but was still closely monitored by Peace Corps.  The homes are carefully chosen, the family members instructed on how to properly cook for their new American children, and language and cultural facilitators placed in the villages themselves, should there be any friction between the American, their homestay family, and the integration into Ghanaian life.  Still, I was not far from my fellow volunteers, my trainers, or other support staff and still spent most of my day with these people while we were receiving the necessary skills for the next two years.  After a time in homestay, getting used to living at a different standard, getting used to a different rhythm of life and family structure, but still having an escape in my own room and with my American counterparts, we were introduced to our assigned Ghanaian counterparts and given a chance to visit the place we would spend the next two years.  On my second opportunity traveling in Ghana, I was still not required to do it on my own, and was guided by people who have been navigating this scene their entire lives.  After site visit, there was technical training at a different village, more remote, more rural, more underdeveloped before going back to homestay and preparing for the official swearing-in.  Afterwards, when they have fully grown their new volunteers, Peace Corps stands at the door and waves good-bye, wishing you luck, and promising to be there at the most critical times, but otherwise will remain at an arm’s length to let you succeed and falter by yourself.  You’re welcome back anytime, but your bedroom will now be converted into the craft room.  And with that, they send us off to our sites.  As many of us were traveling the same direction—through the Volta Region—we could begin travel as a small group, and one by one as we got farther, people would drop off, making the group smaller and smaller.  I am one of the furthest away, so one of the last to get to site.  It has taken me two days, but even so, I arrived here with another new volunteer, my friend Nhial, who waited here until his counterparts in the next village could come pick him up signaling the real end of training.  As he left, I suddenly had this vision of my last safety net being surreptitiously pulled away.  It reminded me of one single moment after moving to college for the first time.  When my parents walked out of my dorm after moving me in, the transition to adulthood hit me for real.  I was on my own now and completely responsible for everything I do and don’t do.  One safety net right after the other has been peeled away as training has progressed, until now I am here in Damanko, by myself, and starting from nearly scratch.  I know some language, and know some of what to expect; I have a good APCD (Peace Corps acronym meaning Boss) and good counterparts I can rely on.  These are safety nets I still have, they are just further below me and I have farther to fall before I hit them.  I am not too overwhelmed by the newness of it all anymore, but it is still jarring to finally be the only American anywhere around and without the comfort of time and experience in a place.  It’s definitely a challenge that I want to look back on and be proud I conquered.  It just takes time.

Anyway, that said, I have a long, interesting, and exciting road ahead of me.  I have a great house for starters.  Housing is provided by the communities that request volunteers and have to meet certain Peace Corps requirements, like: a concrete or plaster structure with two locked rooms, exclusive latrine and bath room, and a place to cook.  My house is my own little Fortress of Solitude.  I am quite amazed at its presence and functionality.  I have my own small compound, which can be closed off with a locked door, and that, in turn, is surrounded by a plastered wall with a closeable and lockable gate.  I have two large rooms, one for sitting and one for sleeping, my own latrine and bath room, and a kitchen room with a storage room.  I am the fourth generation Peace Corps Volunteer to be here, so I have the benefit of piggy-backing on previous volunteers’ accumulations.  It’s quite the Peace Corps jackpot really.  Others I know that are at brand new sites have only the rooms and the bed and must otherwise acquire their household needs (which PC does give us money for).  This means I have furniture, a furnished kitchen with propane to cook with (which is proving a task to get currently since there is an apparent nationwide shortage at the moment), even drapes and flooring.  In the middle of my compound is a vine that reaches up to the roof and provides a nice canopy in the small courtyard.  I’ve called it my White Tree of Gondor.  My house sits on the edge of the market space, a space which every six days is overflowing with people, merchandise, meanderers, loud voices, vehicles, livestock—the chaotic bustle life which comes like a wave and splashes against my wall, flowing around the sides of it like a tide.  However, once past that gate, the world washes away (well, except for the noise), and I have a respite from the stares we PCVs refer to as “being in the fishbowl.”  This is a rare privilege for a PCV, and I hope that the temptation of hiding that the house offers does not impede my work or my integration.  I go out in short spurts at time, allowing myself to take it slow, because who says I shouldn’t?  I go out once or twice to buy food for me—and the cat. 

Damanko sits nestled in the curve of the River Oti that feeds into Lake Volta.  Its main social center is marked by a two story green mosque next to a filling station.  Throughout the day, the call to prayer rings out above the chatter and clatter and hubbub of life in the town.  Behind the mosque is a large open space surrounded by small enterprise sheds making small businesses.  This space holds the Damanko market every six days, but it is so large that it snakes along through improvised alleyways and into a different market space behind with shelters make of rudimentary logs and thatch.  The food sellers tend to be in the open, laying their produce on burlap sacks separating them from the dirt covered ground.  They sell tomatoes, oranges, garden eggs (which taste a lot like eggplant), hot peppe (not pepper, but “pep-pay” as it is locally pronounced), brofut (fried cornbread balls—yum), seeds, beans, fish, okra, onions, and some other things.  The back space is left for clothes and cloth sellers and other ready-made products. 

I have been amusing myself the last week or so by walking all over.  I walk to the large steel bridge that crosses the river and watch the men go out in their long fishing boats, paddling along and setting their nets, their silhouettes dark against the bright river.  I’ve walked to the clinic which is just behind the many school buildings which are empty and quietly peaceful while the students are still on vacation.  The clinic sits out in the bush outside the hubbub of town with a beautiful view of the valley.  It beautiful and quiet place to heal, I think.  Right next to my house in the market square is Grace’s hair salon.  It is only a room with chairs, hair products, and a couple of mirrors.  I sit with her while she does women’s hair trying to coax her 13 month old daughter to like me.  Connected to my house is another small building which holds a sewing school.  In Ghana, if you don’t buy Western clothes, you buy yards of cloth and take it to a seamstress or a tailor who will sew a dress or shirts and trousers for you.  This is a trade many men and women participate in, and next door to me is a government run school.  It’s very informal and the teacher and I get on really well.  The girls there enjoy helping me brush up on my language skills.  I watch the teacher sew men’s trousers.  Man, I never realized how complicated they are.  Sheesh.  Now that I’ve been here a little while, the people who were friends with the previous volunteers (a married couple from Ohio who left a year ago) have started to stop by and make themselves known.  Young Joseph comes by in the afternoons and though he’s only 13, I think he knows everything about the plants around here.  Rebecca comes to sell me bread.  She is my “tea bread” hook up, and I’m happy for it.  She’s really smiley and happy and I liked her immediately.  The bread she sells pays for her school fees (you have to pay to attend high school in Ghana) and hopes to go to nursing school afterwards.

So slowly I am settling in and beginning the slow process of integrating.  Kofi and I finally got the leaks fixed in the roof and now I can begin to organize my things.  If only I could get that darn propane so I can cook something.