Futures For Kids distribution July 2011

the social welfare office

7/21
Anita, my homestay mother has started an NGO which will help improve the conditions at the Tamale Children’s Home and ideally move on to help other orphanages in the country. The NGO is incorporated and certified as the Helping Hands for Need Foundation. She is working with her nephew, Sammy who works for Unicef, and a lawyer from Accra. She also has another young man, Salam who is involved in the project as well as one of the employees at the children’s home.

We set out to the social welfare office to speak with the personnel in charge of the children’s home. We took a short taxi ride to a field with a two story tan building at the end. It took us a few minutes to locate a space that was free of barbed wire which we assumed to be the entrance. We followed a sign up a cement staircase and reached a long pathway with a low fence on the left and offices on the right. I was amused to see a printed piece of paper taped in one of the windows which read something like: “God looked at the work I am doing and smiled. Then He looked at my salary, and wept”. I see that this type of work is equally underpaid in Ghana as in the U.S. and no doubt majority of the world. I lamented at the constant question of why caring for fellow humans is so undervalued.

We entered one office, a desk at the front and a couch furnished the space, while a map of Ghana on the wall was the only decoration. A man introduced himself as Fred, he had a weary appearance as if he had once been an inflated balloon of idealism which had slowly seeped out and left him deflated and dejected. He instructed us to wait in the chairs and promptly went back to reading his newspaper. Anita and I brainstormed questions we wanted to ask the director about the budget for the orphanage, its policy on adoption and healthcare, about the staff and legal
requirements.

A woman in a long traditional dress walked past with a tray of nuts on her head, she gave us a handful and asked if we would buy some. I have found that it is accepted and common for vendors to enter offices. In my own office one day a man arrived showcasing a variety of cosmetic products. Everyone was called away from their desks to see him present shampoo, lotions and facewash. He gave no samples or deal packages, just offered to sell them as if he were in a store. No one bought anything but politely observed his 10 minute demonstration and examined the bottles. I was shocked that the security guards and office staff had let this stranger come in the middle of the workday to try to sell us these products, but apparently it was commonplace.

We waited about half an hour until the director was ready to see us. We entered his office, which was noticeably better equipped. He sat behind a huge desk which had to have been about 12 feet long. John, as he introduced himself, was a man who appeared to be in his 50s who had eyes which protruded from his face and were very red. I like how people use their first names even in business interactions, it makes the person seem more accessible. He listened to Anita’s presentation of the NGO and plan with hardly any expression. When she finished, which was difficult for me to tell because it sounded like she repeated herself about three times, but he seemed to understand when she was done, he nodded. “You need a certificate of recognition to begin doing any of this work”. We tried to ask him questions about the orphanage specifically and he merely responded dryly that without that certificate we were not entitled to any further information. He instructed us to go to their other office in town to get the form we needed.

As we prepared to leave, a woman with fashionably short hair in a fitted business suit entered. She was introduced as Ann, the child rights and protection director. I wished we had met with her in the first place. Anita briefly described her plan to this woman and she looked upwards, smiled and held her hands together in prayer. “This is amazing news, you are too kind, I will help you however I can.” i wanted to ask her the questions we had prepared but it seemed as if the meeting was adjourned.

We took a taxi through the blazing midday sun and reached an area called Sakasaka. We dismounted at the indicated Shell fuel station which the office was supposedly behind. Anita stopped a butcher on the side of the road to ask directions. I tried to look away but my eye was drawn to the flattened hide laying to dry in the sun. It had a goat shape, my eye involuntarily continued along until it reached a large mass of animal innards. “I shouldn’t be looking at this, I should look away” I thought to myself. But the complex human desire to stare at that which is gruesome, the way people rubber neck on the highway to look at an accident, overpowered me. My eyes studied the white, purplish and pink intestines and organs, a wave of nausea swept in seeing the mass of flies gathered on the guts. I finally tore my eyes away and the next thing I saw farther down the line was a group of 15 goats tethered to a pole. The man Anita was talking to gestured to the right with a 10 inch long knife. I felt sure that the goats huddled there must have some awareness of what fate awaited them and had already come to pass for their comrades lying in pieces on the table. Although it is natural for animals to eat other animals, and I appreciate the way goats live free roaming lives before being individually killed here, instead of being mass produced in a factory in the U.S., I still stand strong in my personal conviction that I cannot in any way be responsible for these frightened looking goats being slaughtered with that raw blade.

We continued down the street where about 20 motorcycles were parked in some shade, and their owners, a group of young men, lay chatting amongst the large roots of the trees. They stared at Anita and I as we passed through them, not unkindly but with a distanced fascination. We entered through an opening in the cement wall into an area about 50 ft long and 30 feet wide. To the left was a small shed, to our right was a one story building, built on top of 2 feet of concrete so as to absorb less heat from the earth. The building extended the width of the area and had 4 doorways whose entrances were covered by a thin roof. We walked into the only open doorway and peered in. The room had green walls, two desks, two chairs, and a single table by the doorway. There was no indication on the door that this was the social welfare office but we would soon learn that indeed this was it. A lizard chirped in the corner of the ceiling, near the stains left by a leak. On one wall was written the word “MOSCOW” in white paint. A single window covered by a metal grate let in minimal light through the dirty brown glass. A man in his 40s sat at the desk facing us, calmly eating a bowl of gray stew with his left hand. He wore a light green button up shirt and the right sleeve hung empty by his side. He looked up when we arrived, seemingly surprised to have visitors. He had a kind face, a set jaw line, large mouth and friendly eyes.

He introduced himself as Thomas, and welcomed us to the office. He then walked out the door and returned a minute later carrying a long bench with his only arm. We thanked him and took a seat. We explained that we had been sent to obtain a form, I looked around the office; there were no file cabinets and no shelves, I wondered where they would keep a form. Thomas asked if we lived nearby, we didn’t, he asked if we came to town often, we didn’t. He asked why we needed the form and we gave him the same speech about wanting to revitalize the orphanage. His eyes brightened and he smiled, glad to hear of our intentions. He made a call on his cell phone and said that his co-worker would arrive in about 15 minutes. This was actually a surprisingly efficient interaction so we agreed to wait.

While we waited, Thomas told us his story. He was born disabled, with only a small piece for his right arm, and grown up struggling with not only physical challenges but also enduring constant emotional abuse as a result of his condition. He wanted to make a change in how him and other handicapped people were treated and began writing. A friend, he said, provided him with many government office addresses and he wrote to anyone and everyone he could. Someone responded to him, and directed him to several international organizations who worked with disabilities. He was connected to the Center for Individuals with Disabilities in the U.S. He also became in touch with the Mobility Services International group based in England. He corresponded with these organizations, telling them the conditions of people in his country, stories of people who were forced to walk on all fours for miles at a time. He explained that they were ostracized from society, and often reduced to begging on the street. He said that the people abroad were shocked and hardly could believe him. After 8 years of correspondence, he was invited to attend a conference in Bradford, England with other disability rights advocates from around the world. He spent three months there, touring and learning and meeting others like himself. The people of Bradford wanted him to stay there, they went to the mayor and asked for him to be employed as a mentor. Thomas possesses the innate and powerful skill of being a storyteller. When he speaks, you cant help but be immersed in his descriptions, the rhythm of his words relaxing you as your imagination creates the scene. He explained that articles were printed in the paper about him and he sent copies home to the offices who had mostly ignored him in Ghana, as proof since they had not believed him that he was really going abroad. He knew that staying in the UK would be more comfortable and easier, but he would feel as if he was abandoning the very work which had lead him to come there. To the surprise of both the British and Ghanians involved, he decided to return home.

In the past 20 years he has worked to established the Shakina clinic which works with individuals with disabilities and provides them with health care and helps to find them work and housing. He has also established a soup kitchen which makes meals for the disabled and has done so every day for the past two decades. I was so impressed by his work especially knowing the difficulty of making progress in the sometimes molasses like culture.

At this point a short man with a small head entered with a motorcycle helmet. He sat down and asked what we needed. Anita asked me to talk, I noticed she got nervous at times speaking with the officials. I immediately began explaining the plan for the orphanage but he stopped me saying “can I know you first?”. Coming from New York City, I am not adjusted to the slow and friendly way of conducting business. I stopped, introduced myself and Anita and then continued to inform him that we needed the form to obtain the necessary permission to begin our work. He thanked us and said he would return shortly as he had to walk to a print and copy center to duplicate the single copy of the form which he carried in his briefcase. After he had left, Anita asked if she should pay him and Thomas smiled saying that would be appreciated since it was coming out of his salary because there was no actual budget for the office.

Thomas explained that there was an elderly Nigerian man who he provided lunch for over the years, and that at one point his co worker finally informed the man that the money was not coming from the government. The man was shocked and filled with guilt and awe to realize that Thomas was buying him food day after day out of his own personal money. I then asked Thomas if he knew what the budget was for the orphanage, and he explained that there is no budget. I was sure I had misunderstood him. He smirked at my disbelief and said that there was no official amount of money allocated for any particular department within the office. “Look around at this space, does this look like the kind of place where we can really offer help?” I took in the stained walls, the desk whose surface was broken and fell down several inches when he rested his elbow on it, the emptiness which pervaded the room. He looked back sheepishly, aware of how dismal it appeared.

“Sometimes money comes in and we try to give it where it is needed, but there are many problems in this country, that is why I am so thankful for your intentions to help the orphanage. You are like me. You see I pushed my food away when you entered, because this type of work gives me much more satisfaction than any meal could. You see, some people think that those who want to help, that give, are crazy. They may think that they don’t realize the use of money. But, everyone knows that fried guinea fowl tastes delicious. Everyone knows the nice feel of a new shirt and shoes. But maybe for some people like us, who want to help, we find that there are satisfactions which are deeper and truer than ones that money can provide. I will not be here forever, so I would rather give my funds to something which will outlast me. Take this intention that you have to help those children, and even this kindness that you share may help them greater than any money could. You do as much as you can, and God will provide the rest. When you have done all that you can, look up at the sky and He will lead you to your next step. And these intentions that you have are good and pure and know that even when there is no money here, He will provide what it is that you seek. I will support you in your work however I can.”

He smiled then, and we did too. The other man returned with the form and we thanked them profusely for their help. Anita left 5 cedis on the table, though the printing couldn’t have cost more than 1 cedi at most. We shook their hands and left, a few steps closer towards helping those children in the orphanage.

Fabric!

I have been admiring the gorgeous fabrics worn by the women here for weeks. My coworker kept promising me that she would take me to by some “tomorrow”. In this culture, I have found that expedient behavior is unusual. I considered going into the market by myself, but was reluctant for the fear that I would be overcharged since I am a foreigner. One morning however, after I had run errands at the bank and my co worker was still occupied at a different office, I decided to venture in. I walked to the edge of the taxi rank and found a path which lead into the market. I vaguely remembered some of the lanes from my prior visit with Joy. I had no idea exactly where the fabric was sold however so just walked straight. I was absolutely the only foreign person in the market. I nodded and smiled at the numerous “hellos” and “good morning” greetings I got which it took me awhile to realize, were only directed at me. I instead began greeting people with the local “desaba” and responding with the “Naahh”. This elicited yet more giggles and gossip about this lost looking white person daring to enter the marketplace. I continued walking straight, past the vegetable stands with onions, tomatos, yams, some other type of root vegetable, cabbage and chili peppers. The smells alternated between the putrid odor of human and animal excrement, to the enticing smell of chopped garlic and other spices.

On my left I finally saw the exciting hues of the local fabric. I explained to the man that I wanted to photograph the cloths to show my friends so that they could pick some out to be bought. He frowned and asked me which ones I would buy. I did see a few nice ones and soon became over zealous and began selecting not only ones that I loved, but almost any that I didn’t dislike. The fabrics are almost all bright colors with bold contrasting colors. There are abstract patterns, geometric designs, birds, shoes, purses, flowers or butterflies printed on the background colors. Most of them are a similar texture to stiff linen-maybe there is a name for it but I don't know much about cloth. Some fabric has glitter on it, some has dots some has criss crosses some has squares some has a pattern which looks similar to Indian paisley. There are bright, loud colors and some pieces which are pastels, there are ones that have an obvious background color and others that are a whole mix and swirl of colors. The man charged me 7 cedis a yard, which is less than the 9 I paid in Accra. I bought about 4 fabrics, 2 yards each and promised to return. I was so pleased with myself and happy to finally have some cloth in my hands. I called my co worker to see if she was ready to go to work but she was still busy at the other office. I knew we had planned to visit the seamstress soon but also was aware of how vague a term “soon” was. I knew we had walked from the market to the seamstress the first day, to drop off the pieces I had bought in Accra. I headed in that direction, and texted my coworker for the seamstresses number and how to get there. I knew her office had been in a small yard within a neighborhood which seemed sort of like a village in the middle of the city. I knew I was around the right latitude because we had come onto the street across from the big white mosque. I asked someone in a local shop if they knew Perfect, the seamstress. He shook his head but suggested I ask at the tailor down the block. I did and one of the men nodded in recognition. I was relieved and asked for directions. He explained that while it was not far, it was hard to get to and I would never find it alone. He offered to take me and I thanked him profusely. I waited as he put on sneakers instead of his flip flops. He was a tall man probably in his 40s, the woman in the store had also nodded so I took that as a good sign of safety. I followed him as he turned into a small path away from the street.

The area was made of mud and wood buildings, built around wide lanes of dirt. A group of cows stood nonchalantly in the middle of one space and we gave them a wide berth. I couldn’t control my gleeful smile when I saw two baby goats playing with each other and pointed at them, the man gave me a sideways glance and continued walking ahead of me. I nodded and greeted small boys lounging on a tree root, and smiled at an older woman at the front of a store selling various packaged foods. Women made jeering sounding comments to my guide and he asked me where I was from. When I told him he just nodded once. It was a challenge to keep up with him as he wound deftly through the neighborhood, and I agreed that I never would have found my way alone. I marveled at how kind it was of him to interrupt his day to show me around. I wondered if I should give him a tip, if that was expected or would be considered rude. I recognized the fence and door of the seamstress and was relieved to see her open the door. Perfect, is a chubby woman with a broad smile, probably in her 30s. She chatted with the man and I explained that I wanted knee length dresses with various style tops. I saw some dresses that were finished, the work was well done with ruffles and bunches and stylish designs. I thanked her and followed the man back out to the main road. On the way I was seriously tempted to scoop up an adorable, puffy yellow baby duck, but couldn’t imagine what the man would say to that. He veered off to his store and said “goodbye” as I thanked him again. He made no pause for compensation so I was again in awe of how helpful he had been and wondering how often in the U.S. anyone is that kind.

Joy was still not ready by the time I reached the center of town again. Now my confidence had increased and I decided to explore the other side of the market area. Along the outside I found a woman who had some plain fabric for only 3 cedis which I thought would look nice mixed in with pieces of the bright colors. She only charged 5 cedis for the colored pieces and I felt frustrated with my earlier impulse purchases. I came across another cloth seller and was intrigued to note that these styles and even materials were totally different! Some had a plastic like feel almost like a placemat, which I decided would make a beautiful tablecloth. At this point, Joy called urging me to hurry up since we were late, a frustrating and common trend of waiting and waiting and then being called multiple times to suddenly be ready immediately.

The next day, Joy said we would visit the seamstress she had taken me to meet the first day. I was ready at 9am as agreed upon, only to receive a message from her saying she would instead go in the evening. I was annoyed at having woken up so early on a Saturday, and was dressed and ready to go. I read for awhile, watched some Ghanian TV and then decided to go back to the market since I now had specific requests from friends and family for particular styles. I also looked forward to improving my bargaining skills and to be more selective about the pieces I bought.
I had been meaning to wash my water bottle since I had been using it for a week, but was constantly faced with the dilemma of only having bar soap and the water being contaminated, I kept waiting until I could find some dish soap which I felt would be more sanitary. Hence, I did not bring any water with me, which would later prove to be a poor choice. Anita asked if I would first have lunch but, as I was ready to go already and didn’t think I would be very long, I declined.

I loaded on the sunblock, realizing that I would now be going out at the hottest point of the day, and added a hat to shade my face. I took a taxi to the central part of town, not knowing exactly where to get out. When the driver began to pull away from the market however I asked to get out only to be told that the car doesn’t stop here. Confused, because it had appeared that they would let you out anywhere you asked, I waited a few more blocks until he pulled to the side. I shouldered my purse and first headed to the ATM. It was currently out of service so I walked across the street to another bank, which was also out of service and even remembered a third bank I had noticed with an ATM only to find that it was not in working order either. I had some cash on me so decided this would be a good way to fight against the impulse buying since I would have to pick out a piece and return for it later.

I entered the market from a different side this time, smiling and greeting with the afternoon “antani” and responding with the same answer of “naah”. The first fabric booth I found was owned by an energetic and chatty young man who joked that he was from L.A. when I told him I was from the U.S. It actually took a few minutes for me to realize he was joking. I explained to him that I was looking for a piece that had a dark blue base with orange and yellow patterns. He had none so he picked up a lime green and red one, commenting on how nice it was. I informed him that I was also looking for an orange based one at which point he picked up a mustard yellow option and suggested it. I wasn’t sure where the communication breakdown was but thanked him and continued walking. I paused at the next fabric booth which was not as well stalked, and had to hold my breath while gazing at the patterns since breathing in would mean experiencing a ghastly fume whose source I could not identify. I moved on quickly and began to comprehend just how many fabric sellers there were in the market. Almost every block of every lane had a booth either dedicated to or featuring cloth. I chided myself for my previous naivete and wondered if I could exchange any of the pieces I had already bought. Reasoning that the mantra a friend suggested when I went to India was “buy as much fabric as you can and when you get home you’ll wish you had bought more” was just as valid here, I let it go. My only worry was fitting everything into my suitcases but if I had to donate some of my “safari” outfits and first aid supplies it would be fine. I spent the next hour wandering around the market becoming increasingly selective in which pieces I liked and how much I would pay. I began to consider if some would be better for dresses, skirts, curtains, gifts or if it was nice to look at here, but not something I would really use at home.

I visited the ATM and found that it was now working and withdrew money. This is always a nerve-wracking process because since I stand out so much I am always half expecting for someone to try to rob me as soon as I walk away from the security guard at the bank. I reassured myself by thinking how much I was contributing to the economy through my large purchases of fabrics. I had gotten pretty used to looking down or away whenever I passed the booths displaying large hunks of meat. Entire legs of cows and pieces of what I imagined must be goat, cruel I thought since there were live ones wandering around right in front, were sitting, uncovered on the wooden counters. I shuddered as I saw the flies buzzing around and the men casually flicking them away, and was sure that if I wasn’t already a vegetarian, the sight of that would convert me. I was looking down at the ground as I passed through a narrow lane with a butcher on one side, but right as I went by, I could see the man raising his arm high into the air, and felt more than saw him bring down a machete with a loud and vibrational thwack. I shuddered, noticing a hoof which had fallen on the ground, and involuntarily gagged. I held my breath as I walked as quickly as possible through the muck filled ground until I reached an area sweetened by the smell of perfumes from a cosmetics booth. I took a few deep breaths, wondering if I should call my shopping for the day over. I still had not found the fabrics requested by people at home so I resolved to continue. It was very hot and humid in the marketplace and I tried to remain in the shady parts as much as possible. Sweat dripped down my back as I meandered among the blocks.

I found one booth which had two ideal pieces, but there was no one apparently working there. I enjoyed the freedom to stare and take in the many patterns without having someone attentively watching me or suggesting colors. Once I had fully decided that these were the two I wanted I tried asking the girl in the booth across if she knew who worked there. She was about 12, and covered her head with a pink hijab. When I asked her how much a certain piece was per yard, she said, 45. Sure that we had miscommunicated, I explained that I only wanted to buy 3 yards so how much would that be. She stated that I would have to buy all 6 yards, showed me the label and said that she could not cut the cloth. When I explained that I did not want the whole piece and it was much too expensive, she suggested that I come back later when her sister was there. I moved on to the next booth. Two young boys, around 8, lay on the cement floor in the shade. I greeted them and stepped in to look at the cloth. I asked the price of a shiny green and gold fabric and one boy disappeared, returning almost immediately with an older man wearing a long robe. He eagerly cut me the two yards at 5 cedis and then invited me to come look at his shop next door. He didn’t seem to understand much English, and was missing most of his teeth. His beard was mostly white and his eyes looked watery. I was glad to find two types which I liked, but he said that one of them cost 10 cedis a yard. I had seen this same cloth before for 5, but now realized it was the best fit for my friends request. I argued with him saying that I could buy it somewhere else for just 5, and that I would just take the one other piece. He lowered it to 7, but I had no reason to pay more than I needed to and had every intention of going back to the other booth for a better price. After I had paid for the 5 cedi cloth, he cut the 10 cedi one into two yards and folded it up and handed it over. I said that I would only pay the 10cedis for two yards and he finally agreed. I felt bad since he was so eager for business, but I also did not want to allow myself to be ripped off.

I walked for awhile through an area in the market which seemed to be solely dedicated to food. I passed bowls filled with various types of flour, where women used a mortar and pestle to mash up maize, beans and other items into a fine powder. Pasta was displayed in a large bowl, available to buy in small bags of the dry noodles. Every time you make a purchase in the market, the sellers insist on putting it into a black plastic bag. When I explained that I could just put the cloth into my purse, they shook their heads and sometimes put each piece into its own bag. I chided myself for not bringing any of the reusable grocery bags so common at home now. I was getting better at navigating the traffic in the small lanes, girls ducking with large bowls on their heads, children crawling on the ground, and trying to avoid the spit some men hacked out as they passed. I also became more used to being the outsider and didn’t allow myself to be stopped and asked my name at every booth. I finally found an orange fabric that would suffice and asked for 3 yards. A teenage girl, considerably overweight wearing multiple pieces of mix matched fabrics around her waist and a striped tank top said that I had to buy the whole thing. At this point I was tired, hungry and ready to leave so I tried to reason that if I bought 3 it would still be good for her business. An older woman I would guess was her mother came by and seemed concerned. I began to walk away and the woman then asked me to buy 4 yards. I explained that it was for someone who was a different size than me, but not giant, so since I had been buying 2 yards for myself, 3 would be plenty. She seemed puzzled and kept saying I had to buy 4. I knew that was more than I needed and was relieved when a passing girl stopped to explain to her what I meant. The woman finally relented and cut me the 3 yards, giving me the expected price of 15 cedis total.

I was now exhausted and dehydrated. I was disoriented and wandered around asking where the taxi rank was. I was in no mood to dawdle and when some of the men asked me to be their friend I angrily snapped “I’m married!” and moved on. This seems to be the only line which will fend off their advances, saying you have a boyfriend means almost nothing and engaged doesn’t really count either. I finally found my way to the taxi area. I went to the general area where the SNITT taxis are and was told to get in. I was the first to enter which meant I would have to wait until the car filled up to go. A young boy walked past with a tray of water pouches on his head. I had been told that this water should be alright to drink, as long as it bore the official seal of the filtration company and was sealed. He walked past and I stared at it longingly, chiding myself for not bringing my water bottle. A wave of fatigue overcame me sitting in the hot car and I was momentarily afraid I would pass out. I had to make the difficult decision between dehydration and the possibility of the water being contaminated. I asked how much it was and he said 5 pesewas, basically 1 cent. I bought the water. It is a roughly 5 x 5 plastic pouch which you bite a corner off of and drink. I hesitated, wondering where the package had been and wishing I had something to pour it into. Sweat dripped down my face and I ripped into the bag. The water, somehow, was cold and the life force tasted delicious as I drank it up like a vacuum. I felt my body relax and revive as I finished the last possible drops of water. I sighed, satisfied, and hoped I wouldn’t regret it later. The taxi was now full and we drove back to my neighborhood where I spent the afternoon reading at my apartment.

Transportation

I wanted to take a minute to discuss the modes of transportation here. Primarily I travel to and from work in taxis. The taxis are any type of car designated by having yellow fronts and backs with usually black paint on the rest. The cars are in various states of disrepair. One taxi I rode in seemed like it was probably only held together by duct tape. It is rare that the inside cover to the door is there, I've actually found it interesting to see how the door handle mechanism works...although often it is not functional. The driver usually knows the exact way to jiggle and pull so that it swings out precariously on fragile hinges. The windshield is usually cracked and dinged up but it serves its purpose. The handle above the door is often missing, making me wonder how that piece would have broken, did it just come off in someones hand one day? One taxi driver stepped out and opened the back hood, which, since it was a wagon style car allowed the whole car to be open. I wasn't sure if this was to create air flow because of the heat, to let out the strong smell of gas which filled the car, or was to help improve his vision out of the back. I didn't ask as we drove around with the door sticking out behind us.
The taxis run in a very practical method, which is by stopping anywhere along the road to fill up with passengers. Being a foreigner, if I hail a taxi alone (it seems to be universal to just stick out your arm) the driver may ask if I want to go "dropping'. This means that I would be the only person in the vehicle and would be brought directly to my destination. Otherwise, the taxis run simliar to subways in that they have particular destinations and people get out at certain junctions along the way. This method would save me so much money living in New York, I would have been happy to share the cost of going up, downtown or crosstown with other people going the same way! And for people who can't stand the thought of not getting directly to their door and having to actually sit in close quarters with another human being...they could just say "dropping" or something similar and have it private.
I haven't figured out the pricing system. It seems like each person just inherently knows how many cents or dollars a certain distance is worth. Its not specific though, its more like, from my flat to downtown is 1 GHC and anywhere within that is 50 Pesewas. When we go to work, we take one taxi to the main town, and then pick up another taxi on another main road to get to work. They only drop you on the side of the road however, because if they drive you up the dirt road to the office, it costs the same amount as the entire journey from town... I also am not sure if you pay according to how full the taxi is exactly, or if you still just pay one fee per person...I seem to be the only one to actually vocally ask how much it is.

In the middle of town is a dirt lot called Taxi Rank. This area acts like a dispensary for taxis. Taxis line up in front of one another and a man stands at the front with a sign for a location. I look for the one that says SNITT Flats, and get in the one at the front. We wait there until the car fills up with other people going that way. When it is full we set off and the next car pulls up. Its an efficient system. Yesterday however I had the misfortune of trying to catch a taxi several minutes walk towards my area, from the taxi rank. Every single car was totally full and there wasn't a chance they would stop. I had to get a taxi going back the other way, and offer to pay him "dropping" for him to turn around. When I put up a bargain for how much to pay, he took the chance to pick up other passengers along the way and I got a good deal :-)

Besides the taxis on the roads, there are also numerous motorcycles and bicycles. These two wheelers seem to be allowed to drive both on the main roadway and the sidewalk areas on either side. These areas are dangerous because there are no cars and in this 10 ft late is where many of the stands and kiosks are. I was about an inch away from being completely assaulted by a speeding bicycle when I turned to look to my right, and my coworker yanked me back as I looked left to save me from the angry careless man flying by on his bike. So, one must always be aware. To cross the street it is necessary to go to a "zebra" crossing, with the black and white lines, that name confused me for a minute and I was excited about seeing some zebras. Then my method is to stand behind some local people, and when they run, sprint! The cars are a nearly ceaseless force constantly pulling in front of one another and cutting corners while bikes and motorcycles weave in between them. Goats roam freely around the city, acting as the natural garbagemen by eating up the many items which lay on the ground such as paper, plastic, bits of cloth and rotten food. They also wander in the sidewalk areas so one has to be always aware to avoid them and their excrement, duck if a woman walks by with a large tray on her head, and be careful not to get hit by a two or four wheeled vehicle. I have slowly been getting more comfortable walking around the streets but it is a chaotic stressful experience.

A day at the Office

I woke up at 7:45, packed my computer up along with the usual contents of my bag: my malayria pills, my ghanian money, bug spray, sunscreen, house key, cliff bar, passport copy, book to read, hand sanitizer and face wipes.

Joyce called me to come down around 8:45 and we took a shared taxi into town. For some reason, it is cheaper to take a taxi to the center of town, and then walk two blocks, to catch another taxi from the main road to get to the office. Each part of the journey costs about 1 pesewas or about 75 cents. The NGO does not pay for her transportation so she is happy to share the costs.

We alighted on the side of a main road, waiting patiently for a break in the traffic of zooming cars, motorcycles and bicycles. We then walked up a reddish brown dirt road, avoiding the pond sized puddles from the previous nights rainy season downpour. We walked for about 10 minutes, around several buildings, one of them I was excited to notice is the millenium development goal center. A driveway lead to two separate lots, one labeled "Youth Empowerment for Life" and the other "School for Life". I found it amusing how similar their names were, and wondered how similar their work is as well. One of the major questions I've had about the world of development, is why more NGOs don't combine forces and work together, reducing the overhead costs and streamlining the programs.

We approached a white, one story building, greeting the men lounging outside with a "good morning or, "Desaba?" and nodding at the response "Naaah". A smiling woman came out dressed in a denim skirt and jacket, she was introduced as one of the directors of School for Life, the sister or, mother organization of Futures For Kids. Joy showed me into the building, which was sparsely decorated, made up of 3 large rooms with several small offices around them. Motorcycles and bikes lined the entryway, and a bulletin board featured outdated greetings cards, one I noticed was a Christmas card from FedEx. On the doors of some of the offices was a sticker that said "school for life". A large conference table took up most of one of the rooms, with a TV set on one end, linked by a tangle of wires to the wall, antennas splayed in different directions from the top. Several girls sat at the table reading the local newspaper, they greeted us when we entered but I've still not figured out what their actual role is. The third room had a couch and two desks with computers set up, they are old tan colored desktops. A woman smiled at us from the couch where she breastfed her baby. After greeting them we began to set up the empty room which would become the Futures For Kids office within the School for Life building. The room had a wooden desk in it, and we brought in the file cabinet and office chair we had recently purchased. We unpacked the files from the NGO, put up a curtain, and made ourselves at home. I was frustrated to realize that I cannot connect to the internet here because my computer does not have a place to connect ethernet cables, and there is no wireless available.
I'll have to continue using my USB device which is expensive and cannot upload or download well.

We spent the day working on our computers, her on compiling a report for last weeks distributions and me editing photos from the trip. I also outlined a survey form and suggested a calendar for visiting the communities. At lunchtime we asked a boy working there to fetch us some rice and beans with some noodles and a hard boiled egg with some type of sauce without much flavor. The food came in plastic bags which we dumped onto plates. When I couldn't finish mine I offered it to the boy who had picked it up and he said something which I understood to be "yea Cavrat will eat it" which I assumed was one of the men outside. He put a plate over the food and left it on the table. I returned to the office and several hours later the boy came in and asked if I was going to finish my food. As I dumped it into the trash in the kitchen I was surprised and confused about the miscommunication, and also don't understand why they would not suggest to put food in the refrigerator which they have in the kitchen area.
This is a similar mystery to me as what happens to the food I don't finish at my homestay. I told Anita that I could eat the pasta from last night for lunch one day, because I had barely eaten half of what she served me, and seen her eat local Ghanian food for dinner. She did not seem to understand what I was suggesting and just said "I'm glad you liked it". I bought plastic tupperware and explained that I could bring what I don't eat at dinner, for lunch to work the next day. She smiled and said yes, and put the plastic up on a shelf where it has not moved.

Back to work, well we continued sitting at our computers, waiting for any response from the board members about our proposed dates for the trip into the field. I can't proceed any further with the research project until I get an answer so I just edited photos the rest of the day.

We caught a taxi to the downtown area and split up to run errands. I headed to the internet company Expresso to "top up" or add credit to my USB internet stick or "dongle". I explained that it has not been working consistently, that it works for awhile then crashes and I have to restart it reinstall it and wait around. The guy plugged it in and assured me that it works. I tried to explain again that yes it might work right now but it still is not working correctly, and he nodded. He then explained that I could not add credit to the device until it was completely used up. I argued that was inconvenient because then I could be at work or home and all of a sudden not have any access. He said I could give him the money now, get his phone number, and call him when it ran out. I reluctantly agreed, but then could not do it because they did not have their receipt book and so to come back the next day.

I headed to the central lot known as Taxi Rank, and asked around through the chaos of porter girls, vegetable sellers and goats until I found the line of taxis headed to my area, SNITT. It works like taxi dispensers, the cars pull up until they are at the front of the line, load up with passengers and head off to the designated area. People can be dropped off anywhere along the way. I made it home, ate a dinner of potatoes and vegetables with tasty spices, and went to sleep.

Homestay

I am staying in a homestay arranged by my colleague here. I have my own room in an apartment in a building of subsidized housing known as the SNITT area. Anita is my homestay mother, she is in her 40s and has a 5 year old son named, Nana. She has mocha colored skin while her child is very dark. He is a hyper, amusing, intelligent, sweet boy. She is a kind, thoughtful and independent woman. The apartment is comfortable and safe. The living room when you walk in has plush red couches with a medium sized TV at the front. There is a small balcony to the right and a long table along the wall to the left. This is where I eat my meals, sitting alone at one end of the table while they lounge on the couches. The kitchen is to the left, protected as all the rooms are by a swinging door with a mesh metal grate across it to minimize mosquitos. Through a curtain and another door from the living room is a short hallway with a sink on the end, a small bathroom; toilet, and a small room for the shower. On the left is my room, mostly visible since instead of a wall it is more mesh with curtains on the inside. My room is painted a deep blue and has a two beds, a small table, and a large wardrobe structure. To the right of the hallway is the curtain which leads to where Anita and Nana sleep, I have not been invited in nor taken a peek.
Anita is a great cook and very sympathetic to my vegetarianism. Even though I technically opened up to seafood a couple years ago, so far the only dishes I enjoy are tilapia, salmon, crab cakes and scallops. She has made me a few dishes with sardines, mackerel and other types mixed in with rice. I do my best to swallow it. She usually prepares spaghetti or rice and beans with delicious spices to taste. She also makes plaintains, soft and sweet which I cut up and blend into the bean mixture. In the morning I have a fried egg on a piece of soft cake type bread, she uses a lot of butter so the combination is tasty. I feel badly because she cooks my food separately than what her and her son eat. When I realized this I tried to leave food for him from my plate, but he took one bite of spaghetti with vegetables and thought it was nasty. I have tried a few local dishes and most of them I would prefer not to have again, if only due to my acute response to textures. I try to buy some boxes of spaghetti when I’m out and if I could find some avocados which I haven’t seen up in the north, I want to make them guacamole. I’m not used to eating just a few large meals, on my own I eat small amounts throughout the day, so I usually end up stuffing myself as much as possible and still being really hungry later. Fortunately, I have a supply of cliff bars in my room which have proved useful.
Anita asked me what my background is, since I don’t look like her other volunteers; blond and blue eyed and white skin. I explained to her that I was born in south america but adopted as a baby. She lit up and said that she herself was an orphan. She proceeded to tell me her life story and I will recount as much of it as I recall. I plan on speaking with her more in depth and producing a long story about her.
She was born, her parents were somehow or another out of the picture, and so her elderly grandmother raised her during babyhood in a rural village outside of Tamale. The biggest mystery to her is why she is what they call “half caste” or mixed race. When she was about 7, her grandmother sold her to a family in the city as house help, thinking this would provide her more opportunity. Her light skin was expected to bring her favorable chances. The family was wicked and treated her as a slave. She was the sole cook and maid for a family of 6, slept on the kitchen floor and was beaten regularly. She was only given hand me down clothes to wear, and the one time she got a new outfit at Christmas, one of the kids shredded it with scissors and told the parents she had done it. They barely paid her anything and she finally became rid of them. She worked as a street seller, carrying trays of water and fruits on her head, walking around through traffic. Occasionally someone would point out her light skin and toss her some bills, one man even paid for her to go to school briefly but then moved away. At one point she wanted to kill herself, but was told that she had a sister somewhere in the area who was married. She didn’t have any money to try and find her, but it made her keep on going.
She worked for a company for a few years when an NGO helped her get employment, but even though she was doing well she was not compensated enough or promoted ever. Eventually another company hired her to sell cosmetics and helped her to get into this subsidized housing. She is deeply Christian and has struggled with God making her suffer so much but continues to have faith.
Her personal life was equally tragic. She met a man and fell in love and remained loyal to him for years while he was away in the US. After a decade he returned, only to say that he had another woman in the US, impregnate Anita, and leave. Just this year he has contacted her saying he is willing to help support Nana, but her pride makes her bristle at accepting his help. She is perhaps an overly kind person, as evidenced from her insistence that I pay her less money than I had agreed to. There is a woman in the building who has three children by three fathers and seems pretty incompetent. Anita feeds at least one of her kids each day. She has been hosting volunteers for about 7 years now and it seems to be one of her favorite things. This past year she registered an NGO and has a strong passion to set it up to host volunteers and help the orphanage she took me to see. I hope I can help her however I can and feel fortunate to be staying here.

Tamale Childrens Home

Anita, my homestay mother, took me to see an orphanage that she wants to help, the Tamale Childrens Home. It is a government run orphanage that is in desperate need of improvement. The building itself is situated in a run down neighborhood on the outskirts of Tamale. A bumpy dirt road leads you to a dilapidated playground, and a long low rectangular building. The building is painted a dull brown color with metal grates as walls on each side. It is made up of 3 hallways with rooms on either end. The building is made of concrete and is uninsulated from the elements. The hallways on either side are empty except for some long pipes stacked in a corner, and clothing hung to dry against the grates.The main hallway is about 10 feet wide, and on either side are the children’s rooms. The rooms are painted green and yellow and some feature cute cartoon Winnie the Poohs on the walls. His happy face is in stark contrast to the condition of the children sleeping there.
The home currently houses 26 children, the oldest of whom appears to be about 8 and there are 9 babies, including infants.They are referred there from hospitals where some mothers die in childbirth and do not have any other family, some are born to women with mental illness who cannot care for them, others are born to women in jail. The babies are available for adoption but I am trying to find out if they are connected to any actual NGO that tries to get them adopted.
The rooms have yellow cribs, some of them have foam mattresses with no covers or sheets, some have a single piece of thin wood as the bed. A few of the beds had blue mosquito nets, but they were not draped around the frame so as to protect the sleeping children inside. My heart ached as I peered into the rooms and saw the conditions. As I documented the conditions with my camera, Anita wanted to take some pictures of me with the kids. Several little boys, about 2 years old, reached eagerly upwards in hopes of being held. I picked up two and supported their backsides with my arms. One was very wet, apparently they do not wear diapers. I used to think upon visiting an orphanage before, that it was so adorable that the children would eagerly take your hand and jump into any strangers arms. In studying child development and attachment however, I found out that this behavior is a result of them not having a strong attachment to anyone and was unhealthy for their sense of trust and connection. A healthy child may tolerate being held by someone else, but they always prefer their own mother. These kids are so starved for affection that they yearn for it from anyone. One child who was sleeping in one of the beds, about 4 years old, rocked his entire upper half back and forth with his arms outstretched, turning his head from side to side in an almost convulsive motion. I have never seen a child do this and was alarmed, the women working there said it was normal. Is it? I asked if the children had any health care, and they said that once in awhile they saw a doctor, but not regularly, if anything went wrong they have to take the children to a government hospital. They asked if we could help arrange for a doctor to come since there had not been one for awhile.
Supposedly upon speaking with one of the women, there are 25 staff, but I only saw 4 ladies there. Three of them held infants on their laps and fed them bottles. They were rotating through the 9 babies. The ones who had been fed were laid on a flat mat on the hard floor. One tiny baby girl who could have been merely weeks old, looked up at me from eyes that were closed to be almost slits, she did not react when I touched her small hands, I wondered why anyone should have to begin their life like this, laying alone on concrete.
Anita has registered an NGO, Helping Hands for Need, and intends to dedicate herself to improving this orphanage. She wants to arrange to host volunteers and raise money to help the children at this place. Her and I share the history of being born into families which could not take care of us, I was blessed to be adopted to a loving family, she was not so lucky, the next entry will be her story. But I am absolutely more committed at this moment and more moved to focus on helping her to help this orphanage, than the NGO that originally brought me here. She plans to open a bank account in the NGOs name this week now that it has been certified, and the website should be going up soon. We plan to talk to the woman who is in charge of the orphanage this week since she was not there today. Please be in touch if you have the interest and ability to make a donation to this cause, or if you have any suggestions for how to help the orphanage.