My colleague Joy hailed me from across the street, her hair tied up in colorful curlers and lead me to the salon. The building was made of 2 rooms, and there was no outside indication that it was a place to get your hair done. A tall girl with slanted eyes and wide cheekbones greeted me by taking my hand, welcoming me to the country, to the city and promising that we would be friends. I liked how she held onto my hand the whole time. Ghanians are close when it comes to physical contact, particularly among women. The first time I had met Joy, just two days before, she had hugged me like an old friend and held my arm. Every time we crossed the street she took my hand or arm to ensure my safety. It was startling at first, especially when the women touched my butt and laughed at how small it was, or casually put their hand on my chest to introduce me to someone. I adjusted to it though, and soon wondered why people are so adverse to physical contact unless it is strictly sexual in America. The way the girls played with my hair or put a hand on my shoulder made me feel included, especially since I often could not understand what they were saying.
Children everywhere greeted me with an eager “Hello” a wave and a wide-eyed stare. Although I had seen a few foreigners around town, I was in the minority by far and still an excitement for the locals. I smiled and answered them back, marveling at how just these gestures communicated so much warmth and animation. It is interesting how in this country, the first culture I have visited in my adult life where I phenotypically cannot blend in with the native people, my race has changed. By virtue of not being black, I am white. My brown skin is much lighter than the deep black African skin, and there doesn’t seem to be a noticeable difference between my tan skin tone and the pale peach whiteness of other outsiders. I don’t mind it, I have enjoyed being surrounded by black people, having them control society, in stark contrast to the U.S. I feel skinny and plain compared to the voluptuous curves and wide bodies which strut about in their brightly colored and tight fitting Kaba and slit outfits. I am constantly attracted like a magpie to a shiny ring to the brilliant green, red, blue and yellow patterns. Joy laughs at me when she notices and teasingly asks me if each one is my favorite and which one I want to make dresses out of. Every time we pass a cloth seller I gaze longingly at the pieces, unable to pick out just one or even imagine a dress of just one alone. It is the patchwork of bold colors and circular, angular, and abstract shapes which make up the vibrant scene.
Women carry loads on their heads which defy gravity. A rectangular wicker basket, the size which I fill laundry with at home, is loaded with shoes with a bowl on top filled with flip flops and balances comfortably on the head of a middle aged woman. Her baby is wrapped snuggly on her back with the mofla beneath this tower. Yesterday I saw a skinny woman with a blue metal barrel riding on top of her head. This was soon topped by a 7 year old girl balancing a barrel of the same size upon a small curl of fabric on her crown. I tried to calculate how much it must weight even if it was completely empty. I simply could not believe it was possible. Women carry plates of round melons which magically do not roll off as they sway their hips through the market. Peanuts remain immaculately stacked on one half of a flat circular tray which rests on a head, the empty half of the tray sticking out into the air. Babies doze against their mothers backs, shaded by large cardboard boxes, trays of coconuts, sachés of water and nearly anything else which can be sold individually paraded around in the air. I wondered why this practice never made it to the west and imagined practicing this method of transport for myself, marveling at how practical it was because it allowed the women to have their hands free. I thought about the red indentations on my arms I developed while carrying several plastic bags from a store, and considered how much easier a trip to the grocery store in New York City would be if I could balance so much on my head.
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