A Ghanian Wedding!

Joy asked me the other day if I wanted to go to a wedding this weekend. I was surprised that you could bring an uninvited guest especially so last minute, but she assured me it would be fine. I heard her friend talking about a very rich persons wedding that did not allow guests, so it seems that bringing people along is customary, maybe the bigger the wedding the better. She then explained that she is the maid of honor! She was arguing with the bride to be because she had work on Friday, and the bride was furious that she would not be available to take the day off. Joy explained that since she just started this job she could not possibly miss a day, and told me afterwards that she didn’t think this friend would have done as much work for her and made as much of a sacrifice as she had already. Joy wanted to ensure that I had a nice dress for the wedding and helped me bargain for a long red dress in the market. I was disappointed that my custom made African fabric dresses would not be ready until next week, but as I didn’t bring any nice clothes I agreed to purchase a ready made one. We planned to buy a red beaded necklace to match it but did not end up having time so Joyce lent me one of hers. It was sweet how concerned she was that I was prepared and properly adorned for the wedding.
Since she was in the bridal party, she wouldn’t be able to take me there or sit with me, so she sent her younger sister Kristen who I think is about 14. Not only Kristen but their younger sister Audrey and her brother Ebenezer all showed up at my door at 9am. My host mom was about to serve my breakfast and asked them to “wait small” and they obliged without complaint and sat down to watch TV. I tried to eat my butter toast (mostly butter with a little bit of toast...so much for losing weight) and drink up my tea as fast as possible. Ebenezer, who seems to be about 20 put Kristen and I in a taxi and rode his bicycle behind us until we got to town. The downtown area is about 10 minutes drive from my neighborhood. When we got to the central taxi depot, there were 10 girls wearing matching turquoise taffeta shirts and blue jeans. It seemed that they were also waiting for us, which made me feel guilty again about running late but they didn’t show any signs of frustration. We piled into 2 cars, 6 girls in each and drove out of the city to a small village area.
A colorful tent was set up in front of a low concrete building with no decoration indicating that it was a church but they said it was called the Winning Union Church. Plastic chairs were set up throughout the long room leading up to a stage. Bright green and gold banners hung elegantly across the room. As guests filed in, a bunch of young people were singing religious songs on the stage. The songs were upbeat and had good rhythm, most people were standing in front of their chairs and dancing, and as it became more crowded, guests made their way to the front area to dance and clap their hands. Women wore an array of outfits ranging from the traditional Kaba and slit outfit (long tight skirt with matching top and headpiece), flowery summer dresses, shiny taffeta party dresses and button down white shirts with black vests over them and business pants. Some women wore shiny head scarves that looked like wrapping paper, others had their hair done in fancy formations on their heads, long curls, braids in varying colors, or shaved to a fine fuzz around their skulls. The men looked handsome in black, tan and white suits, or button downs with business pants.
The pastor greeted the audience and lead the crowd to begin singing a hymn. I found it ironic that the hymn was about praying for rain showers, not something I would want on my wedding day but indicative perhaps of the environment. Simple programs were passed out among the rows indicating the order of events. The crowd turned towards the door, still singing the hymn, and many women began shrieking and yelling “hallelujah” when the bridal party and then the pride walked in. There was only one bridesmaid, my friend Joy, and one groomsman. The bride and groom walked in arm in arm down the aisle, she in a bright white dress, long veil with sparkle designs and long train, and he in a suit. The color scheme was a light green with gold which the bridal party wore. The couple sat down on chairs in front of the maid of honor and best man to the left of the audience. As cameras stopped clicking and people calmed down, the pastor stepped up to make a sermon.
I really enjoyed his speech about marriage. It seems to be customary here after an engagement for the couple to go to counseling with the pastor, which I think is a great tradition. He said that what he first asks them each, is to write down 10 things they expect from marriage. He joked that if the man says “I want someone to cook, wash my clothes and rub my back” he has recommendations for a cook, a washerwoman and a masseuse because these are not what marriage is about. He explained that marriage is about companionship, sharing, and compromise. He taught that it is necessary to adapt, because it is the combining of two people with different upbringing and different cultures. He gave an amusing anecdote about how he did not grow up eating spicy food, but had to learn the hard way to make his body used to it. He read from the Bible and explained that God made Eve as a gift for Adam, to be his equal, not beneath him, and that marriage is also a precious gift. He emphasized that a woman is not expected to be an incubator for babies, that the in-laws should not pressure her, that children are a gift which may come, and if they do not, adoption is always an option. I was impressed by this last piece and it showed the way the culture is changing from more traditional beliefs. He said that marriage is about acceptance of each other, transparency and honesty, communication above all, and learning to resolve conflicts. I really enjoyed this lecture and was impressed by his speech. He spoke in English and it was translated equally emphatically by a woman into the local language of Dagbani. The choir group sang more songs that had everyone singing along and tapping their feet, some even standing to dance again. Then the couple stood up and exchanged their vows at the front of the room. It was sweet that the maid of honor and best man both had hankerchiefs to dab the bride and grooms faces so that they would not have a drop of sweat on them despite the stuffy heat of the room. All four of them stood up there while another pastor lead them in repeating their vows. They were pretty similar to U.S. weddings, more religious than I am used to, thanking God and Jesus for each other, submitting to each other as to God and Jesus and praying many times. Then they took communion, kneeling on pillows next to each other. They then exchanged rings, and a great chorus of shrieks went up as the groom slowly rolled up her veil. He looked thoroughly embarassed as he leaned in to kiss his new bride and the couple was surrounded by guests with cameras and the whole room was shrieking and clapping.
The couple left the room briefly through a door on the stage, and the choir broke out into song. The area in front of the chairs filled with people dancing, old and young, men and women, tall and short, in a great blur of colors and figures. People danced down the aisle like a never ending conga line, and pulled hankerchiefs from their pocket to wave in the air. It was such a celebration and so much fun to see every single person in the room regardless of their age, shape or outfit wiggling their rears, shaking their shoulders, laughing and clapping and lifting up their feet. The new couple emerged and joined in the fun. I wondered if everyone at my wedding would get up and dance like that because it was just contagious happiness everywhere it felt so full of love even though I was a complete stranger.
An offering was passed around and people dropped in whatever they could, a closing prayer was announced and the pastor asked people to please not throw lavender or anything else at the couple as they walked out. Another hymn was sung as the couple left, I liked the fact that it was all of their friends and family singing to them. The crowd moved outside and rotated along to take pictures with the bride and groom. After about 30 minutes everyone was ushered back inside and the bridal party sat at a table on stage. “Fred and Sylvia part two” the pastor announced, and soda and cookies were passed around the crowd as more songs were sung by the choir. The group of girls I had come in with performed several choreographed danced to both religious and what seemed to be traditional Ghanian music. When the power briefly went out they ended the dance and moved on to the popping of champagne bottles, the cutting of the cake, (which I felt conflicted about when I saw the large white barbie doll on top) and then a song sung by the bride to her groom. The day had gone on from 9:30 to 2:30 and people seemed ready to go home and eat a meal. I felt really honored to be there and greatly enjoyed it. Celebrating love in any culture is always a happy occasion :-)

Challenges of NGO work and more about FFK

Today I visited the region of Central Gonja. I realize I have not fully explained what the NGO Futures For Kids does so in brief, it piggybacks upon a more established NGO, School For Life which educates rural children especially girls in a crash course of 9 months which prepares them to go into the formal schooling system. It also helps to teach the parents, many of whom are uneducated and illiterate about the importance of education particularly for girls. One of the traditions here is for a girl child to be given to their aunt essentially as a laborer, and they do not get the chance to go to school. Both NGOs target these children and their families. School For Life pays the school fees and does trainings, and FFK provides a bag of maize to compensate the families for the work the girl would have done in providing for the family. FFK also donates some bicycles, school books and stationary. FFK sponsors about 50 children in 3 districts in the Northern region of Ghana. One of the issues that is coming up is that FFK does not have their own vehicle, and the communities are hours from Tamale, the central city, and hours away from each other. Hence whenever a trip must be made to monitor the children, deliver supplies or as in my case, visit the communities to conduct surveys, the staff must take public transportation and then go on a motorbike with one of the School For Life officers who have offices in each region. It is complicated to work out, time consuming and expensive. I think it would make more sense to have consolidated the recipients into a few communities which are closer and therefore easier to access. Also, some villages have 10 recipients while others have only 1. While it is always hard to say “no” to anyone in need, the practicalities must also be considered for such a new and small NGO. The other issue is that each community speaks different languages, so it is difficult to find a staff member from either NGO who can communicate with all of the areas, that will be one of the challenges I face in conducting interviews of the beneficiaries. There also are communication difficulties between the 2 NGOs and within them as well, since the main office of FFK is 14 hours south of their practicing area.
Another problem which has been cited in much of development literature is the lack of empowerment and capacity building. In simple terms, the old adage “Give a man a fish, feed him for one day, teach a man to fish, feed him for life” is not being very well administered. Yes once some of the children complete school and grow up there will be some long term change, but as it stands currently, the people are simply showing up and receiving the supplies and not really taking an active part in the structure of the NGO. Some of the members in the community today apparently seemed to act less than gracious and even entitled, the field officers were frustrated that the people seemed to just be sitting back and waiting to be given something and profusely thanking us, but not showing that they were really committed to completing their part which is essentially supporting the children to go to school. It is hard because the communities in Central Gonja are Muslim and there are stricter gender expectations within the traditions than in the Christian areas. One man seemed to get offended when the mothers were so strongly encouraged to support the kids and felt indignant at the fact that the fathers role was not recognized as much. It is difficult to change traditional beliefs especially when the participants are not taking a strong active role in the process.
It was hard for me to sit through the meeting today for several reasons. One, I do not speak the language and do not have high hopes I will be able to master more than a few words due to the complexity of it. Two, I do not know the culture well and am anxious about returning to the communities alone to conduct interviews via a translator. Three, hearing about the frustrations and miscommunications is exhausting and makes the entire process of fighting poverty so overwhelming. Several of the children had visible health issues, such as malnutrition, crossed eyes, strange growths on their bodies and it is really sad to see and makes you wonder how much they can learn in school regardless of how many books and uniforms they have, when they lack the protein to help their brains develop, or have vision problems and possibly learning disabilities resulting from their situation. There are tons of NGOs in the area and one thing I want to work on is connecting them, for example if a health oriented NGO could also link up with these communities, it would benefit the recipients holistically. Again, I feel lost as to how to go about doing this since I do not know anyone here except my colleague and I don’t know the culture or language, or really anything about connecting NGOs. One of my goals while I am here is simply to learn more about development work in the field and the many logistical and practical challenges associated with this work.

Tamale central market

I followed Joy through the covered marketplace. I doubted if many foreigners ever entered this place. Stalls were lined up row upon row around narrow cement lanes with slight indents in the middle. I assumed these to be intended for funneling liquid out into the gutters but they instead became pooled with mud, excrement and rubbish. Joy deftly stepped around the puddles and garbage on the ground, I tried to follow in her footsteps but nearly fell into a boiling pot of soup. “That would be a great start to the trip” I chided myself, imagining the gossip; “the foreigner scalds herself not ten feet into the market on her first day in the city”. I stepped more carefully, allowing Joy to move farther ahead as I tried to navigate the bustling traffic of women with plates on their heads, babies crawling in the muck on the ground and men carrying loads of goods through the alleys. I turned a corner sharply and my knee collided with the bloated belly of a brown goat, who gave me an annoyed look and stepped a bit to the side, reaching down for a piece of plastic. I had a moment of panic because Joy was nowhere in site, it suddenly struck me how out of place and lost I would be without this new acquaintance to guide me. I gazed around at the sprawl, trying to smile despite my confusion, aware that many eyes were trained on me, looking up and down my plain dress and light skin. Joy waved to me from a hair shop and I relaxed, walking gingerly over to her. She was scanning a wall covered in hair extensions and weaves, apparently all 100% human hair according to the packages, and discarded one when she noticed the red and gold streaks running through it. She pulled another out of the package, long wavy black hair and felt the texture, deciding which would be the best look for her as a bridesmaid in a few days. As she searched, I looked over to a clearing in the marketplace. I winced as a toddler lifted his shirt and revealed the distended stomach of kwashiorkor, protein malnutrition. I wanted to give him my granola bar, loaded with peanut butter, but could not imagine any possible way of presenting it without greatly offending everyone around. He giggled and ran over to an adorable plump baby sitting on the ground, fascinated by a plastic wrapper which she continuously picked up and dropped. A man rubbed his feet and spat on the ground nearby, looking at me with an exhausted and perplexed expression. On the other side I saw a young woman, probably about my age, dressed in a gorgeous deep purple dress which had patterns in teal sprayed across it. She bounced her baby on her waist and returned my smile. Joy emerged from the shop and lead me to another stall, lit by a blacklight, its violet hue illuminating the lingerie and nightgowns covering the walls. I shook hands with the woman working there and was invited to sit down on the single plastic chair in the space. Joy unabashedly pointed out which bras she liked and the woman handed them to her. Joy commented that her breasts were tiny so she wanted a push up bra for the wedding. I realized that in this culture, mine were also exceptionally small, although I had never lamented about their size before. I wondered what women here thought about people getting breast implants. Joy asked me to clip a few bras on over her shirt as she tried them on. She called out in greeting and a man came to the store front to say hello. I marveled that she did not feel embarassed sitting there with a bra around her T-shirt, and wondered if it was flirtatious or just meaningless. I had read that in Ghana breasts are not nearly as sexualized as in the west. Here one of the most sensual parts of the body is the area below the belly button until the waist. I noticed while watching Ghanian music videos that the women often wore high cut but cropped T-shirts and low cut jeans, emphasizing that area. Joy selected a few items and we headed over to the vegetable sellers. They were located in a more open area of the market, each woman in front of a table filled with either crinkly red tomatoes which reminded me of tiny pumpkins in the fall, huge green and brown avocados which I only recognized because I had seen one cut the week before, purple onions, pinched red and green peppers, okra, melons, coconuts, pineapples, mangos and other edible items I could not identify. The air was filled with the animated sounds of laughing women, the nasal “Henhhh” of agreement, the elongated “Naaah” of “I’m fine” and many choruses of “hello, good afternoon” directed at me. As Joy paused to greet one of the many people she knew, a woman in the shop nodded at me as she ate her wachi with her hands and said “you are invited, sister”. This invitation is customary and in some ways a formality, but I had heard it given infallibly by friends and strangers each time I was around someone eating, even if they already knew I could not eat the food because it was meat or street food.

glimpses of the experience

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.

Wale Wale, Kumbungu

yesterday we went to visit several villages outside of Tamale,  first in Wale Wale and then in Kumbungu...this was the part of Africa you think of stereotypically and it was sobering to see it as real; people living in mud huts with thatched roofs, carrying amazingly large items on their heads and wearing bright colored fabrics...we went with my colleague peace from Accra and Joyce and Wedad the two Futures For Kids field officers. We made presentations at several gatherings of people to present several girls at each village with a large bag of maize for their family, school supplies and uniforms, and for some who lived far from their school, a bicycle. I felt pretty out of place but it was incredible to be there and see the goodness happening among the NGO and the people. The staff reminded them of the importance of education especially for girls and asked hte parents not to work them too hard so they could focus on their studies. The villagers spoke with so much gratitude and appreciation it made me feel really strangely guilty especially since I didnt actually do anything to provide the materials for them. I took tons of photographs and some video clips which I’ll work on editing. I wish I knew more about photography and documentary making because when I am sitting there all I want to do is capture it so it can be shared with the world. 

Accra Tourism

 Independence Circle

 Peace, my colleague, very sweet Ghanian woman who recently started working with Futures For Kids, Martina's aunt from Germany, very sprightly 74 year old, and myself, at the mausoleum of Kwame Nkrumah

 A beautiful peacock we saw, they are stunning creatures but were not blessed with the gift of song...they sort of honk in an unpleasant way lol

The current president of Ghana John Atta Mills

photos

women carry so much on their heads it is amazing, im thinking of practicing I think it will be good for my posture :-)

 the traditional dress the Kaba and Slit

 I love how they carry their babies snug on their back, so important to develop that bond between mother and baby, and it allows the mother to have her hands free :-)

there are tons of salesmen with kiosks set up selling all types of goods