Blessed

I have come to where I started this journey, greeted - as I pull up to the Kusun Centre after a nine hour tro tro journey - by a grin of sparks and two boney arms that wrap themselves fondly around me; it is Amasa, the man who removed the hunk of rock from my foot with a razor blade in my second week and drove our drums to the training ground every day. Tettey, leaning against his car gives me a wink and a knowing, confident half smile.
Two worlds apart in the same country.
I walk in a daze through the hallway and glance at each name of the students I studied with in September, scratched out in powder smeared chalk on the bedroom doors - the settled dust of a sudden exit of forcible spirit.
It takes me forever to fall into the peaceful corners of sleep as I re-run the warmth and pulling sharpness of a goodbye in Ejura I won't soon forget.
I walk down Beach Road in Nungua in my final couple of days here, comparing and contrasting the life of two worlds and savouring the sweetness that forever will lay in the creases of my memory.
I feel truly blessed to have spent this time here, and what's more, feel blessed to have those of you in my life who have remained with me in spirit on this adventure.
With all my love,
David

**January 1st - www.loosechangetrio.com will be up and running - check here for more adventures

This is Africa

I sit down to write this blog with the thought that it will be one of my final entries concerning my journey here in Africa. What an incredible, eye-opening, soul enriching experience it has been for me. I want to start by thanking all of you who have continued to read and take this journey with me. I would look forward every week to reading your comments and emails of love and encouragement that only helped to strengthen my light and sturdy my heart and feet on the unpaved road ahead. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you. My flight may leave in a week's time but my experiences in Africa will continue to carry me in many ways through my life.
I will continue a blog entry about many of the new experiences to come in my life at www.loosechangetrio.com. This is my band's website and the people and projects I have decided on to help here in Africa I will fundraise for with "Loose Change Trio." So, to keep up to date with this progress and the progress of the band, I would invite you to read my new blog on our website. It should be up and running just after Christmas and if not, I ask for your patience until it is.
And now, here lies a few stories of the past two weeks...
Last weekend, I took a good friend of mine who I have mentioned in past entries, Mahadev, on an excurion to Nkoranza and Kintempo falls. On Friday night we stayed in a place called "Operation Hand in Hand" that houses mentally handicapped children who have been abandoned by their parents. Traditionally, it is the belief that a mentally handicapped child is born when the mother has been raped by a water spirit. After birthing the child, the mother will then take the new born to the river's edge so it can be collected by its rightful parents. Now, as education increases on this subject matter, less are being abandoned but it still remains a large problem.
I believe it was seven or eight years ago that a Dutch woman, along with two or three locals, took it upon themselves to buy some property and then collect these children from poorly run and over populated medical facilities that were housing the abandoned, and care for them.
Not without its fair share of trials and tribulations, "Operation Hand in Hand" has currently grown into a gorgeous verdant, tree shaded property with a playground, small swimming pool and fountain, and many different huts used for activities such as music, dancing, napping, movies, art and the absolutely essential, cuddling. It houses over forty children and provides a vocational school where the older children can employ their skills in beadwork, by both making glass beads with recycled bottles they crush and melt into various shapes in the clay ovens, and by stringing together unique jewelery, each piece tagged with the name of the child who created it. They also have a kente weaving room where the children learn to weave shirts and traditional dress. The money from their work, along with the money from traveller's that stay the night, an internet cafe they have started, a small store they now own and the generosity of donors help to fund this amazing project.
We spent the night with one of the owner's, a Chicagoian in his seventies who loved the theatre and Frank Sinatra. We were serenaded for a good portion of the night by this jolly bearded Jewish man who looks for the smallest of opportunities to take the stage and educate the ears of those who are unfortunate enough to not have heard the little known Sinatra tunes that are brimming in every corner of his mind.
School ended on Tuesday with the "Cultural Performance" that was to showcase each class singing the individual songs Nathan and I taught them. And though the children are now in exams, Comfort continues to come after school to Namaskar house for more tutorials. As each day passes, she brings a larger contingent of friends who are all equally as eager to receive extra education.
Soon after I arrived here in Ejura, I wanted to do something with my nights that would bring me closer to the boys at Namaskar and help open up their imaginations and english comprehension. One night out of the week I took them to the field to play football, which grew exponentially with all the local kids eager to join and live out their football day dreamings. Another night of the week I took the boys into the meditation room to read a story to them.
Over the last month I find myself reading stories to them most every night upon their beckon call of "Hey, Story Master! Are you ready?" The kids in the room range from nine years old to sixteen and all listen with eager ears, hearts and minds. Two nights ago I read them "Pinochio." They gasped and their eye lids flapped open - like pull down blinds you absentmindedly let go of - at the notion of an old man floating on a makeshift raft in the belly of a whale at the bottom of the sea. The mention of the possible death or endangerment of a main character ellicits this same pure, unbridled reaction that is a blessing to witness.
I will miss these boys.
There are so many other stories and I look forward to sharing them with you when I return home, as well as hearing your own.
Again, I invite you to keep up with my next phase of adventures at www.loosechangetrio.com. The band soon plans to travel over seas to promote the new record that is going to be released in February.
I may squeeze out one more blog here before then, but if not, thank you all again for reading. And now to leave you with an experience that brought to mind the phrase I have heard time and time again here - "This is Africa."
On the red dirt path that runs the course of the neighbourhood, sitting cross-legged, belly overhanging his elastic waistband, a little boy of no more than one or two years of age sits hunched over a knotted coil of metal, knawing the rust off it between his chubby cheeks.
I pass him, first amused at the sight, then stop and turn around shaking my head saying "No" and gesturing for him to remove the thick, infection- born wire from his mouth.
He pauses for a split second, eyes wide at what I have asked him to do, facial muscles taut with attention. Then in one crack of his thoughtful rigidity he throws back his head in a gut-busting laugh erupting his shirt up and over the his naked belly bulge.
He continues to laugh - as I walk away laughing myself - with a knowledge beyond mine, possibly to say, if he could yet form the words, "Hey, buddy, this is Africa."
Sending my warmest thoughts your way,
David

The Bone Setter

He is twenty seven years of age, but the generosity of his spirit speaks years beyond this meaningless figure. He learned the ways of herbal medicine and bone setting from his now eighty two year old mother. His name is Kaakyire, meaning "last born" - something you may have already concluded from the soaring gap between the age of this young man and his mother.

Years before, his grandfather - his mother's father - was a bone setter, herbal healer and a fetish priest. Being far removed from his daughter and, I suppose, the rest of his family, he passed on his gifts to a man he befriended later in life, only blessing this other with his gifts while in the final days of his existence in this world. This man continued his work until one day he was met by Kaakyire's mother who had heard of this bone setter through other villagers and having no knowledge of their connection, took her daughter with a caved in collar bone to be healed by this man.
After much discussion during their visit, together, they managed to reconnect the wires of the past, bringing to light that his teacher was none other than her late father.
Years later, when he lay on his death bed, he was to pass on these skills in good faith to Kaakyire's mother, but, either having little time left or sensing no desire from her to delve into this world, neglected to teach her the ways of a Fetish Priest. I am also told that the spirits must choose you to lead such a life of spiritual sacrifice and gain.
Growing up dirt poor, Kaakyire went to live with his sister in Accra for a time where he attended an International school until the age of ten when his sister could no longer afford to take care of him.
He returned to Mampong to live with his mother where he struggled to stay in school, worked when he could and helped his mother with her patients. The knowledge he gained from keenly watching his mother and assisting her started to work its way into his gentle fingers, sapped his muscles with an acute sensitivity and poured into his heart a patience from beyond.
As his mother grows older and, as he puts it, "more grumpy" and jarring with her patients he has slowly taken over. Though at first not fully taking to this work in his youth, through the encouraging words of a volunteer working in the area four years ago, Kaakyire decided to make helping people his life.
His patients come to him warily at first for he is a young man and they are used to the time tested, worn in ways of his mother. They come to him with little or no money as they have scoured every other option available before coming to him. When the hospitals have deemed these people untreatable, often suggesting the amputation of a limb, they come to Kaakyire to be healed of their affliction. And Kaayire does exactly this: he has people walking that were told would never walk again or using arms that were previously pronounced dead weight flesh and bone.
People will pay them with whatever they have - whether that be a bit of money, a tea pot or nothing at all. Kaakyire does the work because it makes him feel good to know he is helping others and it gives him a sense of self respect that carries his name through the town on the jubilation's of the healed. He says he does his work for God and draws strength from the scripture that tells of Jesus helping the lepers - only one of the ten coming back to personally thank him.
Nathan and I watched him work on a four year old boy who had been pushed down in the school yard and snapped clean the wrist in his bone. The boy's father cradled him between his legs while Kaakyire gently examined the bone with his fingers, making sure it was still joined the way he had set it - as kids often rattle it out of it's puzzle piece fit again - and then rubbed his arm with herbs, wrapping it in a banana leaf, then a strip of rubber to trap the heat of the herbs which are to meld the bone and finally, wrapping it with gauze and setting it with wooden sticks.
He says the business of bone setting will never truly be his until his mother blesses it so, and until then, he continues to tread in her domain, abiding by her rules until the day comes when it will be passed on - heart, soul and history - to him.
Today, a week after I started this blog, Nathan and I have visited him yet again after he invited us for a traditional meal of Foufou, beef, stew and fish. We were able to meet his girlfriend who is a true light and joy, as well.
Since starting this particular blog I have had so many adventures but because of internet time constraints, I will only impart a few of them to you and hopefully get to some of the others next week.
Nathan and I were encouraged by Dada (Ananda Marga Monk- proprietor of the school and Namaskar house) to impart to our students two songs they could incoporate into their morning assembly with a positive message and disciplinarian movement. The first Nathan and I agreed to teach was "This Little Light of Mine" which they now sing every morning.
The second was one I adapted from a english translation of a Sanskrit mantra. I added some lyrics I was writing from a new song of mine and made it into a blues marching rhythm.
They are singing both songs in assembly now along with the required National anthem, the Lord's Prayer and the pledge of allegiance for Ghana.
We took the time to explain the meaning behind these songs to the children and encourage them to sing it from this place of knowledge every morning. The songs impart the messages of love, togetherness and inspire them to shine their light of purity and goodness to the world.
It satiates the heart to hear these kids sing these songs with such enthusiasm, vigour and with a sense of joyful abandonment. Today, during the boys' Sunday meditation and song at the house, I could hear them incorporating "This Little Light" into those they sing every Sunday.
Now for a journal entry of late - this concerns the kindergarton children outside the front gate of our school:
The girls squat and lift their skirts and the boys either lift a pant leg or pull their waist band down an inch. They stand in a circle amongst yesterday's charred garbage. The boys who only marginally managed to pull their waitband down have sent their urine flying in great yellow arcs because of the way it's still strapping their upward facing penis to their waist. They turn as they pee, peeing on each other, none seeming to mind, some not even noticing, as they bumble in step and conversation between one another in their communal grass toliet.
Thanks for reading and I apologize for not getting this blog out sooner. And thank you to all those for last weeks comments. It is a special thing to have friends and family wave a flag of encouragement and faith in your face when your vision can become a little cloudy at times. So again, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for you love.
David

Help

Trying to help, teach and love others can become an intricate and complicated process which can ellicit feelings of helplessness, hopelessness and loss.
However, I believe that beneath the complex, tangled, problematic thicket of brambles, weeds and thorns there lies a simplicity at the root - a simplicity that lost its way in the many paths it crossed, the conditions it was to grow in and the loopholes it attempted to shoot through to reach above a canopy of darkness, only further insconsing itself in the mass it was hopeful to surpass.
There is a simplicity that we must adopt in our minds and hearts, with the haze of complex extranneous knowledge serving only as helpful signposts on the road to recovery but never acting as the guide itself.
To help one another we must have faith in the the simplisitc message of the lining that connects us all; the unadorned, all encompassing message of love.
I believe that to maintain faith, we must adopt a childlike sense of open-hearted purity so as not to be quickly discouraged and crushed under the weight of heavy overgrowth.
And with all this in mind, I will proceed to talk about some of the situations where I have witnessed or felt this same purity and other times where it has become muddled in the haze.
Sacking is a process here in the schools that sees the child who is unable to pay his term fees kicked out until he can afford to come back. There is a school wide sack and then each school seems to arbitrarily instate its law when they deem it necessary.
The first sacking that took place at our school sent the grounds into utter chaos - teacher's left classrooms, half the kids left the school and the headmaster told us to go home and rest. Since then it happens on an individual basis. I have yet to receive a clear answer on how this is carried out but it seems Tuesday is a popular day to ask for fees as Monday is the day when the parents go to sell their goods they have prepared throughout the week at market. The fee is about $8 Cdn per term for primary and $9 for jr high. If the teacher's feel that they will not receive their due pay at the end of the month for lack of school fees collected, they lose motivation and their apathy carries down the ladder "blowing down the match stick structure of the school before lunch," as Nathan so eloquently put it.
I started my remedial classes with five students: Comfort, Masawudu, Abullai, Mousa and Sule. Because of the erratic process of sacking, I have lost almost all of them to the school fees which they are unable to pay. Mousa has not been back since the first sacking, though he came to remedial class once and, not knowing that he had been sacked, I asked him to go back to school until I came for him. I haven't seen him since.
Abullai was sacked at one time and now seems to show up when he wants to. It is difficult to continue lessons with a child that arrives so infrequently as the progress is continually stunted.
I give little homework, but what I do give I ask to be completed by next day if they are to return to remedial. Sule is a sharp boy but fails to complete his homework out of laziness and day to day as I check his work, I must ask him to stay behind.
Masawudu and Comfort, the two farthest behind everyone else, two that I doubt should be in grade three, I have concentrated my efforts on. Unfortunately, Masawudu was just sacked and after making slow, but steady progress with him I feel at a loss. Although, I feel he will be back soon as he hasn't completely disappeared from the scene like some of the others and I will approach him when I next see him.
Comfort is receiving the most from my lessons, and quite honestly, is the most in need. She is a bright and beautiful seven year old girl with a motor mouth, a stubborn personality and a large capacity for compassion and gratitude.
As we make our way to our daily lessons under the mango tree she meanderingly spouts of phrases, words and counting methods I have taught her. She loves learning, even if her brain tends to wander to things I don't pretend to understand on some days. As I sit here typing about her I'm filled with a sense of joy at how far she has come and how our relationship has developed over the weeks we have spent together. Two days ago I gave her an exam, testing all that we have learned so far and she did incredibly well. We were approached by a little girl selling Milo (chocolate powder) tablets during her test and Comfort bought two rows of them, one which she gave to me and one which she kept for herself.
She has impacted my life greatly and it is my greatest hope that someone will continue to foster her growth. I will make sure to pass this message on to future volunteers.
I was going to talk about the bone setter I mentioned in my last blog, tying him in with the title of this blog, but as I'm seeing him next Friday and my time is running out, I will discourse on him in my next blog and leave you with a few journal entries of late.

(this was written after an incredibly chaotic and frustrating PE class with the Primary 1's - the girl mentioned is about 7 years old, incredibly polite and attentive)

Gleamingly bright eyes centered in a radiant black facial frame, undercut with a wide half moon smile that gleams in the same way as its celestial counterpart.
In the chaotic haze of irritability, absolute frustration and boiling anger I turn to this little light of P1 who strangely dons a scowl on that same pretty face and with a shake of her head, she firmly says to me, "Fucking boys."
I laugh in relief of total agreement sending a couple of the others into fits of utterance of the dirty word, while the others continue to beat each other and yell above my exhausted and futile commands.

The girls will hike their black uniform skirts up to their hips, squat and urinate in the sand at the doorstep of the school and then politely tuck the front end of it between their legs they spread to accomodate the placement of the bowl of food when sitting on the ground at mealtime.

That is all for now. Thank you for reading and thank you for your comments. Thinking of you.
David

Money Worries

Money seems to be at the root of so many problems that are needlessly created in this world. It accounts for many of the negative feelings that wrap their dark wispy arms around our hearts and minds - feelings of jealousy, hatred, hopelessness and greed lying in the centre of countless misunderstandings that lead to broken bonds - bonds that may connect two friends or family members, or a bond that runs through the lives of an entire community of people.
And the worries and feelings of distrust and anger money creates in our souls is no different on one side of the world than it is on the other, the only difference being context.
A surgeon in the western world whose earnings are at the top end of the world pay scale will tell you the same as the vendour selling beans and rice on the side of a dirt road in a small village in Africa: "I need more money." And this in itself relates to a problem far beyond the desires of the physical world and reaches deep into the seat of our beings, but within the context of this blog, I will neglect to further the latter point.
Back to Africa where I will attempt to sew in this introduction: Today, the other volunteers and I embarked on a trip to visit the Kente weaving village of Adanwomase and the village of Bodwease that houses an Obosomfie shrine - a shrine that houses the mediator between the ancestral world and the world of the living.
On the latter half of the trip, we pulled over on the side of the road upon entering the village of Bodwease and our taxi driver got out to greet the chief who was sitting on a wooden stool on the side of the road in bermuda shorts and a dully coloured hawaiian shirt. We were informed to follow the chief into what could have either been a part of his palace, a conclusion drawn from the sight of the throne, or a part of the shrine, a conclusion drawn from the sight of the dried animal skins and bones and dust laden drums piled in the dark corners of the room.
We were asked to wait behind a door while the chief seated himself and then were escorted into a room where he forebodingly sat above and before us on his throne, placed on a risen, shadowded alcove at the back of the room. The linguist, who communicates on behalf on the chief, asked us who our leader was and the other volunteers appointed myself to sit on a wooden stool at the base of the chief's alcove, the linguist sitting directly across from me and the others on a bench at the back of the room.
We neglected to bring our offering, a bottle of schnapps, for lack of any knowledge that we were to encounter the chief who apparently (and not according to my guide book) presides over the shrine. This void I believe was to set the tone for the rest of our visit with the chief.
He informed us we were to each bring a bottle of schnapps ($7.50 when converted to Cdn currency) and pay $10 each if we desired to visit and learn about the shrine. The numbers slapped us in the face after reading in the guide book that the caretaker was supposed to be a little elderly woman who would take us on a tour for a small, but reasonable fee.
Upon consulting the other volunteers and then relaying our plea of ignorance and apology we managed to get it down to one bottle of schnapps between us all and $10 each. We responded with $1 each and a bottle of schnapps to which he threw back his head, scoffing in what was either prideful arrogance or an impatience with our ignorant meddlings. He told us that we were not ready to see the shrine and when I couldn't convince the others, we somberly left what looked to me like a piece of architechture whose very corners were filled with history, culture and a dark mystery.
The chief had told me that it was a recognized "World Heritage Site" and that the money was for upkeep and such but immediately, feelings of distrust and scorn were aroused with his demeanour and with a fee that any of us have yet to pay anywhere in Ghana - even at Cape Coast Castle - granted, Cape Coast Castle has many more annual visitors and this Obosomfie shrine is located down an unpaved road in a tiny village beneath the mountains.
Was his price unfair? I don't believe that any of us would have blinked an eye if we were asked to pay that fee for a Heritage Site in North America, but regardless, because of the context of the country, the way in which we had been treated and our ignorance, misunderstanding and misgivings circled thick in the air of that uneasy room, emanating from the source of which causes this suffocating effect: money.
Before coming to Bodwease we had visited the village of Adanwomase - a village famous for its weavers of kente cloth. Kente cloth is a source of cultural pride in Ghana and is worn in different patterns and colours co-ordinated with particular events - ie. black and white is worn at weddings, black and red at funerals, etc.
It is woven in strips and a male garment is typically composed of eighteen strips that take roughly two and a half months to weave and then are sewn together. A female garment is usually fourteen strips. The tradition came from the village of Bontuku in the Ivory Coast and was brought to the Ashanti Region as far back as 1697 where, over time, it took on the new colours and designs of the Ashanti people.
We were given a chance to have a hand in weaving a small piece of fabric and were lead by a tour guide with either a lack of knowledge of english, a lack of knowledge of kente weaving or quite possibly, both. Our guide and the fee we were to pay him, again, elicited feelings and remarks tinged with the dark ink of disdain.
However, a wonderful turn of events lead Nathan and I on the path to a bone setter in the town of Mampong - a man who was unscathed by his own heavy burden of money, doing most of his work pro-bono for the well being of others - but, as I have blogged on for some time now, I will save his story for next time.
Thank you for your comments and love. Thinking of you.
David

Time

"You whites, you are always looking at time," says the young Ghanian in response to my inquiry who, despite the tasks and chores his path was to lay for him that day, offered to lead me around to eight different banks that didn't accept my interac card. And so we do - we are always looking at time. This is possibly one of the biggest differences between our cultures. Nothing runs on time in Ghana. And which is the bigger evil I keep pondering: running our lives according to a clock that's hands can obscure the more important things in this world, or the chaos of disorganization because nobody shows up for anything according to an agreed hour.
The other day a few of the volunteers and I were invited to meet the mother of a student that frequents our house. On the wall of her mother's tiny room that houses five children hung two clocks, obviously for nothing more than ornamentation as both had hands that stood still, fixed on meaningless numbers, drawing your eyes to nothing more than the pretty background of flowers on the face of one, and the decorative wood carving of the other - and I believe this is one of the most important lessons I will take from Ghana.
"We are waiting for the Lord," he serenly tells me from his stone carved dwelling. "Waiting for the lord" - the ultimate affirmation that this culture sets up meetings based on arrival times of 'God only knows when.'
Yesterday, Nathan, Mahadev (a young man I go running with on the weekend), Eric (a young man I teach guitar), and myself embarked on a journey to the Abasua Prayer mountain, where I heard the above phrase spoken. It is on the Atwia Escarpment and it's high season is during December when students are on break from school and many people, from all over Ghana, come to the mountain to pray within its spiritual surroundings and atmosphere.
Visitors are to see the chief if they desire to dwell on the mountain over night and he will assign them one of the many shelters that has been put up underneath the craggy overhangs of the mountain - shelters awkwardly cut from wood and mud bricks to fit into the natural alcoves of the rock face. People usually stay for a week but some for up to a month. On the top of Abasua are many permanent residents' where people live full time. All of these are equipped with a large church of a particular denomination of Christianity.
Much of the hike is through the forest where you see how people are living in harmony with their environment, attaining water from that which collects and runs down overhanging vines, using the surrounding fertile soil for tomatoes, banana trees, Cocoa trees, etc.
At the top, we witnessed more acts of devotion, from people violently yelling scripture and prayer at the heavens atop bare rocky plains, to the singing of those deep within the shadows of the foliage, to peacful bible readings under the shade of a tree.
We hiked to seven different camps although, there are eight. We were told that evil spirits inhabit camp six and that if one is not spiritually strong they will leave the mountain inhabited by one. Apparently witches (those who seek to destroy the happiness and good fortune of others), and certain Juju men (fetish priests) are known to travel that way to attain the powers of the wicked.
The hike was gorgeous and invigorating and from the top you had a good view of many of the surrounding villages. We licked the seeds of raw cocoa and sucked sweet nector from the milk bush, led by our spastic thirteen old guide. To top it off, everybody was very welcoming when we arrived at their camp - "welcome" - such a wonderful word when spoken to you in a country or place not your own, a word that I must remember to use more often.
And now to return to the theme of this blog - when we were to return home, we were stuck with the fact that because this is such a rural area taxis will sometimes drive in there, but rarely will you be able to find a taxi out. And so we began our three hour hike home, after the hike of the Abasua Mountain, through four different villages with not a lorry station in sight.
To conclude, patience is obviously the over riding virtue to be derived from all of these circumstances, the last of which is our lightless existence of eleven days and counting, with no electricity.
Thanks to my mom and dad who never fail to comment on a blog. Your words and encouragment fill me with so much light and love it's difficult not to leave the wooden computer cubicle with a smile.
Love,
David

Halloween

Sitting down to type this new entry my mind is swirling in an endless number of thoughts, emotions, people, colours and experiences. Having said that, I believe the easiest place to start would be on the night of October 31st - Halloween.
I had thought it might be fun to employ a North American tradition of celebration at our house since the boys of Namaskar had never even heard, nor could prounouce the holiday, Halloween. With the enlisted help of Nathan we scoured the Monday Market of Ejura for watermelons, knives and candles that we would use to make our very own African jack-o-lanterns.
We hollowed out the watermelons and gave the boys examples of jack-o-latern designs from which sprung their own ideas of what an "African pumpkin" should look like in the spirit of "allolleen."
After the melons were carved we filled up some water balloons we had brought and played 4 rounds of "Balloon Toss," rewarding winners and participators with an exorbitant amount of candy Nathan and I had rounded up at a local shop.
We then moved to a riotous game of "Apple Bobbing" which had the boys in a frenzy, plunging their heads into water a number of feet deep, awkwardly pounding their foreheads at the bottom of the bucket admist great laughter and armless imbalance.
When we sat down at the end of the night to lose our thoughts in the chill of a good ghost story the boys were more than adequately buzzed on the sugar we had fed them throughout the night and the story stopped and started like a car attempting to manouevere it's way through 6 police officers with nothing to do, needlessly throwing up road signs and stopping the driver with pointless and time consuming questions, asking each one with a knowing, mischevious smile behind their eyes.
The night after Halloween, we were escorted to the yearly Yam Festival by the teachers of the Neo-Humanism Primary School of Ejura - the school at which I teach.
The Yam Festival is a celebration of the yam harvest for the year. It is attended by locals and in the middle of it all sits the chief of Ejura, adorned in gold on his throne and surrounded by the Queen Mothers and Key Masters of the out-lying villages.
I believe the actual harvest takes place in and around June-August. During the time between the harvest and the festival the chief and his followers abstain from eating yam until the celebration as a sacrifice for their ancestors. If the harvest is poor, many believe it is a bad omen for the coming year - an omen of death. The Ashanti people celebrate regardless of whether the harvest is poor or plentiful but the path of celebration changes a little - with regards to the prayers - with the quality of harvest.
On this day, as on Akwasidae, people pay homage to the chief and there is much singing, drumming and dancing.
But, seeing as election year is near, this day was to have another special event and visitor - the vice president was to grace all with his glorious presence.
He arrived amidst much hoopla and chaos - police officers beat onlookers back to an imaginary line they were to stand behind, the vice president arrived in the only SUV I have yet to see in Ghana, topped with blaring sirens and a contingent of gun toting National Security officers.
The vice president took his place on the decorated riser that awaited him and smiled at the adoring audience. He gave an eloquent speech in english that I know more than three quarters of the people did not understand and had his team strategically placed amongst the crowd, enthusiastically starting off the applause when the president would make a hollow promise that no one understood.
I apologize to be so cynical, but from all that I have heard, the government does nothing for the country and everything for themselves so this event struck me as a sickening display of souless fireworks and empty words.
Finally, I will impart to you some of the challenges I have come across in teaching here in Ghana.
I teach four remedial classes - two periods of english and two periods of math, as well as a music class and a movement class. The remedial classes I teach solely to the grade threes but the music and movement classes I teach to every grade - P1 (primary one) to P6, the music class being co-taught with Nathan.
There is no room in the building for me to teach remedial classes so everday I grab a bench from the common area and make my way to the end of the sand field, where we have movement, to teach under the shade of a large mango tree. Since there is no centralized plumbing or garbage system the path is often littered with human excrement and plastic bags, the smell of burning garbage not too far off as the door keeper, Papa, tends to it with his cane at the entrance of the school.
Papa, from what I can tell, is the school custodian but mostly resigns himself to standing at the door of the school, caning kids who try to leave, which proves often to be an unsuccessful endeavour in the skin and bones of his ailing body.
I begin my lessons amongst herds of goat and cattle and the two or three kids who would rather skip school and look over my shoulder for the duration of the period.
The kids here learn from the local teachers by way of call and response - memorization without understanding. While I'll admit, memorization works to a degree, the children I have been assigned have no understanding of many basic concepts that date back to P1 while the rest of the class trucks on at a pace that is so far beyond them.
Many times I am unsure if they misunderstand me because of a language barrier or if these concepts really do allude them.
But, there is always joy to be had in the small triumphs when one of my students will come to school and tell me what room temperature is in degrees celsius or when listening to a chaotic court yard full of children singing the lines of a song Nathan and I have taught them.
This particular half of the journey is fraught with many challenges, inward reflection and outward reflection on a culture and system so vastly different from ours.
So there you have it - finally, a small glimpse into the world of education in Ghana which I have promised for the last three blogs. I thank you for your patience and continued readership.
You are in my thoughts.
David

The World Keeps on Turning

Recently, I have received numerous emails from varied parts of the globe about the tumultuous events taking place in both my family and my friends' lives. My heart is continuously dropped into new rhythm and pace at the thought of this earth turning in so many different ways, for different people, in different places.
But, I believe in the power of thought and prayer and how it is able to bridge all of these gaps we believe to be so achingly far between. I am thinking and praying for you all and if you want to sit in a moment of quiet contemplation away from the haze of chaos that can surround us at any given moment in time, I am sure you will feel the love I, and many others are sending you.
All of these turbulent and emotional events that I have read about on the glaring screen of an all too unemotive computer have shifted the tone of the blog that I am about to embark on this afternoon. Rather than speak of larger events and ceremonies and of the many customs and traditions of the Ashanti people, I will instead give a few snapshots into what village life is like here in the small community of Ejura - what life is...

All at once the lights burn to black and we are shrouded in darkness sitting on wooden benches of the conrete porch of Namascar House. The five of us volunteers give a groan of despair at the countless number the blackouts have reached when our cries are fast over ridden by the voices of the eight school boys, housed here at Namascar, and their accusingly defiant calls of "Teef! Teef!" - which, loosely translated into english, is "Theif! Thief!"
They have caught a boy in the act of robbery - 2, 000 cedis was the amount stolen; converted into canadian currency, it roughly amounts to 20 cents.
The eight boys and a number of other young villagers take up arms with tree branches and chase the accused boy admist their warrior cries for the prevailment of justice.
When the accused reaches his home, he promptly shuts the door, leaving the Justice League stunned and consequently, out of work.

Every Monday there is a large market in Ejura set up on a wide spanning lot of dirt. Mostly, the market is composed of vendours selling cheap Chinese imports, locally grown vegetables and spices and beautifully bright coloured African textiles.
Upon entering the market for the first time last Monday, my first vision of it was a medicinal man standing slightly to the right of the entrance gate. He had a chart hanging from his umbrella with crude sketches of different medical conditions: a man keeled over vomitting in splashes on the ground, a man squatting down excreting burning diahrea and a man with his pants down passing bloody urine were a few of the images he claimed to have a cure for. The various cures were sitting in mangy, previously used soda bottles, each one a slightly varying colour from the first bottle of blackening green sludge I layed my eyes upon.
And maybe, just maybe, they all looked the same because what I ignorantly couldn't discern from the Twi explanations below the cartoon illustrations of medical conditions, was that they were all the same - a cure-all for any ailment you're likely to receive in Ghana.

A countless number of times now, I have been truly touched by the honesty, generosity and welcoming nature of the Ghanian people here in the Ashanti region.
A few days ago I got lost on my way home from town. Bumbling my way through open air kitchens, showers and gardens along a twisting, branching dirt pathway I sheepishly asked a boy of twelve years old to lead me back to Namascar House. He complied but not before asking his mother. When she gave him permission, he slung his baby sister over his back and toted his friend along for the walk back to my dwelling.
On the way he enlightened me on the way in which Ghanians make their brooms: spines of palm nut tree leaves are stripped of their green flesh and tied together in bunches - and on the way in which they make their fans to keep the coals of their kitchen fires burning: by weaving together the leaves of a coconut tree.
After my educations was complete for the journey home, he dropped me off at Namascar and now visits me everyday to say "hello." He'll sit with me, sometimes hours at a time, mostly quiet, content to be in my company as I am in his.

What a wonderful place to be.

My internet time has run out for today so I'll have to update you on the challenges of the education system here next time.
Thanks for reading and know that I am thinking of you all and wishing you nothing but love, health and happiness.
David

Ejura

On Friday, Tettey and I went to the immigration office in Accra to see if the passport I had paid an extra $20 to receive at an earlier date was ready. And of course, it wasn't. However, "This is Ghana," a phrase I hear time and time again from the locals.
I knew I couldn't stay any longer and so Tettey dropped me off at the station and told me he would pick it up and keep it safe for me until I returned.
The station was a mad house. A huge dirt lot, packed bumper to bumper with transport vehicles of every size, shape, colour, offering various levels of travelling comfort. I took a van that afforded me some leg room but was packed, shoulder to shoulder, with locals on what would be a 6 hour journey across many unpaved roads, lead by an over ambitious driver who nearly killed us amidst the loud protests of all the passengers.
And, just like everywhere else, the bagagge man attempted to hit me up for more money saying that I didn't pay enough for the room I was taking up in the back. But, as has happened many times since then, a few kind souls dragged me from a losing battle by telling me to say I had no more money to offer, to which the baggage man slammed the door shut on our argument and my bags.
I arrived in Kumasi, but not at the station where I thought I would end up. Yet again, another kind soul shared a taxi with me to the station where I could hitch a ride to Ejura, hired two porters for my heavy load and broke my money into smaller bills when the taxi driver said he had no change for my enormous 10 cedi bills. I offered to pay the man who was looking out for me but he refused, told me he must get to school and sauntered off.
I am finally starting to realize why everybody deems this country and its people some of the warmest and friendliest in the world.
The ride to Ejura was another 2 hour climb up through the mountains in central Ghana. It is incredibly lush and beautiful up here and on my tro tro journey here through the night, there was a roaring thunder storm - the windows of the tro tro leaked through and onto the passengers, the large spats of rain made visibility limited throught the front windshield and through my window I could see the sparking veins of lightning tear through the sky just above the mountain range.
Being in a new region, with a new climate, new customs and inhabited by a different people is completely overwhelming, not to mention the prospect of teaching at what I am told is a very disorganized school on Monday, so I will save some stories for when I have combed through the tangled mats in my brain.
One story I will share though is today, Nathan, a fellow volunteer from Kansas City, Missouri took me to a church he has been frequenting in a town called Mampong, about an hour outside of Ejura. Upon leaving the church we heard the thundering sounds of the west african rhythms to which I was immediately drawn.
It was coming from the palace of the chief of Mampong. We asked if we were allowed to enter and after the permission was granted, we were lead into a ceremony by an assembly member of the goverment who looked after over 5000 people in the many surrounding communities of this area. After witnessing the ceremony, he stood with us for a long while and answered all of our questions with the utmost patience and here is what we learned...
The ceremony is called Akwasidae which is a ritual day. It happens every 6 weeks when the chiefs from the smaller communities, the Queen Mothers, the Key Makers as well as some of the community get together to pay homage to the chief.
The chief is the custodian of all the land in and around Mampong - exactly how far that extends, I do not know. If people are to invest in a plot of land, they do it through the chief.
He is also the link between the people and their ancestors.
He was flanked by three men known as the linguists. They communicate for the chief. What he says and what others say when they want to speak to the chief is all filtered through the linguists who are appointed so because of their eloquence.
The Key makers, along with the Queen Mothers nominate the chief and also have the power to dethrone him.
There are guards that kneel before the chief and block the pathway to him with the golden hilts of their swords. You must pay the guards in order to greet the chief and this is what much of the ceremony consisted of - paying homage and greeting the chief.
We were allowed to greet the chief from a distance and as a show of respect, we removed our feet from our sandals. The men who wear the traditional robes take the cloth off their left shoulder to do the same.
A horn blower stands behind the chief and blows to both signify the greatness of the chief and to call upon the ancestors who on this day, Akwasidae, are said to come and interact and eat with the people. The Queen Mothers prepare a specal dish for their arrival.
There is dancing during the ceremony to signify unity and the braveness as well as the greatness of the chief. And, like all the other ceremonies I have been to, libations are poured for the ancestors.
There are many other things to tell of in this ceremony but some I have yet to understand and some we didn't have the time to ask about. However, it was an incredible pocket of culture to stumble into.
That is all for now. Internet is much further away than it used to be but I will still try to make it here once a week to update.
Hope you are all in good health and spirits.
David

Clap Your Hands for Jesus

Ghana, as many of the locals have estimated, is about 75% Christian. Muslims make up roughly 25% and the other 5% goes to the Pagans, or, practicioneers of the Fetish tradition.
The numbers may be a little skewed as I have heard that the ways of the Festish have seeped into some of the churches by way of the pastors visiting the Festish markets and priests to gain protection and powers beyond the human realm. I have also heard that some of the Fetish practices have mixed and mingled in other minor ways with some of the Christian practices.
Either way, the Christian influence, brought on by the British who colonized Ghana, is overwhelmingly obvious. The local shop signs slap you in the face with a great show of dedication from the owners to the gospel - "By His Grace Communications Centre," "Through God All Things are Possible Carving Shop," "Clap Your Hands for Jesus Hair Salon" and so on and so forth.
On one of our final days of training I went to the grounds early to get a private tutorial from my guitar teacher, Obuobi. I could hear voices coming from the training ground which was unusual at this early hour and as I creaked open the wooden gate I was shot with over a dozen glances at my sudden intrusion into this now sacred space. I quickly retreated to the corner where Obuobi was waiting for me and watched as person after person was exorcised of the demons within by a revered local pastor.
Women were being braced by individuals flanking each side while the pastor had his hand upon the forehead of the demonized, reciting passages of the gospel and pleading to God. Many of those that were being exorcised were sent into convulsions and some were even brought to fits of vomitting.
After the pastor had finished with the morning's work, he approached me, introduced himself, asked if I was a Christian and then asked me if I had a friend named Michael. Upon my affirmation of his question he told me that I must pray for Michael, as the devil was trying to take him in with the drink.
Whether or not there is any truth to this prophesy, and considering the fact that there are many Michaels in this world, myself having more than one friend named Michael, the effect of it managed to get my head and heart spinning.
Now, speaking of ways in which the western world has encroached upon the life of Ghanians I will now move onto what I have promised to talk about in my last 3 blogs: Hip Life.
Hip life is a mixture of American hip hop and the tradtional Ghanian High Life.
High life comes in three forms - the first being rural high life which is the traditional stripped back, guitar centred lilting rhythms and beautiful melodies mostly in the major keys, the second being urban high life which is a mixture of European jazz and the traditional high life and now hip life.
Unfortunately, hip life has embraced everything that is deplorable about the American hip hop culture - things like treating women badly and viewing them as nothing more than sexual fantasies, violence, drugs, bling, and money. It is destroying the traditional ways amongst the Ghanian youth from they way they dress, to how they act, to what they value and has managed to enrage many of the elders who are working to promote and preserve tradition.
It's funny because hip hop originated in the African communities in the Americas, and was originally used as a united voice against the oppression and squalor they were living in. This is not to say that some hip hop artists aren't still using it for this purpose because from what little I know about hip hop, I know some of them are.
And with this, I think I will end my blog as I have to get to one of my final tutorials of this tour.
Thank you again for your comments. Whether or not I am able to reply to them, know that I read each and every one and am uplifted upon receiving them.
Until next time...
David

A Tropical Thunderstorm

Two of us stand on the beach where the fisherman take off well before dawn. The clouds are a thick black tangled mass of unravelling wool. The sky lights up with electricity in the pockets of grey haze. The palm trees bend over backwards in the hurling gusts of wind and in the dimming light of the evening the ocean is a cloudy torqouise, stretching far beyond the horizon, unpredictably tossing and turning.
The power goes out and the last of daylight has faded. Rain comes quick and in large pelting drops quickly soaking through our clothes.
A shirtless boy rides a bicyle up and down the muddy slick dirt road pitching his voice into a siren and singing from the bellows of his glistening naked belly, "It's raining, it's raining!"


I'll update in the next couple of days about our final performance here in Nungua and what I promised to update on in the last blog.

David

Cape Coast and the Big M

Last weekend we left on a trip to the Cape Coast. Cape Coast is most infamously known for being at the heart of the trans-Atlantic slave trade.
After a good night's rest at the Hans Cottage Botel (don't ask why it is a botel as opposed to a hotel or a motel - possibly some other lower level category of lodging that I am completely ignorant of) we left for Cape Coast Castle the next morning.
A word about the botel - A man made lagoon was dug out around Hans Cottage Botel when it was first built. Instead of the lagoon being a device of intrigue for tourists it turned into a haven for mosquitos. When they tried to bring in animals to rid the botel of mosquitos it only attracted more and more different animal species feeding into this microcosmic food cycle they were creating. In the end, they were left with a lagoon full of crocodiles which fulfilled their original goal of attracting tourists. Go figure.
The owner's son became the crocodile trainer. He was named after his uncle who's name was so damn long that in the end they decided to save themselves the hassle and simply call him "Uncle." He has many names, as many of the Ghanians do. In the Ga tradition, as well as others, it is typical to name your offspring after the day of the week they were born. They are also given a Christian name, a name to signify the order in which they were born (first, second, third, etc.), and sometimes a name to say what region they are from. I know there can be more names given but for what reasons I am right now oblivious.
But, here I am getting further and further away from what I started this blog about. I'll come back to talk about Uncle later.
We left for Cape Coast Castle in the morning and were all blown away by the size of this fortress. It was originally built as a lesser fort in the 15th century by the Portugese who wanted to break the monoply the Arabs had over the gold trade in West Africa.
Overtime, it came into the hands of many, the first being the Dutch, then the Swedes, then the Danes and finally, the British who enlarged it to its now formidable size.
In the 16th century, sugar plantations and the mining industry in the Americas were in need of large numbers for manual labour and since many of the Native Americans were dying due to oppression by the European invaders, disease and poverty, the slave trade intensified on the Guinea coast.
Typically, the journey could take from 18 months up to 3 years and started in Britain where the Brits would come over to Cape Coast with guns and goods to trade for slaves and gold. Once they acquired their goods they made their way over to Barbados, Jamacia and the Americas where they sold the slaves off, roughly a third in each location, in exchange for other goods.
The slaves were kept in dungeons beneath the castle. There were 3 rooms, each of which hosted about 150 to 200 slaves, shackled and bound in chains. Each room had two thin rectangular windows which were the only source of light, fresh air and the only means of attaining rain water to wash out the excrement, vomit and blood that layered the stone floor. They had a chalk line on the wall of one of the rooms we visited that marked the volume of the excrement in the room at the time of the slave trade - the chalk line was slightly above two feet off the floor beneath.
The slaves were sorted and the sick were left to die in a room with no windows.
The slaves that rebelled against their captors were locked in a tiny room, often 60 at a time, left to die with no air, light, food or water.
The women that refused rape were left to a similar fate and locked up in a small room for a week and fed sparingly. If those that accepted rape became pregnant they were sent to live in town until they delivered. Their fate then rest in the hands of the perpetrator who was to decide if he loved her or not. If he loved her, she would stay on and live in the town, if not, she would go back to the dungeons to eventually be sold.
They were bid on by Europeans on what was called an "auction block." They were bid on according to how healthy and strong they appeared to be.
After a 6 week period in the dungeons they were sent through the "Door of No Return," titled the latter because never again were they to return to their home land. The door was 2-3 feet off the ground and they were made to crawl on their hands and knees through the door while shackled in chains.
Many, if not most of the slaves died on the ships from terrible conditions. They were packed in as tight as possible and disease ran rampant throughout. If they survived, they were forced into a lifetime of slavery at their final destination.
I apologize for going on about such a dark topic but I believe that it is important to learn from our history so we are not doomed to repeat it and since I was so ignorant to this time period and its atrocities, it is good for me to consolidate it in my mind by writing it all out. When we stood in the punishment room (the cell in which the rebellious slaves were kept) we were witness to nail marks, blood and rust entreched in the stone as a reminder to those in the future of the atrocities that were perpetrated against these people and how we need to learn about and act now against such awful crimes of a similar nature.
I don't believe there is any simple seguay into the second half of this blog so I will crudley carry on without any adjoining words...save for the latter.
I realize I haven't imparted much information on where I am and what I am doing. Currently, I am in the township of Nungua, 15km outside of Accra. Nungua was originally a small fishing village and while fishing remains their main source of industry it has grown.
I am studying drums, dance, song, and guitar here for a month with members of a group known as the Kusun Ensemble. I will be off to Ejura in 3 days where I will teach kids in a variety of school subjects. Hopefully that clears things up for those of you that asked.
Right now, 6 of the people here staying at the centre I am lodging in have malaria. They all came down with it in the span of about 3 days. This is where the reference to the "Big M" comes in but after typing for so long about Cape Coast Castle, I have run out of time to talk about any more of the trials of malaria.
In the next blog, I'll talk a bit more about Uncle and the conversations we had about traditional music and the ever encroaching batch of North American music that is destroying it.
Thanks for reading and thank you all again for your comments and love.

David

Ghana Never Sleeps

Sleep is a rare and delicate treat here in Nungua. It seems as if Ghana never sleeps and if Ghana doesn't sleep, you can bet us "blafoonia" (Ga word for white person) here at the centre won't either. Thursday night, or morning should I say, my side of the centre was treated to what I have come to know as the "Thursday Morning Sermon." At 4am there is a young man who shuffles up down the empty dirt road in front of our lodge and shouts at the top of his lungs to no one and everyone about the saving power of Jesus Christ. The sermon lasts for what seems to be forever and he slowly works himself into a frenzy, repeating many of the same things over and over again, the most clear and recycled phrase being "Christ is the river of life." And then, with the first rays of dawn he shuffles back into his house and the street promptly and magically comes alive. Other sound scapes that have kept me sleeping in fits and starts have been the 4am march of the army, chanting from the many nearby churches and the endless screaming next door which comes from a baby that must be teething.
Before the students go to bed here many of us head down to what are called "spots" - the name for their local pubs. The one most frequented is The Amazing Spot and I'm sure you can clearly see why. What many locals drink here is a distilled liquid that comes from the trunk of a palm tree or from sugar cane known as Abateshee. It is an extremely strong and pure spirit that burns as it goes down. At the Amazing spot there is a mural inside painted on the cinder block walls with a guy on vacation lounging in a chair, sunglasses on, a cocktail in his hand, a smile of contentment on his face and a large cartoon bubble coming out of his mouth that, translated from Ga, reads "Abateshee will kill you" - a statement, I'm sure, not far from the truth, or rather, imbedded right in the thick of truth.
One of the locals that used to work for the Kusun Centre, an older man by the name of Jarvis, drinks abateshee to excess. I am told he is a very intelligent, handy, and able individual who drinks out of sheer frustration because he is unable to find work which brings me to the next segment of this blog...
Unemployment, or, underemployment, is a large and complicated issue in Ghana. The government here is very corrupt from what little I have gathered and none of the money that comes into the country actually goes into the country, but rather, into the pockets of the government officials. Not enough work is created for the population and as a result, a huge percentage are poor and many are scraping by on what I heard termed as "underemployment" - employment for a day, week, or month at a time doing odd jobs that present themselves all too infrequently.
However, the idea of community pervades all in Ghana. It is not abnormal for people to lodge with others while down on their luck, spreading their stay over different community members' houses. Nor is it abnormal to share food with friends, family and members of the community. Everything that is served seems to be communal - one dish will go on to feed 7 to 10 people that crowd around it, taking handfuls for themselves and others. Being here and being witness to my own reactions when this has happened to me makes me realize how guarded and self serving our culture can be.
I'll mention two more things I've learned this past week and save the rest for the next blog as I feel I could be here all night if I were to document what I witnessed today...my first blog cliffhanger!
Many of the men and women here have scars across their cheeks - something that has continually peaked my curiosity. My guitar teacher, Oboubi, has one on each cheek and his were marked across his face when he was a baby. It was believed that he was to have a very bright and promising future and that people caught wind of this and jealousy started to boil. Oboubi was sick a lot as a child and was said to have been possessed by a witch (evil spirit), as someone was planning to foil his future. In order to get rid of the spirit his grandfather, a revered fetish man, cut his cheeks and anointed them with some sort of herbal medication that managed to purge his soul of the evil that was inhabiting it.
Apparently, this is a common practice but the scars are also said to be tribal markings as well as the mark of a successful birth. Women who continually have miscarriages are said to be birthing the same baby over and over again. When they have their first successful birth of a healthy baby the child's cheeks are marked.
A final word about the last blog I posted concerning the water situation. Water and electricity in Nungua comes from Volta Lake, the largest man made lake in the world, about 70-80kms away. It runs through a main underground pipeline in Nungua to some of the bigger houses who pay for their water according to a metered amount of how much they use. Most do not have this pipeline running to their homes and some have managed to illegally redirect the pipe to their own homes. Those that don't receive water buy it from those who do or companies that sell it for top dollar by the gallon.
I'll update later this coming week or on the weekend at some point. Thank you for all your comments and blessings. It means the world.
David

Always an Adventure

I have titled this blog "Always an Adventure" for a number of reasons - mainly because many of you have asked what it is like adjusting to living in a third world country, and partly because of all the events and injuries I've been through in the last week. So, since it seems many lifetimes are lived in one day here I better get on with this blog before it becomes an electronic novel...
One of the many questions I face on a day to day is basis is do I use my bucket of water to have a shower or to flush the building pile of excrement that has been sitting in my toilet for 3 days because I opted for the shower those 3 days previous. And often, I do neither because it is a guessing game as to when we'll get water again. Water is now privatized in Ghana and sometimes we're waiting for a truck to bring more and other times there are power failures rendering the shower and toilet useless as they work on a pump powered by electricity. This is not to mention the majority of people in Ghana not even being able to afford water in the first place.
Sewage is a huge problem here. The centre where I'm staying is just off of a beautiful beach that we aren't allowed to swim at because the locals use it as their public toilet and dumping ground. So you can imagine some of the many smells that cut through the hot coastal sea breeze.
Also, things can be very difficult to come by. For example, I needed to take some money out and we had to take 5 Tro tros (public transport system), 1 taxi, visit 4 banks and brave one hell of a tropical rain storm that flooded homes, shops and the roads so that I could take out some cedis (local currency). When you go on a trip it is best that you think of absolutely everything you need before you go and buy it when you get there because it can be an incredibly lengthy and arduous journey to do it again.
I hope I'm not painting too drastically dark a picture because I'd be a fool not to say that we have it good.
On a lighter note, I was made the "chief" or caller of the traditional Africa songs when we perform the OGE rhythm on our Kpalago drums...and we did just that when we were all invited to a funeral last Sunday. In the Ga tradition a funeral lasts for three days - the body is laid out and people pay their respects on the first day, the burial and celebration happens on the second day and on the third, people go back to the burial site to see if the diseased has risen and is waiting by the headstone to be taken home. We performed on the second day and the celebration takes place because it is said that there are "no more troubles under the sun" which happens to be the name of a new song I finished two nights ago.
It was an incredible and overwhelming experience to both watch and perfom at this event. As part of our performance we did the Kpalago dance we have been working on and somewhere in the midst of it I managed to take a huge chunk of skin out of my foot from the rock encrusted dance floor we let loose on. Immediately there were many locals working on it - the dance instructing sucking back water and spitting it at my foot to flush it out, a driver with a razor blade to remove the flap of skin that was preventing other from digging out the large rocks and so on and so forth. Everybody said the wound looked like a minature map of Africa except that Madagascar was missing. When we arrived home, one of the women on the tour slathered my foot in bedadine and wrapped it up so needless to say, I was well taked care of, as well as receiving endless apologies from the locals..
Unfortunately, the wound set off a chain reaction and days later I managed to do something to the muscles surrounding my rib cage. After foregoing an overpriced Chinese acupuncturist we went to the druggist who thought I had a respiratory infection. Now I'm on medication and receiving massages from a friend of Tettey's (head of Kusun ensemble) who used to work on the local football team.
Anyway, I believe things are on the up and up and I'm back to wrapping my head around the complex west african rhythms and the incredible songs and dances this place is built on.
Till next time...

Music is in the Air

I apologize for the belated blog. The stories and experiences are accumulating so fast it will be impossible for me to keep up with all the details but here is a glimpse into the first week and a half...
It is Sunday night and a large group of people dressed in white are across from the Kusun Centre (where we are staying) on a blotched soccer pitch singing prayers, dancing and playing the tambourine - Sunday night prayers.
Music is everywhere and it never stops. Songs and the incredible African rhythms are all around you all the time. It is a huge part of their culture - it is how they live.
Today we learned some African songs and all of them are about people in various villages. Apparently, people don't go behind the backs of others and gossip till about them till their blue in the face but rather, create songs in three part harmony about them and sing it for the whole village to hear!
We were given a performance last night by two Gonje players (a violin with one string in the shape of a guitar - the body being made from a hollowed out gourd) and the whole family is known by the name of the instrument. Now that is taking your craft seriously. I've been contemplating changing my name to either Voice or Guitar but no verdict yet on whether I'll fill out the papers and upset my family.
Last Sunday afternoon we went to a welcoming ceremony conducted by the fetish priest of the village. To explain the whole ceremony would take too long, and I'm told it is bad kharma to divulge too much about the tradition so I don't think I'll post it on an internet blog for the whole world to see - that has to be the ultimate in bad Kharma.
The lessons are going well. I am constantly stimulated, even when I go to bed - whether the latter be from the mosquito bites or the crazy dreams the doxecycline is giving me, it's a bit of a toss up.
Everybody on the tour is amazing. So many talented musicians and great people - most of them being Australian. So not only am I getting my fill of Ghanian culture, but also Australian, as well.
That's all for now. Hope you're all well and I'll try and update this at some point next week.
David

Waiting on the Visa

I'm a mere hours from taking off and still waiting for my Visa that will allow me to enter the country. No matter how prepared one is the visa likes to off put the neurotic traveler by growing fangs and biting them in the ass. No matter, the Fed Ex people said it would be here before noon and they would try to have it de-fanged by then.