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
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Saturday, November 17, 2007
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
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
Sunday, November 11, 2007
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
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
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
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
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
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