Let's play pretend for a minute.
Let's pretend that, immediately upon finishing my last blog entry, I was whisked away on an adventure of intrigue and mistaken identity comparable to "North By Northwest." Let's pretend that, during this time, I was accompanied by a band of memorable characters --an exiled pirate king and his genius parrot, a double-agent who forgot which organization she was working for, a narcoleptic ninja-- all of whom helped me clear my name and bring down a sinister organization, hell-bent on world domination from its base on the Moon. Let's pretend that after finishing that adventure, I was abducted by aliens and got amnesia during my daring, impossible escape, and that I have only just remembered who I am.
Let's pretend that this is why I haven't updated my blog in so long.
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So. Let's talk about Ghana, where the weather was hot and the people were cool.
During my stay, I lived with a family in Accra, who treated me with such hospitality that I felt less like a guest and more like an adopted son. We lived in a walled-in compound that was inhabited by family members and fellow foreign guests, surrounded by coconut, almond, palm nut, lime, mango, and pear trees. There was also a pool, which remained (tauntingly) under renovation during the duration of my stay. They kept me well-fed with enormous portions of a variety of Ghanaian foods: Fufu, red red, gari, banku, groundnut stew, yams, beef, chicken, fish, rice, beans, plantain, and fresh fruit. I also attended church with them: a Charismatic denomination that is raising money to build their own church. The services were a far-cry from those I was used to growing up Roman Catholic --with singing, glossolalia, and instances of being "slain by the spirit" abound-- but the community was always warm and welcoming.
During the week, I volunteered full-time for a school for autistic children, which doubles as an organization that navigates issues of raising autism awareness in Ghana. The commute there and back was three hours total --wake up at 5:30am, home by 4:30pm-- during which I sweat it out in a ramshackle system of mini-buses called "tro-tros." Every day was an adventure on the tro-tro: rides included everything from a sudden flat tire to independent preachers delivering sermons (typically in local languages, although I would often catch some English words, such as "Jesus," "Father," and "REPENT!"). The traffic was bumper-to-bumper bonkers, the leg-room nonexistent, and every breeze a miracle.
Photo courtesy of Naa O.M.
Anyway, the school is a small building with a handful of rooms and a playground, where I spent many an hour observing the staff and helping out however I could. Since there is still a profound lack of autism awareness in mainstream Ghanaian society (many doctors still don't know what autism is), the staff has their work cut out for them as teachers, carers, and activists. During my time there, we had discussions on how to properly define autism in local languages (such as Twi, Ewe, and Ga), which don't have words for "neurobiological disorder," yet words for "illness" or "madness" aren't appropriate either. They also staged a march towards the end of my time there, complete with pamphlets, live music, balloons, and news coverage (yours truly appeared on two local news channels, according to my host mom!). Finally, they invited me to a conference on autism awareness in Western Africa, where presentations covered a range of issues from the benefits of swimming instruction for autistic youth to strategies for helping autistic adolescents get through puberty.
Unfortunately, the school's drama and movement therapy coordinator was busy with planning and fund-raising, so the performance side of my project never quite materialized at the school. So, to get my performance fix, I took mbira lessons with a musician working at the University of Ghana. I was recommended to him by a visiting speech therapist from the UK, and spent the last month of my time in Ghana visiting his office three times a week. Our lessons were more akin to jam sessions: he'd give me a new phrase to learn and repeat while riffing on his guitar. We rehearsed under a mango tree outside of his office, interrupted only by the occasional ant, spider, or bird poop that fell on the instrument from time to time. Speaking of instruments, I had a few musical adventures during my time in Ghana: The speech therapist from the UK invited me to a pre-funeral vigil concern for the recently-deceased director of the Pan-African Orchestra. It was about three hours of traditional African music. She also invited me and two other Americans living in the compound (a pair of wonderfully kind students studying abroad) out to a concert featuring a French-African singer, during which bold audience members were welcomed to the stage for impromptu dance-offs. We also went to a jazz club, which was rained out, but not before a set featuring two dueling drummers who gave the thunder a run for its money.
As far as down-time goes, I spent many an hour (and drank many a gallon of water) in the shade of our compound: reading, writing, milking the most out of the Internet while it lasted (Accra is currently plagued by power outages --The Dumsor-- which can last anywhere from 12 to 48 hours at a time), and chilling with my little host nephews (who love Spiderman and insisted on helping me button up my shirt many, many, many times). Sometimes I hiked to the local Vodafone for their Internet, where I Skyped my friends and family and caught up on "Archer." Otherwise, I made very few excursions during my time in Accra outside of the occassional dinner invite from the American students, or from another American couple living on the compound (who gave me a battery-powered fan and invited the students and I over for a meal on Easter). We all mostly sat out in the compound --guests and hosts alike-- chatting while the sun set and the breeze picked up, watching swarms of bats and the stars come out, and frantically swatting at persistent mosquitos.
My last few hours in Accra were hectic: I rushed out the door after a several-hour long engagement ceremony and saying goodbye to my wonderful, wonderful host family; I had my bag --which I spent hours the night before packing and repacking to fit the carry-on weight limit-- checked in anyway; I had my visa extension challenged by two security guards (after a lengthy process earlier that month, during which I may or may not have been coerced into paying a certain immigration officer an extra couple of cedis, only to have my extension messed up); I lost my luggage reclaim receipt, only to find it stuck to my shoe after some frantic back-tracking; I had my passport given to a stranger by an absent-minded security officer; and I had a long chat with another airport officer about their experience raising their autistic child. In the words of my Watson contact: "It's almost like Ghana had said, 'Okay, I don't think we gave Teddy enough challenges so let's send him off right.'"
In the end, you could probably look at those last few hours as a sort of microcosm for my time in Ghana: the snafus, failed plans, near-crises, farcical moments, and personal connections in the airport serve as a sort of Rorschach-Test of frustrations and opportunities, out of which I had to forge my own meaning. While my time in Ghana may not have given me the experiences I was looking for, I'm glad it didn't: I'm not sure what experiences I was looking for to begin with, anyway.
So there you have it: My time in Ghana.
Let's pretend that it was my best blog post yet. Let's pretend that it was the most fun you've ever had reading anything, ever. Let's pretend that you now feel caught up on my life, despite the fact that I'm writing this two months into my time in South Africa.
Let's pretend it was worth the wait.
~To Be Procrastinued~
