It’s been a little over two weeks days since I returned to the USA, and I’m still marveling. “Did I really go to Africa?  as I step into a real shower, turn on the tap for a glass of pure water, get in my car to go to a grocery store.

I can’t quite believe I’m home. At times, I awaken wondering why the roosters were so quiet, before realizing that I’m back home and the only noise is that of my purring cat.

I promised him I’d never leave him again for so long, although he was well cared for in my absence.

I think about little Dedae, (Ewe for “cat”) in our neighborhood in Kloe: the tiny calico kitten who shared space with the dwarf goats, sheep, chickens and guinea hens. Once she discovered the joys of chin-scratching, we became the best of friends.

I ‘ve heard from my new African friends several times. They have become important to me now. But then, a lot happened these last couple of months I never expected.

Since returning, I’ve luxuriated in the simple pleasures. I’ve always appreciated being an American citizen, but never so much as now. I don’t think I ever saw a Customs agent smile before. I walked through his booth, thanked him for being there. chuckling he said, “I get that about ten times a day.”

I’m sure he does. We in the USA are the luckiest people on the planet.

What’s next for me? I’ve already put together a Powerpoint presentation with some of the photos and movies I shot in Ghana, that I intend to use to tell the Ewe story, and hopefully help raise funds for their educational efforts. Two invitations already to speak, and more planned.

Yevu,” (White Woman): My Five Weeks With the Ewe Tribe in Southeastern Ghana” will become a book. I have at least half a dozen unpublished chapters to add to those already published. A portion of the proceeds will be donated to the Ewe Tribe.

The global volunteer network has chosen my story as a feature article on their website.

The “Naples Daily News” in Florida offered me a post as a “community blogger,” which I have accepted. http://www.marconews.com/blogs/texas-africa/2009/aug/11/taubertcol13/

I  still marvel at the intelligence, determination, resourcefulness and drive of the Ewe people. If ever there were deserving folks for help, the Ewe in Abutia-KLoe are at the top of my list.

They are generating proposals for equipment, scholarships and micro-financed small community businesses from the list of possible we identified together. They’ve planned their first “village fundraiser” for September, for educational  supplies for their children. These people are “that close” to moving forward with giant steps. A little more guidance from GVN and BRIDGE volunteers, and they’ll be able to function entirely independently. I have offered to help raise funds for their most urgent needs. they are working on the long term ones.

Their sense of empowerment was tangible as I left. They have the tools now to move ahead. Heaven knows they have the ability to use them. I felt proud for them.

In putting together the Powerpoint Presentation, I was transported back to Kloe.  

To Francis, 34, supporting his mother and younger siblings, who dreams someday of becoming a nurse.

little 4 yr old Obed, who once I gave him his first piece of real paper and ballpoint wanted to do nothing but write and draw. We’d sit together on the porch, chatting as he wrote his letters and numbers. It didn’t matter that we spoke only a few words of the other’s language. We understood each other perfectly.

Ruby who without complaint saw to my every need. cooking, cleaning, cultural issues, she was my caretaker.

Chairman Sem, (every village everywhere needs a Chairman Sem) whose warm brown eyes and diminutive, but commanding presence led our efforts.

To Togbe (Chief) Ayipe whose heartfelt expressions of remorse for the Treo incident so touched my heart.

Brilliant little 3 year old Mawunya, whose face would melt a thousand heart-hearted misers anywhere.

Her father Worlanyo, heart and soul of the CBO, who’s wish is to “leave something for the children wherever I go.”

Emmanuel, 21, unable to pay for college to become an architect, drawing plans whenever he could find paper to do it, and working as a mason in the meantime.

Colby, loveable bull-in-a-china-shop 3 year old always good for a hug and a laugh.

Samson, my counterpart, guide, translator and friend, who the day I left, relapsed with malaria, further delaying his return to college in Accra. He’s one of the lucky ones, able to afford college. But it’s taking a long time. At 25, he still has three years to go for that PhD. He doesn’t know when he’ll be able to finish.

Pretty young Judit, living with her grandparents, hoping to be able to go on to high school, if her mother can make enough money selling bread in Accra to pay for it.

And so many more. They have enriched my life immeasurably. I cannot ever repay them for what they have given me.

But I will help them as best I can. Their dreams have now become mine. Somehow, someday, some way, perhaps they will come true.

I know some of you have heard the horror stories about graft in Africa. Rest easy.

We installed provisions for accountability and transparency into the Ewe funding program. The Ho Branch of the Standard Bank (Stanbic Bank) is involved, there are multiple signatories required for any disbursements. the BRIDGE office (www.bridgingdevelopment.org) will help the CBO manage income and expenses according to the strictest codes of conduct. I trust these people. I lived with them, and saw first-hand evidence of their ethics and morality. (Reread “Ewe Justice” http://www.naplesnews.com/blogs/texas-africa/2009/aug/11/taubertcol14/). they just want a better life for their children and are working hard to achieve it, honestly.

Donations to date are already helping purchase basic supplies for kindergarten and primary school children. Village teachers have prepared the list of most needed items, the CBO treasurer is negotiating with vendors in capital of Accra to get the best prices at this writing.

$1,500 will allow us to meet those needs for 120 kindergarten and primary school students.

$5,500.00 will purchase four computers, two multi-function printers and supplies for a whole school.

$10,000.00 will establish high school scholarships for deserving students. Presently, there are 84 students identified as “brilliant” who cannot afford to go to high school.

Additionally, anyone in the SW Florida area interested in learning how to prepare for a “volunteer vacation” as well as what it was like living with the Ewe Tribe, I am offering my Powerpoint presentation at no charge to interested civic, fraternal clubs, community social clubs, school groups. About one hour, including Q and A, and includes both photos and movies.  

While the Ewe focus upon their long-term goals, I promised to help them with the most urgent needs. The “kids on the cusp” most at risk of falling through the cracks of Ghana’s progress. Ten years will see a very different Ghana, even more successful in raising the poverty level of its citizens, competing in the world marketplace, and educating its citizens. But for those whose need is now, the risk is greatest. Ghana will need educated youth to move forward. Together, we can help them achieve their dreams. After all, their ancestors helped us achieve ours. Maybe working together we can help them achieve theirs.

We can’t solve all the world’s problems, but we can make the space around us just a little better. And if we can take some of that ideology to distant shores, perhaps we can, one person, one gift, one “village” at a time, create a better world for all of us.

if you’d like to make a tax deductible donation to the Ewe educational efforts, make checks payable to B.R.I.D.G.E. and mail it directly to me at the address:

Kathryn Taubert and ALLTHATJAZZ, LLC
P.O. Box 683, Estero, Florida 33969.

telephone (USA): +1 239-590-0013

To arrange for a presentation of “YEVU: (WHITE WOMAN) MY FIVE WEEKS WITH THE EWE TRIBE IN SOUTHEASTERN GHANA”, CALL THE NUMBER ABOVE.

If there’s a TV, it will have two, maybe three channels. One will have non-stop commercials and little else, the other music videos, an occasional movie, futbol game or news. Commentators may be dubbed in English, or maybe the voice recording didn’t get synched with the video. Movie subtitles are so small I can’t read them WITH my glasses. Sometimes the “foreign film” is USA action with Matt Damon or Donald Sutherland as a lovable, soon-to-be dead, thief.

Electricity is intermittent, and footing as insecure on the streets as anywhere on earth.

Tro-tros take you anywhere in Ho for 35 pesewas (about 20 cents), except for the occasional negotiator who asks you how much more you will give him. (Pass it up. Tro-tros are everywhere, and 35 pesewas is fair.)

Taxis don’t deliver door to door. You go to the Ho “Civic Center,” a cacophonous gathering of taxis, tro-tros and buses blended with goods-toting vendors adjacent to the Market, an outdoor ménage of hundreds of stalls selling goods to everybody, all the time. From the Center, you get a vehicle wherever you wish.

Purified water is found readily, so I’ve not used my purification systems. There’s an art to drinking from the cellophane baggies of water. You bite off one corner and squeeze the contents directly into your mouth. If you don’t bite just so, it squirts out the side the way a lemon zaps your dinner companions instead of your fish.

Ewe is one of about fifty Ghanaian languages, and most nationals speak at least two or three, as well as English. In the towns, Twi and Ga are probably understood most readily, but English is the nation’s official language for consistency and international cooperation. Ewe isn’t easy. It’s a “tonal” language in which inflection changes meaning. I’m getting used to being laughed at. It’s all very good natured, and many times I’ve been thanked because “You are trying.”

It’s the same with dress. I was given a lovely traditional outfit on arrival. When I wear it people often tell me “How nice you look in our dress.” I know they mean it kindly.

Milk, when available at all, is generally soy. I’ve only seen one cow since being here, and she was lying in the back of a pickup truck with a towel over her shoulder, three men tending her. I don’t know if she was injured, but they were headed toward the Market, so I don’t dwell upon her fate too long. Cows are expensive.

Chances Hotel is the only place I’ve been that served butter, and coffee is always instant Sanka. A thermos of hot water and a tin of Nestle-Carnation “tea creamer” (probably soy) is provided, along with sugar. Tea bags, and Milo are ubiquitous alternatives. Milo is a chocolate-flavored “energy-drink” served either hot or cold, with cocoa fifth in content after sugar, skimmed milk powder, vitamins and the usual polysyllabic list of mystery ingredients.

The hotel restaurant had a display of alcoholic beverage bottles, but sold none. Few I’ve met drink at all, much less Remy-Martin or Bacardi Gold. There is one Kloe villager who clearly imbibes a lot of something. He is tolerated at public events, harmless, and no one seems to mind. They’re generally tolerant of differences, folding them into the community as anyone else. There isn’t much they can do for them anyway, and exclusion is, for the Ewe at least, not an option. He is someone’s relative, and they look after their own.

People often seem to understand more English than they do, which you find out after getting something different than requested. They’re quick to rectify, however, and I often find myself wondering if the fault was mine, for speaking too quickly in the face of friendly nods and those beautiful, geographic smiles. We are both trying, as it should be. I am, after all, in their country, and they are trying hard to accommodate me and mine.

Never assume that lack of education means lack of intelligence or drive. Growing up speaking three languages builds capacity. Living without pen and paper develops memory. Having few tools, no toys and practically no money generates resourcefulness. Collectively, these are some of the brightest people I’ve met in a while. The kids play hand games (recalling “Pattycake”), and manufacture toys out of what’s around. A pot or pan is too valuable to play with, so kids use small green limes to throw and/or kick against the wall, sort of a cross between handball and futbol. Round seeds the size of quarters are “marbles.”

Bent reeds are turned into futbols. Singing, drumming, dancing, playing chase, running around together the ways kids in the USA used to do before computer games. They are interacting with each other all the time: young and old. The teenagers look after the young ones, and the parents shepherd the whole process with firm, but loving hands. These children have absolutely NO manufactured toys whatsoever. And yet, they play. They are inventive, and as importantly, they are interactive. I noted somewhat surprisingly that there are no screaming children here. You hear the occasional crying infant, naturally. But rarely an unhappy child, and then its brief. Occasionally a parent will lecture a teenager. I don’t need to know Ewe to know that. But I have seen no whining here. How come?

I came here worried about the animals, too. You’ve seen the photos of mangy dogs and scrawny cats. Every domestic animal I’ve seen is fat, healthy, living fenceless and bothering no one. Dogs, as I mentioned, aren’t allowed in Kloe because of the adjacent Wildlife Preserve, but I’ve seen a few in Ho. We have a calico kitten in the compound and she doesn’t have a flea, tick or ear mite on her. She’s well-fed, sociable, and lives easily with baby chicks, guinea hens, goats, lambs, and kids. She has high hopes, however, taking off after some pretty big wild African birds now and then. I haven’t seen a rodent yet, although I know the “grasscutter” is quite large and ends up in stews sometimes.

Going to town for the weekend to escape heat and the roosters may find you with intermittent a/c and African tree frogs instead. The tree frogs are much louder than roosters, but their serenades are a nearly steady, hypnotic thunder of African night harmonies. The roosters intermittently shatter the night with their “er er ER…ERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR‘s!! generating feedback from every other rooster within half a mile. I’ll take tree frogs if I have a choice of moonlight sonatas.

To do this, age doesn’t matter, but you must be reasonably fit and willing to endure the lack of conveniences. You walk long distances in stifling humidity, bring only the most comfortable clothing and shoes. Better yet, buy a pair of thongs when you get here, since everyone else wears them or sandals that neither bind, pinch nor elevate your feet. You will end up even fitter, and thinner, than when you arrived. I’ve lost probably 10 pounds and feel great.

Pack your suitcase, then remove half and leave it home. Ghanaians, in the Upper Volta region anyway, dress simply but tastefully off work, and sensibly on. Buy some of their beautiful cotton cloth or tie-dye in the Market and wrap it loosely and artfully around you, or have someone make you traditional clothing, as Ruby is doing for me.

Negotiate fairly with vendors. Better yet, make friends with your Ghanaian counterparts and let them do it for you. They’re much better at it than you’ll ever be.

Most of all, make friends. Smile, try, laugh, listen, learn, observe, tip even though tipping is done only in a few places. These people work hard for the little they get. Tro-tro drivers generally don’t get tipped, but “chop house” wait staff do, and gratefully.

Learn a few words like “Good morning,” “How Are you?” “Thank you” and “How is your family?” and never make the mistake of engaging directly in business without FIRST a greeting and expression of interest in family welfare. Greetings are endemic and you’re rude to ignore them. Ghanaians are noted for hospitality, so reciprocate. Even if your efforts are comical, they’ll appreciate your trying.

Ghanaian time isn’t the same as GMT, and sometimes you will be thwarted in your efforts to do what you want when YOU want. Deal with it. It’s not your right to impose your will upon people in their own country.

In time, they will change a lot. It seems that younger people are marrying later, having fewer children, adopting contemporary names, struggling harder to get educations, realizing that merely surviving is not enough. They are acquiring cell phones and the occasional IPOD and rare motorcycle. More brand-name shirts and logos are appearing here and there. My young friends in Kloe aspire to be Marketing PhD’s, R.N.s, Architects, and Building Contractors. They’ve got the brains and drive. All the need is the money and a chance to finish school. Ghana pays for education through jr. high. Villagers do not pay school taxes, but are expected to pay for supplies, materials, uniforms. Even with that subsidy, it’s unaffordable for most, and high school is totally paid for by the student’s family. High school facilities are limited, so only kids who are both bright and have money can attend. The rest labor on farms on roadside markets all their lives.

Bright kids without money end up there too. Presently there are 70 kids in Kloe identified as “brilliant” by educators who cannot go to school for lack of money. Ghana is doing its part to help. But with per capita income at $690 per year, families couldn’t pay school taxes even if they were asked to do so. There simply is not enough money. The developing of the Jubilee Oil Fields off shore will, however, hopefully help this economy. Small rural projects like ours will help the locals now. They can‘t wait. As I’ve written before, their children are on the cusp of the New Tomorrow. But their need is now.

The hardest thing future leaders of this country will have to do is reconcile life in the fast lane with the blessings of indigenous cultures. I’m not sure sometimes just how big a favor we’re doing by encouraging them to “do business” our way.

I hope there is some way that these wonderful people can manage the “happy medium” at which so many of us in the West and elsewhere have failed. Moving into this brave new world while keeping that which is fundamental to who they are will be the most difficult task of all.

I hope I’ll be around long enough to see that outcome. With my genes, I may very well live another 40 years. If I do, I’m keeping an eye on Ghana, as a fulcrum for the PanAfrica that founder Kwame Nkrumah imagined. But for now, all I can do is record my thoughts and hopes for people who welcomed me in ways I’ll never forget. I expected to learn a lot from the Ewe. I never expected to fall in love with them too.

I’m now sitting in a hotel in the capital city of Accra, having arrived yesterday afternoon. It’s surreal here, with all the modern conveniences one would expect of a capital city hotel. I luxuriated in running water and thirsty towels. I had my first real cup of coffee in five weeks this morning at breakfast, with tablecloths and china cups. A young Ghanaian waiter commented on my typically Ghanaian attire, shortly thereafter bringing me a beautiful set of beads. He refused any compensation, saying how he appreciated my wish to dress as they do, and it was merely a gift. This is typical of the Ghanaian people. Yesterday on the grueling “tro-tro” trip from Ho, three and a half hours of sitting with my knees under my chin, a kind young teacher sitting behind me rode the entire way to the terminal with me, took my bags and loaded them into a taxi, negotiating the fare down by half, and extracted promises from the driver to deliver me safely to the hotel. Pushing the lock button down on the door, he bade me farewell, and said, “thank you for coming to my country.”

I’m leaving Ghana Monday, and this is my final blog before departure. I can‘t believe it‘s been almost five weeks since arrival. In some ways, I‘ve been here forever. In others, a day. These people have captivated me, and forever linked themselves to my heart. I shall miss them dearly.

How will I feel when I stroll thru the Port of Miami Tuesday night, easily entering a country so many are desperate to achieve?

It will be good to be home. As much as I’ve come to love and appreciate these people and their developing country, this experience has reinforced for me what we already know. I am a citizen of the greatest country in the world. And I’ve never felt that more than I do right now.

Kathryn

 A DEAD CHICKEN, A BASKET OF CORN, AND THOU

Church in the Village is a three-hour affair, with a minimum of two collections, lots of music, dancing in place, ritual, and more contrasts.

Ghanaians are well-dressed, in spite of poverty. They make most of their clothes. Tommy Hilfiger in the Village is a rarity. Large pieces of cloth artfully wrapped around the body, layered for decoration and shocked with contrasting head scarves (women), are as appealing as anything you’ll see in back home. I don’t know how they mix and match the plethora of colors and prints they do, but they are masters at it. Before arriving I was told to bring modest, cool clothes: baggy safari 100%, easy-pack cotton stuff. But next to the Ewe’s beautiful outfits I look like I’m the one who just stepped out of the jungle. Combined with their marvelous posture from head-toting cargoes, the young and old are at worst attractive and at best absolutely stunning.

Everyone dresses for church in form-fitting or exotically draped and modest, colorful clothing, including the men. It’s the one day of the week when most rest, as well as dress to impress.

But the reality of their condition is never far away from the discerning eye. Multi-colored triangles of leftover cloth hang as pennants on strips strung across the sanctuary, interspersed with old satin gift bows. (Nothing is wasted here). It’s surprisingly festive, if less than chic. There are few rows of sturdy, donated pews in which a group of older women sits weekly. Other seating is handmade, rough-hewn, terribly uncomfortable benches with rail backs or old plastic garden chairs on the bare concrete floor.

During Sunday’s sermon, I noted a colorfully dressed elder in the front pew go quietly from her seat to the base of the pulpit, to adjust the dead chicken in a bag next to the basket of unshucked corn. Coming or going to market before Church, she placed her wares near her in the front row. No one seemed at all disturbed by this tiny scene. The Minister continued his sermon, the congregation nodded and responded appropriately. I figured if it didn’t bother them, it shouldn’t bother me (although disturbing images of that chicken’s last moments lingered.)

And little kids with big knives. Those “crocodile tested” machetes are everywhere. I passed a forge in the Ho Market where they were made and displayed. The length of a two year old, it’s not uncommon to see a child carrying one, as the tool of choice in Kloe. A man splitting huge bamboo stalks for fencing. A woman cutting corn, slicing cassava. And little kids, handling these weapons since practically old enough to walk, chopping grass around school yards. There are no power mowers in Kloe.

Since when did so many of us become afraid of knives and animals and truly physical labor? I can’t imagine an eight year old in the USA with a machete. Of course, we don’t need one. But something is lost, methinks, in independence and self-sufficiency when we become so dependent upon others to do for us. It’s human nature to want to leave the drudgery to others if we can afford it. But isn’t it ironic? So many folks disparage the “poor African” (or Mexican or Honduran) who is “on the dole” and can’t live as we do.

But what would happen if suddenly there was no one else to mow our lawns, bring chickens to market, shuck our corn, fix our plumbing, change oil in our cars? What, indeed, if there were no more lawns, groceries, pipes or cars?

What we gain in “progress,“ we lose in self-sufficiency. I’m not sure that’s a good thing. When kids barely out of toddler stage are capable of safely handling Very Big Knives in one part of the world, what does it say about the fact that kids in another can’t even clean their own rooms?

If a Ewe kid got lost in New York City, and a USA or European city kid lost in the jungle, which one do you think would do the best? I know who I’d bet on.

Maybe we can learn as much from the Ewe as they from us?

IX. THE WHOLE TRUTH

I know you’re wondering. “What’s she not telling us about that place?”

Well, lest ye think I haven’t cleaned my rose colored glasses lately and have fallen victim to the “Noble Savage” construct, fear not. I may have my head in the clouds, but my feet are always on the ground (well, almost always).

So, what’s the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help me Mawu?

They have bugs here, paralyzing humidity, 24 hour roosters, and teenagers.

The bugs are, frankly, the least of it. Mosquitoes never liked me much anyway. Some say it’s all the B- vitamins I ingest that impart a subtle odor humans can’t discern but bugs can and don’t like.

At least no human has ever complained. I can hear the buzzing when I go for a walk, but it’s a rare one that bites much less lands.

Ants are opportunistic here too, and keeping anything resembling food covered is a must if you don’t want an ant farm on the table.

And you could mount guns on the termite’s wings if you wanted, which is why it’s a good thing the houses are poured concrete. I walk past one of their ten foot conical mounds every day, wondering if it’s as busy inside as it is quiet on the outside.

Other than that, I haven’t seen much “wildlife” beyond the domesticated ones. Some pretty interesting looking birds and lizards pop up from time to time, but there aren’t spiders the size of dinner plates or snakes in the house (perish the thought). They tell me that cobras and pythons live nearby, but I figure I’ll pass on the opportunity to introduce myself to those particular neighbors.

Temps are in the 80’s but the humidity has to be pushing 100% most of the time. One just accepts the sauna-like conditions as they are. The good news is that it’s great for the complexion, and probably one reason why elders have few wrinkles. Of course, “elder” here has a somewhat different meaning that it does at home. I am probably among the eldest in the Village, with a few exceptions.

And never make the mistake of thinking that roosters crow only at dawn. Roosters crow round the clock if they think another rooster is invading. There are a lot of sneaky roosters around here, it seems. These guys are trying to usurp each other’s territory all hours of the night and day.

And then, there’s teenagers. Actually, most of the ones I’ve met are pretty great kids. But, it’s a fact of life that there are those with “that look.” You know the one I mean: “Yo, who are you, what are you doing here, and why should I care?” It’s a developmental trait that some kids go thru.

The kids up to about 16 and older people are the most friendly, gracious.

There are those in the middle, however, who look at me with another of “those looks.” They are few, but it’s clear they aren’t particularly enamored with me in their midst. I believe those are the ones who have reached that point where they realize that their options are limited. Unlike the younger kids who still have hope and play in their hearts, and the older people who have grown philosophical about life, it’s the ones in the middle who suffer most the extreme poverty here.

So much potential when they are young. So much disappointment when they realize they can’t make enough money to get education, get jobs, get out, and will probably spend the rest of their lives laboring on farms, sitting along the roadside trying to sell peanuts or beads. If they’re lucky, they can go to Accra like Judit’s mom and sell bread, so their children might be able to go farther in school than they.

And here I am, a citizen of the richest country in the world in their midst with multiple pairs of shoes and two baseball caps and all sorts of high-tech gadgets. They look at me as though I am rich and maybe even here to mock them. After all, why else would I be here, but to remind them of what they cannot have?

The hardest part of being here is dealing with the extraordinary need you meet everywhere you turn. People think that Americans live on streets of gold. And, metaphorically speaking, we do. I see the look on the face of one youngster as she eyes my red baseball cap covetously. I know she’s thinking “You have two and I have none, why can’t I have one?”

I found myself thinking the same thing. But where does it stop? I’ve been instructed by my handlers here not to let it get to me. Not to give in and give out because I’ll be setting an example that forward thinking Africans do not endorse. The “handout” mentality is not what Ghana is all about, although there is plenty of precedent, some of it promulgated by well-intentioned organizations and individuals who simply write out checks without insuring accountability. It’s human nature to take when it’s offered. And when you have nothing, it’s a whole lot easier. And in some cases, it may mean whether or not you eat that day.

Villagers in Kloe are luckier than many. They have government built concrete homes and limited electricity. But they have poverty unlike anything you and I in the USA see. No matter how bad off you are in the USA, there is ALWAYS help somewhere and people to help find, or create that help. Ghana isn’t there yet, but she’s trying.

To harden my heart when a ten-year old says “Give me money” or an obviously sick adult begs to sell me a scrap of cloth to tie my hair is among the hardest things I have to do here. I admit to weakening now and then. I try to make it look “legitimate,” as though there is a true trade going on. It’s hard when I hold all the chips. I have promised when I leave that I am giving some of the things I brought with me to those who have been most kind. A few small bottles of shampoo and hand lotion. A small “torch” (flashlight), my mosquito net, the bug repellant I’ve not even used, etc. And maybe even that red baseball cap, although it means a lot to me because of its origins. But I can only imagine how much more it’ll mean to the little girl who loves it so. I can always buy another one. Even if I have to go to Panama to do it. But at least that option is available to me if I really wanted to. She’ll probably never have that choice.

There is cynicism here, and jealously, and envy. But it all comes from the same place: fear.

Not having enough to be frivolous when one wants is one thing, but not having enough to survive is, indeed, another.

Fear is behind virtually all negative human emotions in one respect or another. If one understand that, it’s easier to deal with them.

The great majority of people here are kind, gracious, hospitable. But they are, after all, human too. We’re not so different under the skin. What amazes me is that these people aren’t MORE cynical, jealous, envious.

Maybe they are onto something we could all learn from.

The tro-tro was crowded, so my backpack went in the trunk. I didn’t realize there was a youth there also, until he banged on the window to alert the driver to “STOP.”

I was mildly uncomfortable, dismissing it till I reached the hotel in Ho. Sure enough, my TREO was missing. Hoping I’d left it in Kloe, I determined not to jump to conclusions and settle the matter when I returned after the weekend.

On Monday, it was painfully clear that my Treo had been stolen, and as difficult as it was, I notified Samson and Worlanyo, my village Counterparts.

Fortunately, I knew the driver, hoping he’d recall the youth’s identity. Within a few minutes, Samson located him, got the youth‘s name (a resident of the next Village). He then said “We will find your Treo, and I will report to you in the morning.”

I never expected to see it again. It was just too much temptation for a young man with so little. I went to sleep blaming myself for not managing it more securely.

At 7:30 AM the next day, Samson paid me an unexpected visit, saying the Chiefs were waiting to see me! I felt badly, knowing this would cause them much embarrassment. They are very proud of their hospitality and having an American in their village trying to help them.

I was shocked to discover at least 25 people at the Chief’s house, several engaged in heated conversation, which stopped when I approached. Apologetically, Taugbe Avokpo, the Downtown Chief, offered me and others a seat in his home, and produced my TREO.

Surprised, I thanked him gratefully, as he motioned forward the perpetrator in the corner of the room, who promptly kneeled in front of us.

Chastened, he was unable to meet my gaze, but I had no idea what he had yet to endure.

Taugbe Avokpo expressed his sorrow and embarrassment. For the village to have this happen was a humiliation. He further stated his confusion at why someone would steal something from someone trying to help his people. Even though this boy was not a native of Kloe, the villagers felt responsible and apologized to me profusely.

Expressing my gratitude for their help, I implored them not to think the event changed anything between us. I also hoped they could forgive his youthful indiscretions as I would. “Every young person makes mistakes,” I said to relieved, concurring chuckles around the room. I told them I didn’t wish to have police involved. My property was returned, and hoped to put it behind us. This was a lesson for me too. I felt partially responsible for providing too much a temptation for a youthful error in judgment.

With smiles and expressions of gratitude all around, we parted. I hoped the young man in his 20’s, had also learned an important lesson.

I later learned that the Chiefs slept very little the night before, having felt so dishonored by this event. While I was sleeping, they were sending emissaries to his village, confronting him, confiscating the Treo, and him. Stealing is bad enough, but to bring dishonor on the village is tantamount to treason.

Later I asked Samson what happened after I left. Quietly he told me that the young man had been punished according to Village Law.

His father and his own village’s Chiefs had been informed first.

And then he was given “24 lashes” as punishment.

Noting my stunned reaction, Samson said quietly, “This is our way.”

I knew at once I was without control or influence. Rapid thoughts of the consequences in the USA of such an act flooded my mind, along with sobering awareness that “ I’m not IN the USA.” Discipline here is swift and sure, nevertheless I wished I had followed my instincts and left that TREO at home.

Although his lashes were apparently administered to his buttocks and not his back directly, with a stick taken from a tree, I know he is probably in much emotional, social, and physical discomfort. My heart aches for him. Had I known the outcome, I’d have thought twice of telling anyone of the theft. This experience further highlights the fact that if we are going to learn about each other, we should prepare for the possibility that others’ ways will be very different, and try not judge or criticize too soon or harshly.

The Ewe are generous, caring, giving. They revere family, honor, and hospitality. Their graciousness cannot be overstated. Their children are among the best behaved I’ve seen. They are extraordinarily polite, well-spoken, friendly, and happy kids. The older children are respectful and for the most part, hopeful and as gracious as their elders.

Justice serves three ends: punish the guilty, deter future crime, help assuage victims.

In the best of all worlds, punishment is swift, sure, just, and serves those purposes.

I do know that the justice administered this day was swift, sure, punishing and to some extent, I suppose assuaging.

Was it just? I cannot truly say without imposing my values upon the Ewe‘s. Nor can I say that I or perhaps the Ewe are more assuaged than regretful. But I expect this kind of punishment is a pretty effective deterrent. Crime here’s practically non-existent.

It was investigated, the perpetrator seized, prosecuted, found guilty, punished, released and the matter ended all in less than 24 hours. I was later told that the only reason he was spared arrest and incarceration was because I “spoke for him.” Apparently his lashing was considered the lesser of the two.

There has been no further mention of it since.

The resident police officer was aware but left it to the Chiefs, apparently checking that “things were resolved.“ Even Ghana national police respect the old ways of their Tribes.

Does anyone truly have the right to say whose way is “better?”

My heart says the punishment was harsh. My head tells me perhaps there’s a middle ground, but where, I don’t know. This reinforces the importance of not judging, condemning, endorsing or perhaps even changing too quickly. And this presents a dilemma I’m not smart enough to readily solve.

I

She could be my age, ten years older or younger. Routinely passing my perch in early morning, toting at least 25 lbs of cassava root on her head in a large metal pan, a wicked machete in her hand, she’d announce her arrival with a simple “NORDEBRAU.” I soon learned that’s her name, meaning she was born on Tuesday. Many older Ewe were named for the day of their births.

As days passed, I’d see her at the “market”, the space alongside the main road in town under the big Acacia trees, sitting in her plastic lawn chair, selling small, square cellophane-like bags of “Mt. Zion Purified Water.” For the equivalent of about 70 cents, you can buy a couple of gallons worth.

One day Nordebrau invited me to see her house nearby. She gave me her chair as she sat on a stump. Her interest in children not waning in her retirement from teaching, she wanted me to know that there were orphans in the village who were even more disadvantaged than kids with a parent. I asked her about them, which pleased her.

Since then, Nordebrau and I have had regular little chats by her stand at the market as I await the tro-tro for Ho.

I learn a lot by sitting on the front stoop, or at the market, or merely walking down the road. People tell me things that help me understand Village life beyond what my handlers can. There is much to learn here.

Nordebrau commented early on the fact that we both have white-hair, although hers is cut about as close as can be. She has a gray fuzz dusting around a strong, handsome face. And she’s smart.

Turns out she has a brother who is retired doctor in Accra, a sister who teaches, and relatives in the USA. She hopes one day to go live with them, but she can’t now, because “it‘s very expensive,” and “who would take care of our house?”

I wondered aloud if selling the house was an option so she would have money to go. You’d have thought I had asked her to sell her first born child! To the Ewe, the family home is a place to go in perpetuity. The thought of selling

Funerals are REALLY big here. I’ve been to three: two on the same day. Seems like the entire region turns out. It’s not merely a memorial, it’s a real celebration.

When I die I want a memorial like the Ewe’s.  A prominent Christian denomination hosted one ceremony in the sanctuary. Another denomination hosted theirs outside.

While both had music and dancing, the former was more subdued, with dancing somewhat restrained, if you can call a singing Conga line up the center aisle restrained. Drums played all night and day. If the  drummers don’t play in shifts, they must be just short of Herculean, if not all the way over the top. We’re talking double-time, two handed, non-stop congas. In the middle of the night I could hear them in the distance. I wondered if that’s what the “lost” Livingstone heard, and if so, did it put as much fear into his heart as they did delight in mine? I felt as though I were in his Africa, before life got so complicated.

People dress up, ministers preach long, energetic sermons,  dancing is spontaneous, singing joyful, and everybody participates. There are the usual, heartfelt eulogies and prayers. Meanwhile there’s a street party in town, feasting and vendors with beads and food and more. I pooped out pretty quickly and it’s still going on after twenty four hours. Word has it, there’s another ceremony for the one of the deceased during the week.

Anything is an excuse for kids to make music. Sitting on the porch with my notebook computer, I’m soon  surrounded by a flock of smiling little kids.

My computer and digital camera are kid-magnets. We draw on the computer, take photos and movies, and  watch them laugh and point at themselves and each other. This afternoon, I did a few “bongo moves”  on a wooden bench to see what would happen. Without hesitation, one little guy ran to retrieve two small buckets, upended them and the party started. Singing, dancing, drumming: it’s fundamental.

Kids here grow up with music instead of TV. I think they have the better end of the deal, frankly. I’ve heard some kids I’d hire for a gig in a minute.

And when was the last time you didn’t have to tell your kids to do chores?

These are the most well-disciplined kids I’ve ever seen. Every day, like clockwork, the are sweeping the overnight goat residue off the front stoop, carrying water and wood, starting the cooking fire, ironing (with an old FLAT IRON heated on cooking stones). There’s a key to the outhouse hanging inside the house. Returning it, I handed it to a five year old on his way out the door whom I assumed wanted it. Without a word, he took it, turning obediently around and putting it back in its rightful place. Adults rule around Kloe, and the kids don’t seem to mind at all!

Three year olds squatting next to buckets of cold water and covered with soap are a frequent sight. Alone they perform their ablutions, without wheedling or help. Little tiny people covered in suds next to buckets almost as big as they are, I’d love a photograph, but that would be a little to invasive. They squat because they’re too little to lift the bucket. They end up spotless anyway.

Road signs. I have just got to get the tro-tro to stop long enough (or at least slow down) to take photos. My favorite so far: “Machetes: Crocodile Tested!”

And speaking of “tro-tros:” any small vehicle with an engine that mostly works and can be routinely stuffed with as many passengers as possible qualifies. Imagine 7 people in a Datsun the size of a shoebox, or a “TaTa” (a small car whose origins I don’t yet know but which is altogether too reminiscent of  American slang for a prominent body part). I get the connection with “Yo“, (“Ok” in Ewe) but the other eludes me.

Out of deference, my companions initially put me in the front seat. Now we know each other well enough so I quality as just another sardine. For one cedi (about 70 cents), I ride 15 kilometers (about 9 miles) to the Ho office. I had to give up seat belts. They either don’t work, or are covered with so much red dirt that the driver can’t clean them. In the backseat, I haven’t found belts because it would be most indelicate to look with that many laps back there alongside mine. So, I say a silent prayer that it’s not my time yet, and try to avoid the very large road signs admonishing drivers to SLOW DOWN AND LIVE!

Slowing down isn’t part of the driving culture. Beeping is. Some drivers beep for the sake of beeping, methinks. They beep at everyone and everything warning we’re coming (fast). Sometimes they beep when nobody is there.

I guess after a while not beeping causes withdrawal. Some of these guys would put a New York cabbie to shame.

I met the Queen Mother the other day, at the Ho apt. where she sometimes stays. She’s a joyful person of humor and wit, and a down to earth attitude one wouldn’t expect from a Queen. We hit it off immediately. You know how it is when you meet someone you “just know?” Well, Mama Ayipe and I could be good friends in another life. The fact that she said she might come see me in Florida delighted me. I gave her my card. I hope she keeps it. We took photos. She’s much prettier than I am, dressed in traditional Ewe finery and me in baggy cotton “safari” clothes. It was ok by her. It’s good to be Queen.

I don’t know when I’ll run out of things to write about.  Naples Daily News editors are, by now, tearing their hair out at the length of these things. I was pretty good at keeping ‘em to 400 or so words, BEFORE I got here. Now my head is so full of images and words. I feel like a brakeless, overloaded tro-tro careering down the slippery slopes of synonym and simile, straight off the metaphorical cliff into bottomless verbosity. In a culture medium like this, it’s a given.

Tall, well-dressed and skeptical, I could see in his eyes the moment I stepped beneath the thatched canopy of the outdoor classroom, this man was going to challenge me with questions I was hoping someone would ask.

It’s not always good to have unquestioned support from the get-go. People need to ask hard questions too, and when they don’t, I start wondering who’s really thinking. Tough questions always result in better outcomes if one learns from them.

“The first thing I want to know,” he asked, “is why did you come here, and what do you hope to do?” The look in his eyes told me that truth and pragmatism were his watchwords. He’d been mislead before.

So I gave him an abbreviated version of what I’ve written to you. (Yes, I am capable of brevity under duress).

“And what have you learned by being here so far,” his next great question. The man was a born teacher.

After having spent the morning with two other groups of teachers, this Jr. high school headmaster confirmed what I had learned.

“You are teaching your children with few to no supplies,” I said. “You are trying your best to educate your youth in an environment which fosters learning but has no money for it. You need virtually everything from basic supplies to computers and recreational equipment. And you are very, very tired.”

His suddenly softening eyes told me I’d hit the nail on the head. This dedicated man was exhausted, and yet, in some small way, still hopeful. Had he not been, he wouldn’t have even shown up for the meeting that CBO Chairman Sem had arranged.

“You are in Obama-land here,” he stated, and I took it as a subtle test of how I felt about our President, and perhaps even him. “I am proud of my country,” I said, “and a majority of Americans are also in that ‘land,’ having voted for this man who seems to be a peacemaker. I’m glad to represent my country in this day and age.”

Many questions and answers later, we parted. I don’t know if I changed his mind about anything, but I do know that the look in his eyes was less hard than when I arrived. My heart ached for him because I saw what I have seen in other educators, even in the USA. They have the hardest job in the world. While in Kloe they have the emotional support of parents, disciplined children and a culture of learning, they have no money or basic supplies. How do you, as an educator, resolve your obligation to prepare your students for the world, without paper and pencils or computers, or athletic equipment to stimulate play and incentive to study? The kids in my neighborhood here are fabulous “futbol” (soccer) players. Their ball is about five inches in diameter and made out of bent reeds. They have no other games except the hopscotch “board” they scratch in the dirt under the big Acacia tree. No tennis, badminton, volleyball, regulation soccer balls, building blocks, puzzles, jump ropes, nothing. The kindergarten children can’t even make cutouts. They have no construction paper, scissors. They write with chalk on small slates because they have no paper or pencils. They make music with old buckets and gas cans and sing. And still, they hope.

One teacher said they need things to help the littlest ones develop fine motor skills. Computers help do that too, if funding for them can be obtained.

Another well-intentioned organization gave them 12 computer desks which they put in an empty, nearly-electrified building. (Another failed project due to lack of proper long-term planning). Lots of well-intentioned organizations help construct buildings, then leave. I understand why. They are tangible evidence of having been here. But if there is no plan for managing or maintaining them, replenishing supplies, the long-term result is an unused building collecting dust and serving only as a monument to false hopes and broken dreams.

The empty desks in the “computer-classroom” sit dust-covered, while children and teachers are starved for  opportunity to practice the computer technology about which they can only read. The Ewe have enough exposure now to know what they are missing. They see it on the one or two TVs in the village. The few students who do get to college bring the knowledge back. It’s everywhere except here. The hunger is deep because the appetite has been whetted, without the possibility of dining at the table. Of the 2500 or so people in “metro-Kloe,“ 654 are school-aged children. Twenty of them have been classified as “brilliant“ with no money to finish high school, much less college or trade school. (There is no “official” census. The CBO has acquired these numbers through their efforts on our project.)

I don’t know why there isn’t more cynicism among these people. I’ve seen some of it, and will write about that later. But like the Headmaster, these people still hope. They see their country growing, they see the President of the greatest country in the world visiting theirs first. They know the carrot is just out of reach. Tantalus could learn patience from these people.

But how long can hope last without sustenance? And at what point does a child, or a dedicated teacher,  just walk away?

Why is it so hard for some people to be nice?

I am in Ho this weekend, on a little R&R from the heat and roosters. I decided to stay in a motel with running water and a/c. I also figured my caretakers might need a break too. Sure enough, even though Ruby questioned me closely about my plans, she made plans to visit relatives in an adjacent village, a fact which reinforced my feeling that she also needed a little R&R, although she would never have said so.

They’ve been very good to me if a little overprotective at times. Women, here, especially “Madame’s” (how they refer to “us Elders”) are not as independent as American women, especially Texans. So I thought a little break would do us all some good. I also admit a certain longing for running water and private bath with flush toilet, especially at 3 AM.

I stayed last night at the Freedom, the “number 2” motel in Ho. Forty-five cedis (about $30) bought me a clean room with working amenities plus breakfast, although the power was out when I arrived. That happens a lot in Ho. Not fancy by any means, but more than adequate, with a large stall shower, working toilet, fuzzy TV, lights, a/c and ceiling fan. The Ghanaian fashion sense doesn’t always translate to interior design, however, with psychedelic 12 by 12 tiles on the floor that confuse the eye and trip up an already klutzy American. I had to watch myself carefully walking up the stairs to my room along a 3-D tile floor that never heard of OSHA must less got cited. Not to worry, I’m getting pretty good at walking with my eyes on the ground, although I’m missing a lot above ground level that I’d otherwise see.

I expect the decorations in these buildings are cast offs from some building project or another, perhaps foreign imports obtained inexpensively by budding Ghanaian entrepreneurs.

The small restaurant served a limited but decent menu. Curious about Ghanaian vegetarian pizza, I was pleasantly surprised to find it quite good, but not quite pizza. They made the dough from scratch, baked it with at least an inch of vegetables in tomato base, and then whispered “cheese” over the top. Mostly chopped lettuce, onions, green and red peppers, and maybe even a little shredded cassava, it was filling and tasty.

The “Business Centre” contained computers of the same vintage (just short of obsolete) as most here, and a non-working printer. It took me almost three hours to empty my inboxes and send an article or two. Nothing here is “high-speed,” pizza or otherwise. But the young man attending the room was, as are all, most hospitable.

Today I took a tro-tro to the Chances Hotel where I had originally planned to stay the weekend, but for the unavailability of a room last night. While the Freedom is just down the road from the busy Market in Ho, Chances is on the outskirts set back in a peaceful “suburban” setting. For a little more a night, the accommodations are newer, more modern, quieter. This is the place for a get-away or conference, with it’s open air conference center, small adjacent open sided restaurant, tree-filled courtyard and pleasant “chalets” around the courtyard. It’s not the Hyatt, or even a Courtyard Suites, but for Ho, it’s first class, for about $60/night.

I had lunch at a table next to a group of Europeans. Booting up my PC, I was distracted by the behavior of my lunch mates.

This small hotel is Ho’s attempt to upgrade it’s facilities to attract visitors from other countries as well as Ghana. Tourism is the fourth largest source of Ghanaian income, and budding entrepreneurs are trying their best to appeal to Western and European standards. Staff are extremely polite, accommodating, if somewhat inexperienced, and facilities not quite pristine. But what they lack in experience, they more than make up for in gracious hospitality.

The woman at the next table, whose  unmistakable accent shall remain unidentified to protect  her  country, had ordered her meal: grilled chicken, braised rice and mixed vegetables, for $8.00 cedis (about $5 US).  Unmistakable thunderclouds roiled in her face as she virtually leapt out of her chair,  plate in hand and stormed back toward the kitchen, almost shouting “THIS IS COLD” while stabbing at the air with her finger. Turning on her heels, she left the young waitresses and cook in a flurry in her wake, chattering anxiously amongst themselves in a clear attempt to appease.

I was saddened by this unkind display and found myself wondering at the propensity of some to take the mean road instead of a kinder, gentler one.

I am ever mindful of my role here as a guest in someone else’s country in which I am “the foreigner,” who will, by virtue of my country’s limited representation in this part of Ghana, leave an indelible impression upon the minds of those whom I meet. Many of them have never before met an American, and many have never seen a white person. (I frightened more than a few small children initially, including 3 yr-old Mawunya, who ran screaming from the room when she first saw me. Now, she doesn‘t want to leave me, or my “gadgets.”).

I am not only representing myself, I am an unavoidable representative of the USA. Whatever I do speaks not merely for me, but my country. I can’t imagine treating these people rudely when all they are trying to do is please, and lift themselves from crippling poverty.

Why this woman, like so many to be found everywhere, behaved as she did instead of nicely requesting that the cook “heat this a bit more for me, please,” I’ll never know.

But I made a point of thanking the young waitress who served me and asked her to tell the cook that my meal was cooked flawlessly (it was), tasted delicious (it did), and left a good tip to show my appreciation.

I was rewarded with another of those geographic smiles  I love so much. I can only hope in some small way, I made up for the unfortunate behavior of another “white person” who behaved so thoughtlessly.

I do not want people here to learn the term “Ugly American.” At least not from this American. I hope to leave them with at least half as good an impression as they have left upon me.

Being nice goes so much farther than being unkind, and like smiling vs. frowning, takes so much less energy. These people are struggling to better their lots in the new world economy. I applaud their efforts, and hope that others who follow will show them the respect and admiration they deserve.

VII. THE JOB WE’RE DOING

Today was an all-time high: watching two young men discover the world through computers.

Francis and Emmanuel, early twenties, are victims of poverty. Having finished high school but thwarted in continuing educations, they are the youngest members of the CBO, wanting to help their village find ways to increase educational opportunities. They are always polite, dressed neatly in long  pants and shirts, looking as though they stepped off any USA college campus and found themselves caught between yesterday and tomorrow, with no way of transition.

My work with the CBO has been productive.  Within a week, we identified a plan for the Village that will, hopefully, meet their long-term and short-term needs. It quickly became apparent that they’ve seen many projects come with a flourish, then die on the vine for lack of long-range planning  to make them self-sustaining. That loss may, however, be Kloe’s gain if our plan comes to fruition. (Two empty buildings built by well-intentioned organizations sit empty, ripe for other opportunities.)

Their initial goal is to raise $1,500 for educational and play materials  for their children from 1-6 yrs old. But what happens after that money is spent? How do we build a program that encourages self-sufficiency and renewal? There are resources here that lend themselves to a long-term, two-pronged approach to creating opportunities for the village to obtain the materials they need through outside funding sources as well as their own efforts.

So our plan is twofold: by the end of my stay here, we will have drafted a long-range plan which provides two income streams for the village: one for their immediate needs from grants and individual donations,  and a longer-term one from eventual  profit villagers realize by establishing small businesses through “micro-financing“ loans. Both sources of funds will be “seed” money: intended to get them started so that they can become, eventually, totally self-sufficient.

With the demographic information they are collecting, I am writing a “model” funding proposal for both money and supplies, instructing them in business practices and procedures necessary to properly manage donated funds & materials, helping identify initial sources of funding, and training them to take it over when I leave. And believe it or not, we are more than half way there. Opening their very first bank account (thank you Bob K, Joanne C, Judy H!), was a red letter day. We have checks and balances to insure all donations are properly accounted for. And you think USA banks are cautious? It took almost all day to secure the account at Stanbic Bank in Ho!

Today, Emmanuel and Francis used computers for the first time ever. I was almost breathless at the speed with which these two young men learned how to boot up, navigate with the mouse, open a Word document, type a few lines, save it to file, close and relocate it. But the real fun came with Google.

When they discovered the world through their finger tips just by “googling” anything they wished, the two hours of this first lesson was not nearly enough. Francis told me as we left the office: “The time was too short! We want to spend five hours here!!” (BRIDGE has offered free use of computers and supplies). I can’t believe they never touched a computer before. But I feel fairly certain their lives have been changed dramatically as a result of having done so now. Next week, we learn how to send and receive emails, and further refine search parameters .

Samson and Francis and Emmanuel represent Ghana’s future. So do Joy and Aretha and Judith and Mawunya and Colby and David and all the rest. They are smart and motivated. I can’t help but believe that learning to speak at least three languages  by the time they‘re twenty has a lot to do with their intelligence. Were they in the USA, they’d be working at McDonald’s to finance school, getting college loans, pursuing their dreams. But those opportunities don’t yet exist here. These young people represent the future of an emerging nation that is soon to be drilling and exporting huge reserves of oil off its shores, presently the fourth largest importer of US goods, the most stable democracy in Africa. They just happen to be dirt poor at a time when their country is emerging. They are on the cusp.

And I thought two hours of computer training would overload them! Their eagerness to continue was worth my trip. The privilege of opening the door is enough, because I have no doubt that these young men can walk proudly through it by themselves, if only they have a chance. And one day, with persistence, a little more help, and perhaps some luck, I may be fortunate enough to greet them again as, Dr. Samson Hayward, Nurse Francis  Afedo, and Mr. Obikyere Emmanuel, CEO.

I shall live long enough to do so. I do so hope they will too.