Harmattan (written Jan 9)

When I gracefully dismount my mountain bike (read: awkwardly near fall from) after biking home from my market town and I say to myself, “huh, it’s kinda cool out today,” I check the thermometer. 98 degrees. Kris hung the thermometer on the back of a 2x4 in our courtyard exactly so that the sun will never touch it. We’re taking actual temperature. Warmer than my average body temperature. How is it then after a 3-4 mile bike ride home on sandy/gravely, rut filled dirt road up 2 impressive hills, might I not feel like filling my entire courtyard with ice cubes (what are these mystical things I speak of?) and laying under them until the sun goes down? This, is the harmattan. Last week I thought it was here, with cool nights and mornings and dry hot afternoons. I was wrong; harmattan came this week bringing gifts of sand and hot breezes from the Sahara desert. It’s like a camel is standing over your shoulder breathing dusty hot stinky camel breath down your back. The end result is crunchy dry lips and dust covered clothes, shoes, feet, cats, goats… you get the picture.

They tell us that in February and March it’s even worse in that the nights no longer get cool. It’s just hot, all the time. Right now the coolest it’s been was 64 degrees in the morning. I’m not embarrassed to say I stepped outside the house, shuddered, yelled out loud enough for the chicken roosting on my garden fence to hear, “It’s freezing out here!” I then put on my sweater (yes I brought one, yes I’m happy to have done so), and huddled up with Sanja on my lap trying to keep us both warm. I’ve even lost feeling/had some numbness in my fingers as I bathed with cool water in the windy night. Silly right? I used to laugh aloud seeing piles upon piles of winter clothes in my market for sale. You can buy everything from snow pants to winter hats with earflaps (many may know I have several of these hats in the states; I’ve refrained so far from adding to that collection). I never understood why such things would sell here, it’s Africa! Now I get it.

Kris and I now don the look of bandits when we travel. Dust magnifies x 1 million when traveling in a tro-tro on our road. So, we wear our Milwaukee Brewers ball caps (represent!) and equally stylish bandannas tied up over our faces subjecting only our eyes to the thick air’s brutality. I’ve also perfected the art of sensing a car coming in the opposite direction, then closing my eyes and not breathing for “just long enough” to let the dust settle to an acceptable level. Fuel costs in Ghana have recently increased, so fares have become more expensive. A round trip to my district capital used to cost as much as 4.40GHC (Ghana cedis), it will now cost 5.40GHC. When you make 8GHC a day, it’s a noticeable difference. Don’t worry Mom; we still have plenty of money for food.

Fat guy in a little coat - the Ghanaian version

Ok, this will be a brief post, but I just have to share this story.  I biked into Kpasa this afternoon to buy some things from the "evening market" which sets up every day except Sunday and includes the basics (produce, grains, etc.).  After I had bought everything on the list, I stopped by another, smaller market at the bottom of the hill, also known as the "yam market," just to check it out (you never know when you might see an avocado...even though I haven't found one in Kpasa yet).  I was walking my bike through the market fairly briskly (I had hot dinner - "chop" - in the basket so I knew not to dawdle) when a man I had just passed by exclaimed, "White man...in the yam market."  Like most Ghanaians that call out to me using terms like "white man, fada, obroni," I ignored him.  But I immediately thought of the movie Tommy Boy, and the "fat guy in a little coat" scene.  The Ghanaian even said it slowly, almost melodically, like in the film.  So I thought to myself, "I guess this is the Ghanaian version."  I had to chuckle.

On the subject of Ghanaians yelling at me as I walk/bike/ride by (this is a blog post in and of itself, but I'll let it tag along), in Kpasa it is starting to change.  When you are white in Ghana, it is like you are a light and Ghanaians are moths.  But unlike moths, they are not quiet.  I'm not sure what it is, but they feel compelled to say something.  Anything.  In any language.  Usually English, but not always relevant.  For example, in Kpasa this afternoon I heard, "obroni" about 8 times, mostly from children (they haven't learned concepts such as politeness and sensitivity just yet...).  I also hear, "white man" a lot, in case I can't do the translation from Twi to English myself.  Or, in Likpakpaln, the local dialect of Konkomba, their word for white man is "fada."  Why "fada?"  Because the first white people to be seen by Konkomba were missionaries.  Not that they think I'm a missionary, it's just that they don't have a word in their language to distinguish "Peace Corps Volunteer" from "pastor." So when I took the LPI (language test) during training, I had to say, "N ye PCV la" - that's "I am a PCV."  In addition, sometimes they are quick-tongued enough to blurt out something else.  I have heard, "white man, where are you going?" many times when traveling on tro-tros.  Not that I have time to respond with the speed of the vehicle.  Seriously, sometimes I can hear the Doppler effect in their voice as I pass by.  Sometimes I ponder, "what will they do even if I do tell them where I am going?"  That's why I think it is less calculating and more compulsion.  They just have to say something.

I should say that in Kpasa this behavior is slowly changing.  More and more, as I introduce myself, and as rumor spreads, people are addressing me as "teacher" and "Kofi," and are saying more welcoming things like "you are welcome here."  Even one student that remembered me from my brief site visit in July approached me on the main road and declared that he would come over to my house the next day to formally introduce himself.  The children are still incessant in their catcalls, "obroni" or "fada," repeatedly, even after I acknowledge them.  But the adults are starting to recognize me as part of their community (plus some even tell the kids to stop bothering me).  I am trying to keep my responses subdued - there's no sense in getting upset about it or yelling back, or even acknowledging it.  Plus, for some reason it is really easy for me to ignore.  Especially in the market, when I am on a mission to find avocado, good tomatoes, or fresh wagashi (cheese made by the Fulani nomads that is fried in oil - not the same as cheese curds, but still good!).  It's not even derogatory, "obroni" or "fada;" it's only a word they use to describe me, because they do not know me.  Soon it will be "Kofi" or "teacher," though with the kids it will remain incessant and might make me wish I could go back to being called "obroni/fada" to feel more anonymous. 

Ok, not so short a blog post, but I thought it would be useful to describe this aspect of Ghana and my corner here in northern Volta.  It is true that here I am no longer anonymous - I cannot blend in and be a local.  But over the next two years I will be getting close, if only in my community.  And because integration is hardest at the beginning and gets easier each day, I am confident that it won't be a major problem for me.