Christmas in Ghana
'CAUSE SANTA CAN’T ALWAYS FIND AFRICA ON A MAP
MELISSA HIEBERT STAFF
Dec. 9 (or 10)
I am sitting in London Heathrow
airport. The time is 8:10 a.m., and I
have already been resting here on this
uncomfortable wire-framed bench for
over two hours. Just seven more hours
to go until I can board the third and
final plane of my journey, which will
take me to my ultimate destination:
Ghana.
Back home, it’s just past two in the morning. Most travellers would anticipate the eye-stinging joys of jet lag, and make sure they caught a decent amount of zzz’s in preparation of a month-long trip to a foreign country, and before spending 30 hours in transit. But oh no, not me. A 2 a.m. invite from a friend seemed far more promising than sleep. And definitely better than packing, which I also neglected to do until the morning I was to leave. No wonder I missed my 7 a.m. flight and had to be re-routed through Toronto, endearingly pigeonholed as the asshole capital of Canada.
I didn’t mean that, Toronto, I’m just tired. I’ve been awake for 43 hours now.
Laryn explains to me that they went to do follow-up checkups on two people that had previously been diagnosed as HIV-positive, to make sure they were seeking treatment and taking their medication. She told me that both of them were already dead.
Dec 11
It’s past midnight when I finally
get through customs and set foot
on the ground outside for the first
time. The heat hits me like a ton of
bricks, a shocking change from the
brutal Winnipeg winter. Amidst the
huge crowd of people waiting around
outside of the airport, I see a man
holding up a sign with my name on
it. He introduces himself as Elvis, my
project coordinator.
I have to admit, when I first decided to volunteer in Ghana, I knew absolutely nothing about it; I could barely locate it on a map. However, with the help of the “project guide” supplied to me by the organization I was sent through, I have learned that Ghana is a small country in the western region of Africa, with a population of just over 21 million. The official language is English, but most people speak in their local dialects (of which the country has 46 in all). Ghana is a young country, with the median population sitting around 19.9 years of age (compared to Canada’s 37.8). The prevalence rate of the HIV/AIDS virus in adults (aged 18-45) is as high as 2.3 per cent, though exact numbers are hard to come by as many cases go undiagnosed.
As we’re driving from the airport to the place I will be staying, I soak up as much of the scenery as I can. Having previously withheld judgement about what to think of the country, I am met with oddly conflicting images of Coca-Cola billboards standing next to billboards that proclaim “Stop AIDS! Wear a condom.” Convenience stores and Shell Gas stations litter the streets, among small wooden food stands and stray animals wandering around freely and aimlessly. Women, dressed in high heels and the latest fashions, carry huge buckets of water on their heads. Any misconception about Africa I’ve ever had was shattered within a matter of five minutes.
The rest of the drive is a haze. I’ve been awake (more or less) for 60 hours now.
Dec 12
After taking a day to recover from
jet lag, our party starts off on our
journey to Cape Coast, a small fishing
community in the central region
of Ghana. In addition to Elvis and
myself, there are two other volunteers,
Laryn and Anthony,
who have also both just
arrived, from Australia
and Texas, respectively.
After passing outside of the city limits, we begin to see much less of the western influence, and a lot more of the Africa that we have come to know by way of World Vision commercials. Straw and mud houses line the highway, and herds of livestock wander around aimlessly, weaving their way through the many people bustling about.
Along the way, we stop at a small village to drop off a few measly supplies, or so it seemed to me. Elvis gets out of the car, and pulls out a small package of pencils that Laryn had pulled off her floor before she left. Though most of them were broken or worn down to half, dozens of kids seemed to flock out of nowhere and swarm around him, desperate to snatch up their share of his offering.
Elvis explains to us that if a child goes to school without a pencil, they will be sent home. Often, parents can’t afford pencils or school supplies for their children, which means that the children won’t be able to receive an education, fuelling the cycle of poverty. Who knew that this cycle could be broken by something as simple as a half-chewed pencil crayon rescued from under the couch in my living room.
Next on our journey is a quick stopover at the small health centre that serves six of the surrounding communities. Since cars are hard to come by in this region, some of the really sick patients have to be carried for miles on makeshift stretchers by their friends and family just to receive treatment. Looking more like a cement patio than a hospital, the organizers explained that they were only able to perform basic first aid, and that the patients would have to be transferred to one of the larger hospitals in the major cities for anything serious. Often, many people have neither the money nor the means of transportation to get there.
We stop off at a second village, which is in pretty much the same state as the first: mud-thatched houses, no electricity, and a child population that vastly outnumbered the adults. Elvis and the others walk away to talk with the “head” of the community, and tell me to “stay behind and talk to the children.”
I’ve never felt like so much of a celebrity in my life. The children, speaking little or no English, swarm around me to touch my hair and my skin. Every time I offer out my hand for a high five, they timidly slap it, squealing in delight. When I snap a photograph with my digital camera and show it to them, they burst into uproarious laughter.
Elvis later explains that most of the children have never seen a white person before. As we drive away, the children run after the car, waving and yelling “goodbye!” — one of the very few English words they know.
Finally arriving at Cape Coast sometime around midnight, I flop down into the bed that my homestay family has provided for me, trying to make sense of everything I have just seen.
Dec 13
I arrive at the orphanage, not
knowing what to expect. Nancy, the
director of the orphanage and the sole
full-time staff member, greets me and
motions for me to sit down on a small
wooden bench beside a chalkboard leaning up against a tree in the yard.
Then, she calls the children to gather
in front of the building. “They’re all
yours,” she says.
There are 16 children residing at the human service trust orphanage, ranging from six to 14. Some of the older children have been to school and have basic reading and math skills, but some of the younger ones have trouble just speaking English.
Entertaining 16 children for eight hours a day, armed with only an old chalkboard and what few toys I have brought with me is not an easy task. The day mostly consists of attempting to teach the children how to read and write and some basic mathematics, and playing simple games that do not require a lot of equipment. Some of the younger children, starved for attention and affection, simply curl up on my lap and go to sleep.
The children smile and laugh as they run around and play, but at the same time their eyes seem somehow older — more mature. Children as young as nine are taking on many of the responsibilities of the adults, cooking, cleaning, and caring for the children that are even younger than they are. And all of them have had to live through the terrible tragedy of losing both their parents.
At least the children at the orphanage have a place to stay, and, of course, each other. There are many other orphaned children who have no place to go.
Dec 15
I return home from the orphanage
to the project centre, and am met
by the solemn faces of Anthony and
Laryn, who have been out in the field
doing HIV/AIDS community work
all day. Laryn explains to me that they
went to do follow-up checkups on
two people that had previously been
diagnosed as HIV-positive, to make
sure they were seeking treatment and
taking their medication. She told me
that both of them were already dead.
Dec 19
It is 5:59 p.m.. I am sitting on
the roof of my homestay family’s
flat, looking out at the delicately
lit cityscape. Soon, the only lights
that will be seen are the faint flashes of lightning flickering off in the
distance. Soon the whole city will be
in darkness.
Ghana’s sole power source is the Akosombo Dam, which currently has a low water level. In a new effort to preserve energy and to keep the water level from dropping off completely, every five days they turn off the power at 6 p.m.. At times, it’s as frequent as
Often, parents can’t afford pencils or school supplies for their children, which means that the children won’t be able to receive an education, fuelling the cycle of poverty.
every three.5:59:58, 5:59:59, 6:00! I eagerly look up from my watch, expecting to see instant darkness. But I forgot, this is Ghana, and nothing is ever on time. I wait around for almost an hour, and still nothing. I get up to leave, when it finally happens; all of the tiny lights fade in an instant, and the loud cheerful music from the streets below abruptly stops.
Instead of spending the evening watching Nigerian films and old episodes of American Idol (a show that apparently surpasses all cultural boundaries) as per a normal evening, we sit quietly around a gas lantern, discussing politics and comparing cultural similarities and differences. Anthony and I laugh at the thought of our respective governments back home deciding even to cut the cable for an evening, let alone cutting the electricity off completely. It would be mass chaos.
Though perhaps an inconvenience, I really enjoy being forced to live without electricity every few days. The atmosphere seems somehow more relaxed, more peaceful. Though I doubt I’ll be saying that when I’m trying to sleep in the 30-degree heat without a fan.
Dec 25 (Christmas)
I wake up on Christmas morning,
and am met by a shocking Christmas
surprise: absolutely nothing. No
Christmas tree, no bombardment of
presents, no fancy dinner, nothing.
Most people don’t have the disposable
income to afford such things, and as
such, Christmas is more a time to rest
than a time to shop.
After going to church, people spend the day visiting with their friends and family and mainly, just relaxing. The only difference from any other day is that instead of people greeting each other with “hello,” they wish each other a merry Christmas, and good luck in the new year.
I think of all of the western Christmas rituals that I have skipped out on this year, like waiting in long lines at the mall, ceaselessly wrapping presents and writing cards, and other consumer-related ventures. I don’t miss it one bit.
Jan 2
On my way home to Winnipeg
now, preparing for an inevitable
reverse culture-shock, I reflect on
what I will answer when people ask
me the inevitable question, “What is
Ghana like?” I hardly have to think
for more than a minute, because an
answer is already clear in my mind.
Ghana, despite all of its problems,
is a wonderful country filled with
wonderful people. Phrases like “no
worries,” “hate no one,” and “count
your blessings,” adorn every car
window and marketplace shop. People
will wave and say hello as they pass
each other on the street, and complete
strangers (no matter how little they
have) will happily invite you into their
houses and make you feel at home.
Cheerful music can be heard wherever
you go, and people smile and laugh
often.
We often think of countries in Africa as being poverty-stricken, disease-riddled, and depressing. However, the hope that these people have, the humour, and most importantly, the love for one another, shines through all of these things. I will remember Ghana not for its problems (we all have them), but for the inspiring people I have met who have taught me that there is no problem so bad that it will stop people from living, laughing and loving.
