I have been back now, coming on two weeks. But everything seems a bit hazy.
"Go slow" is what Ed, the NGO head kept telling me. I didn't really understand at first. But am now coming to understand a bit more what he meant. In fact, I am realizing that I couldn't speed up a reentry to the US if I wanted to.
Being an achiever, as we all are, is a wonderful thing. It is what allows Haiti to recover, it is what allows rise of the poor, survival of the marginalized and, really, what makes our worlds go round. Blind achieving, however, can become empty and even painful at times. The drive to stay on that anticipated path we've imagined for ourselves can overshadow so much else in life: feeling a moment in its present state, accepting sadness, embracing blissful happiness and the relief of relinquishing complete control on every movement yet to come.
As I reenter my world in LA I feel hands free, perhaps like those mamas with the babies on their backs. I don't feel a loss of control, but I no longer feel the need to hold on tightly. Life now feels more like swimming, perhaps in a bit of murky water right now. But I know I won't sink, even further, I know good and bad lies in front of me and in many senses I just can't control it.
Despite the lack of control, nothing has changed...I never had more control to begin with. Only my perspective has changed.
I tolerate hard times and emotions.
I accept the ups and downs of life and move through them ("like leaves moving down a stream of water" a friend once told me).
I grant myself the patience to move at the pace I need to.
I remain flexible to adapt to what life may toss my way.
Lastly I swim forward, not fully understanding where I am supposed to go or what lies ahead, I just repeat to myself with each stroke: Progress is Happiness.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
Signs of the "Ghanian" Times
My time in Ghana is unbelievably coming to a close.
As I believe that signs, TV, food and language reflect so much of a culture, I leave you all with some last interesting signs I've come across on my travels. Lastly, I thank you all that took the time out to follow along with me on this crazy, ridiculous, incredible ride, it was nice to know you were with me all along.
"Grory Be To God"
Obama visits Cape Coast, Ghana
"Coffee Shop and car rental"
href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpMmNEMIIqpn7k5CkvipbsFBcUna6ZdAo3J-Gcut5YSCBNSPHUyuOd-WgB5ATUPscTAY9y_kog8q-Ky-Zci-0_khHon_9TLLXPAzwMrfWAsS4KFsRkWzvQlyvv33kftLVXC0-McmLT4aj/s1600-h/IMG_2702+coffee+n+car+rental.JPG">
"Jesus is Alive Beauty Saloon"
My visit to Boti Waterfalls
Jesus is the inspiration for many an "enterprise."
The conference I attended in Kumasi, Ghana
"Weep not my child"
My favorite taxi sign: "still Do For Love"
The subtlety was striking.
As I believe that signs, TV, food and language reflect so much of a culture, I leave you all with some last interesting signs I've come across on my travels. Lastly, I thank you all that took the time out to follow along with me on this crazy, ridiculous, incredible ride, it was nice to know you were with me all along.
"Grory Be To God"
Obama visits Cape Coast, Ghana
"Coffee Shop and car rental"
href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpMmNEMIIqpn7k5CkvipbsFBcUna6ZdAo3J-Gcut5YSCBNSPHUyuOd-WgB5ATUPscTAY9y_kog8q-Ky-Zci-0_khHon_9TLLXPAzwMrfWAsS4KFsRkWzvQlyvv33kftLVXC0-McmLT4aj/s1600-h/IMG_2702+coffee+n+car+rental.JPG">
"Jesus is Alive Beauty Saloon"
My visit to Boti Waterfalls
Jesus is the inspiration for many an "enterprise."
The conference I attended in Kumasi, Ghana
"Weep not my child"
My favorite taxi sign: "still Do For Love"
The subtlety was striking.
Monday, January 4, 2010
I enter the madness of an Accra tro-tro station. I hear the crunch of tossed, empty, plastic water sachets as I walk, dragging my “travel” carry-on behind me. The suitcase tires, topples to it’s side, refusing to go further on the bumpy, unpaved station road. I pick her up and reluctantly carry her thinking: ‘did I really need that extra pair of shoes?’
“Can you please show me which tro-tro to take to Kokrobite?” I ask some man standing confidently, looking like he was just supposed to be there. He turns and looks at me. I simplify my question, tossing out all the frivolous verbage: “Please tro-tro to Kokrobite?”
“Take olpllaaschdss” is what I hear him say.
“Where to? Which tro-tro?” I ask again.
His hand points over there. I look up and see three big ratty tatty vehicles, resembling the offspring if a bus and mini-van mated. One is pink, almost full and ready to go. One is an empty space with a queue snaking to infinity. One has people packing themselves in, 6 trying to fit through that van door at the same time; “last one left is a rotten egg.”
We walk over and I try to convince him the pink one is it: “This one?”
“Olbraarreeerr” he responds.
And we repeat our lines of miscommunication.
Please, please don’t let it be the snake line one.
Eventually we narrow it down. It’s the snake line one.
A tro-tro pulls up into the empty space and the snake line comes alive, everyone still respecting the line, however simultaneously shoving to board. Since I am now boarding this tro-tro to “oldbrrararrreeerr,” I am on my toes without a clue where to go. My new best-friend, who I don’t understand, quickly tries to sweep me into the front seat. All I need to do is to piss off all the Ghanaians who have been waiting patiently in the snake queue; to become the asshole obruni. I drag my suitcase with me and we go to the back of the line. My new best friend instructs a young man standing in line in front of me to become my new, new best friend and relinquishes himself of his duty as my temporary caretaker.
The truth is that I don’t need to be taken care of. I just really needed to know which tro-tro to take. Now me and my new, new best friend stand awkwardly in line together.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Always tell them you are from India.” I hear my Ghanaian friend’s words of advise echo in my head. “Whenever Africans hear America they think money.”
“I’m from India,” I state matter of factly in my totally California drawl.
The conversation closes as I stare extremely interested in the chaos of the tro-tro station in front of me. Five minutes passes.
“But…your English, it’s different…” he hesitates.
Damnit, I’ve been caught. Why do I listen to bad advise?
“Oh well, I lived in India. Now I live in the US,” trying to breathe some confidence into my BS.
My gaze returns, extremely interested, to the chaos of the tro-tro station. I look atop the heads of passing vendors: “pure water,” “mentos & handkerchiefs,” “qtips,” “cotton-balls,” “chocolate.” With each one that passes I wonder if I need some. But I’ve never used a handkerchief before, why start now? Having to lug whatever you buy is a great deterrent to buying crap just cause it’s there, it’s cheap and you’re bored.
Alas, the tro-tro to “Old Barrier” (I clarified with my new, new best friend) pulls up, the snake line comes to life. I wrestle my bag to the back of the van and take a seat, by default, next to my new, new best friend.
“How long have you been in Ghana? Are you a tourist in Ghana?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m a tourist.” I say.
I suppose one lie, beseeches another.
“Did you just come to Accra from America?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, this is your first time in Africa?”
“Yes.”
“But how do you know about the buses and tro-tros so well?”
“I read it in my book and my friends told me.”
Am I on a bad date? It sure feels like one.
‘Mona, be patient,’ I tell myself. ‘He’s nice. ‘
“Wow, how is America?” he continues.
“It’s nice.” I respond.
My American norms of privacy are non-existent here. I am on their soil not mine. Yet the man to the other side of me chuckling signals that his incessant questioning is too much. Finally I say: “Please, I am going to listen to my music for some time.” With a guilty conscience, I breathe a big sigh of relief. After three months of being everyone’s point of fascination in the village I am ready to re-embrace my anonymity.
“Can you please show me which tro-tro to take to Kokrobite?” I ask some man standing confidently, looking like he was just supposed to be there. He turns and looks at me. I simplify my question, tossing out all the frivolous verbage: “Please tro-tro to Kokrobite?”
“Take olpllaaschdss” is what I hear him say.
“Where to? Which tro-tro?” I ask again.
His hand points over there. I look up and see three big ratty tatty vehicles, resembling the offspring if a bus and mini-van mated. One is pink, almost full and ready to go. One is an empty space with a queue snaking to infinity. One has people packing themselves in, 6 trying to fit through that van door at the same time; “last one left is a rotten egg.”
We walk over and I try to convince him the pink one is it: “This one?”
“Olbraarreeerr” he responds.
And we repeat our lines of miscommunication.
Please, please don’t let it be the snake line one.
Eventually we narrow it down. It’s the snake line one.
A tro-tro pulls up into the empty space and the snake line comes alive, everyone still respecting the line, however simultaneously shoving to board. Since I am now boarding this tro-tro to “oldbrrararrreeerr,” I am on my toes without a clue where to go. My new best-friend, who I don’t understand, quickly tries to sweep me into the front seat. All I need to do is to piss off all the Ghanaians who have been waiting patiently in the snake queue; to become the asshole obruni. I drag my suitcase with me and we go to the back of the line. My new best friend instructs a young man standing in line in front of me to become my new, new best friend and relinquishes himself of his duty as my temporary caretaker.
The truth is that I don’t need to be taken care of. I just really needed to know which tro-tro to take. Now me and my new, new best friend stand awkwardly in line together.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Always tell them you are from India.” I hear my Ghanaian friend’s words of advise echo in my head. “Whenever Africans hear America they think money.”
“I’m from India,” I state matter of factly in my totally California drawl.
The conversation closes as I stare extremely interested in the chaos of the tro-tro station in front of me. Five minutes passes.
“But…your English, it’s different…” he hesitates.
Damnit, I’ve been caught. Why do I listen to bad advise?
“Oh well, I lived in India. Now I live in the US,” trying to breathe some confidence into my BS.
My gaze returns, extremely interested, to the chaos of the tro-tro station. I look atop the heads of passing vendors: “pure water,” “mentos & handkerchiefs,” “qtips,” “cotton-balls,” “chocolate.” With each one that passes I wonder if I need some. But I’ve never used a handkerchief before, why start now? Having to lug whatever you buy is a great deterrent to buying crap just cause it’s there, it’s cheap and you’re bored.
Alas, the tro-tro to “Old Barrier” (I clarified with my new, new best friend) pulls up, the snake line comes to life. I wrestle my bag to the back of the van and take a seat, by default, next to my new, new best friend.
“How long have you been in Ghana? Are you a tourist in Ghana?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m a tourist.” I say.
I suppose one lie, beseeches another.
“Did you just come to Accra from America?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, this is your first time in Africa?”
“Yes.”
“But how do you know about the buses and tro-tros so well?”
“I read it in my book and my friends told me.”
Am I on a bad date? It sure feels like one.
‘Mona, be patient,’ I tell myself. ‘He’s nice. ‘
“Wow, how is America?” he continues.
“It’s nice.” I respond.
My American norms of privacy are non-existent here. I am on their soil not mine. Yet the man to the other side of me chuckling signals that his incessant questioning is too much. Finally I say: “Please, I am going to listen to my music for some time.” With a guilty conscience, I breathe a big sigh of relief. After three months of being everyone’s point of fascination in the village I am ready to re-embrace my anonymity.
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