The Fort

My first days in Dzelukope have been filled with many fantastic learning experiences. I’ve experienced a lot of cultural food, learned some language and local dance (see my post “Paramount Tugbi” to come). Despite the fact that local mothers think we’re crazy for doing it, a few of us students, and some local friends, spent an evening at the beach. Because of strong currents we only waded in waste deep, but we enjoyed cooling off while watching the full moon and lights of the fishing boats reflecting off the waves. 

Recently we travelled to Keta, a town just near Dzelukope. My host family technically lives in a sub-district of this town, of which the name means ‘King of the Sand’; a fitting name as I have yet to see ground that isn’t sand.

In Keta we visited Fort Prizenstein, a fort constructed in the 1700s as a part of the slave trade. It’s one of 44 forts in Ghana, and of 48 in Sub Saharan Africa. The colonial legacy is strong in Ghana, and the fort is symbolic of this legacy. I had a very heavy heart as I learned about the fort, the people that were taken there, and the way they were sold into slavery. It's difficult to speak with my local friends about the dark history of the ground we are living on, but the brief conversations we have had have been significant. It’s impossible to describe this, or to give any semblance of significance to it with my words, and although I doubt my pictures do it justice here are just a few.

 

 

My life in Dzelukope

the Dzelukope beach after fisherman returned for the day

Finally I am writing to you from Dzelukope after leaving Accra. The internet connection in the city is down most of the time, so I expect updates from here will be few and far between but for today here I am!

Dzelukope is a welcome relief from the pace of life in Accra and much more familiar to me than was Accra. The size of the town, and the fact that I am free to walk around town, as well as the community feel, is much more like Yako and I am more at ease here than I was in Accra. That being said, now that I’m a week and a bit into the program, i’m beginning to have glimpses of some of the challenges of my time here.

“Un-kon-ne-na Adju” is the introduction I’ve learned to use over the past days in Dzelukope. Although I know my pronunciation needs work I can tell you that this means ‘my name is Monday born’. When I introduce myself as Brittany most people are confused, and ignore my name, or pronounce it similar to ‘brijly’. I’m okay with all of this because usually the next question someone will ask me is where I am staying and it’s then my turn to badly pronounce someone’s name.

“With Togbi” I say. This means with the chief. I’m not however, staying with the paramount chief, so there are many Togbis in Dzelukope. I struggle to pronounce my Togbi’s last name, and then say “you know, his courtyard is by the school, and the Jesus Cares Day Care Centre...”

Living in a courtyard is a huge learning process, not to mention living in a Togbi’s courtyard. The social conventions of life in a family courtyard, are for the most part, new to me. I’ve had a glimpse of life as an African daughter over the past days, as everytime I go or leave the courtyard i’m asked to explain my comings and goings, and explain exactly what time I’ll be home, or why i’m later than I said I would be (in Africa! Where everything is late.). This is a struggle, but my roommate and I have been learning to cope with this. And, I recognize my experience is only a glimpse as if I want to arrange to come home after the gates are locked I can, and the other girls cannot.

Our courtyard has several tenants in addition to the main family. One of them has three children that I’ve started “bonding” with when. The oldest is a girl, she often gives me hugs and always shows me a huge smile. Her younger brother speaks to me frequently in Ewe to which I respond with the three words I know. My favourite is “Eh” which means yes. Although I’m not convinced always answering him with yes is a good idea, it’s fun to see the look on his face as I talk to him.

Ghanain life, friends and food is one form of experience here. The other is completing school work and starting research. Learning how to navigate my way around a new culture, while learning how to conduct interviews, all within the proper theoretical constructs, is feeling a little overwhelming right now. Fortunately, all the other students are going through the same process, and we’re all working to support each other’s research.

More updates to come.

Wordless Wednesday: Fantas are my favourite

in-class insight

Just in case you were concerned I’d signed myself up for a six-week vacation I should tell you there is school involved – it’s just in Africa. Tomorrow our team will be leaving Accra for Dzelukope (pronounced Je-lu-co-pay). There we’ll be living with a host family and working on my research.


Today we had a lecture that included some interesting discussion. The most interesting was a point from one of our host professors: don’t confuse the culture of poverty with the culture of Africa. This struck a chord with me, as I wonder how often I do this. I know there have been times when I have seen African men wearing Western style clothing, or seen foreign restaurants and said “That’s not African! Why would they do that?”. It’s crazy, when I compare this with Canada. At home, we have the choice to take part in whatever we want, and going for Chinese food, or wearing clothes bought from wherever we want to buy them is a part of our culture. Why should it be any less part of African culture than Canadian culture? Maybe I sometimes mistake the culture of poverty for the culture of Africa.

That’s all for now! Looking forward to updating you from the village.

Little One

It was the skirt that did it. The purple skirt I had made in Burkina. We were headed to church this morning and I wanted to feel just a little ‘African’ so I wore it. And when church was done I didn’t feel like changing, so I kept it on, despite the fact that most everyone else had donned much more trendy attire.

We went to the market, where I spent the afternoon playing Owarré (aka mancalla) and drumming (very badly) with a shopkeeper named Will. And when my hours in the market were finished and I went to return to the group I found a bunch of our group playing with local kids. I noticed the kids: the boys of all ages playing soccer, the oldest girl sitting with my friends against the wall. And the little one that was sitting near the rest, she was the sad one with the vacant stare.

I turned to watch the soccer and then the littlest one, the sad one, grabbed my skirt. When I bent down to say hello to her she pushed herself into my arms. And when I asked her how she was she replied with “fine” even though her sister said she couldn’t talk. And I crouched on the ground as long as I could with Little One half in my arms. I figured that even though I was a total stranger, I was wearing a skirt she could identify with. It was enough for me.

When my knees felt ready to buckle and I couldn’t crouch any more I had to push little one off so I could plant myself on the ground more firmly. She was scared when I moved, and stared at me confused until I told her she could sit down, and her brother (not so gently) pushed her into my lap. I told him she didn’t have to, and tried to help her get up, but she’d planted herself back down.

I felt crazy – sitting with some random person’s baby in my arms, in the middle of downtown Accra. But I would have felt five times worse not holding her. I talked to her, and tried to play little games with her fingers and toes, but she just stared ahead blankly.

When it was time and I got up to go to the bus Little One took my hand. I found her sister and handed one hand over. They followed us to bus, sitting outside my window, until we pulled out of the parking lot.

And part of me doesn’t want to think about Little One and all the children like her because it’s hard to. Little One makes me want to say it shouldn’t be like this. Little One makes me feel hopeless and hopeful all at once, and I’m never sure I want to experience that combination.

But I’ve thought of Little One all day.