Not Friendly Enough

[Tuesday, August 30, 2011]

  It was half past seven and the Ghanaian sun had set. As taxis and tro-tro’s sped by, red dirt shrouded the dimly lit streets of Atebubu. My new roommate Stefano, who is from Seattle, and I wandered around in search for a loaf of bread and a soccer ball. Our hotel was less than a two-minute walk to the artery that connected the town to nearby villages. Vendors still kept their shops and booths opened and children continued to play. Again, remember that it was nearing complete darkness inasmuch as it required me to use my penlight to guide my way.  

      As foreigners, we stuck out but this has been occurring everywhere, and so we have become inured to all the name-callings. [Side note: I mentioned before that I have been asked if I were Japanese and greeted with "ni hao", and to add to that a teenage girl yesterday saluted me with "yabuseo" (spelling?).] They would shout “obroni” and ask how I was doing, and I gave the perfunctory responses but continued on my way without fully engaging in any deep conversation.  

      As Stefano and I wandered down an alley way with no one in sight, we made sure that we looped around to return to that main road. On our way back, a man that we passed cried out, “Hey! Where are you going?!” In a rather leisurely pace, we continued walking and simply said ‘hi’ in return. He then shouted again, but this time raced towards us, causing us to come to a halt as we listened to his tirade.  

      “Is that how you are?!” he bellowed.

      I was stunned and did not know really what to say.

      “I saw you today,” implying that he came to the outreach earlier that day, “and this is how you greet me? I would not have said ‘hello’ if I did not know you.” His anger was obvious. I quickly apologized, but did not feel the need to drag this out. Stefano and I continued on and sullenly wandered the town for only a short while after that. 

      I have learned about that Ghanaian culture and how people would exchange greetings all the time; should one fail to return the hello it can be a sign of antipathy. This is why the gentleman felt the need to call me out on that. Nevertheless, how could I have known that this man was one of the hundreds of patients that I had only but a brief encounter with? To be frank, I initially thought that he was an untrustworthy stranger especially with the unfamiliar setting and questionable inquisition.  

      Now that I have had some time to reflect, I felt as if I did not leave him a good impression of foreigners and he can justly assume that we are unfriendly. Although I do regret not having the opportunity to fully explain the situation to him.

 

Beggar Mentality

[Limited Internet access.]

I have been wanting to read this book called Dead Aid. Unfortunately, I cannot recall the name of the author, but I believe that she is an economist at the London School of Economics and of African descent. If I am correct, her book details the reasons why many nations on the African continent have been so unsuccessful in their attempts at development. A crucial factor is the fact that there is a constant supply of foreign aid, and what this ultimately does is enable the beggar mentality.

Everywhere that I go and in every direction that I turn, there are children and adults alike raising their upward palms to me, motioning the gesture of food to their lips, and asking me for water from the canteen that I carry. It’s truly hard to say ‘no’, especially because I need to repeatedly do so countless times a day.

When I was riding the tro-tro on Sunday, I met a nice middle-age lady. We began to strike up a conversation regarding where I was going and about my time here in Ghana. Then ten minutes into the talk, she asked for me to pay for her fare — a cost of nothing more than 50 pesewas (~30 cents). She audaciously claimed that she had no money to do so herself, but it was blatant that she could. I had to firmly refuse or else the person to my left and those sitting behind me would follow suit. This immediately tarnished the relationship and put an awkward halt to the exchange. I experience this type of superficial friendships with almost every encounter in the village. During the outreaches, children would run up and interact with me. But minutes before they discerned that I am about to depart, they start mouthing the word ‘sika’ (money).

When I walk along the bustling main road of downtown Kumasi near the city zoo, there are these two Middle-Eastern children who conspicuously stand out from the rest of the crowd. I notice their mother, a lady who is also of Middle-Eastern descent with golden brown skin and of Aryan features, sitting afar peering over in my direction. The two children would follow me and ask me for money. I regrettably turn them down, only to be pursued more vigorously as they clasp their midget palms around my forearm. It seems like this mother has taught her children to do exactly this and to play on the sympathy of passer-bys.

Not only nations in Africa, but all nations that are working towards a better future need to take it into their own hands and not depend on the generosity of foreign aid. They seem to have been condemned this unfortunate life and inculcated by us foreigners to accept the vagrant attitude as the only way to live. This, of course, does not apply to everyone in such nations but its presence is ubiquitous.

Dead Aid will be one of the top books that I look forward to reading when I return home.

 

Unadulterated Freedom

[Limited Internet access and archaic computers have prevented me from adding pictures and changed the formatting of this post.]

Some contend that it’s liberating, but you can categorically say that I was filled with apprehension through my obvious perspiration and increased respiratory rate. On Saturday, my two dear friends Shaina and Gagandeep, both whom are from Toronto, returned to Ghana’s capital city of Accra. I am to remain in Kumasi for another week prior to my departure and return to Middlebury. With an entire day ahead of me, I thought that the best way to spend it was in a high-speed internet cafÈ downtown. So I packed up my book-bag and hopped on a tro-tro (large van that acted like a carpool). It was quite different from the moment I left the hotel. No longer had I had two friends accompanying me as I crossed the unforgiving road of trucks and cars speeding at 70 kilometres an hour. Instead of having familiar faces beside me on the 15-passenger van, I was sandwiched by the locals. Instinctively, I held on to my belongings with a bit more tenacity. My independence was terrifying. I disembarked at the Central Market, an open market claimed to be one of the busiest in Western Africa with over 10,000 vendors. Naturally, my relatively fair skin, foreign clothes, tennis shoes, sunglasses, and a bulky backpack accentuated my presence among the local buyers and sellers. I had to walk for about twenty minutes through the labyrinthine streets, but had no clear set of directions in mind. All I knew was that I needed to reach that tall Vodaphone-red cell tower, which dominated the sky. Faces turned and eyes gazed as I bumped into the throng of people. Many would shout at me, saying “Ni hao” as if I knew any Mandarin. My heart raced and I would become more and more leery every time a stranger from behind collided into me. This was complete freedom to do almost anything I pleased, talk to any strangers, browse at all the merchandise, or hop in a cab to go someplace new. Nonetheless, all I wanted to do was return to my safe room, a place of familiarity.