This will be the last post I write from Kpando. Four weeks have come and gone and in just one day we will board a plane for the homeland. Regretfully, there are so many visits, so many events, so many people I have yet to mention in my writing. Time has the ability to speed-up and then expire very abruptly, just when we've become settled in a place. But before I get all mushy gushy on you, let me tell you a story about a typical Wednesday in Ghana. In a very ironic, yet fitting way, that one day seems to sum up our trip quite perfectly.
PART ONE: LIFE
Wednesday was a hell of a day.
Josh woke me up from a deep sleep and said it was time to go. I sat bolt-upright, startled and confused. My brain, still in 'hibernate mode', could not process why Josh was standing over my bed, dressed in one of his traditional Ghanian shirts, telling me we had someplace to be.
He laughed and explained, “the naming ceremony, for Stone's baby.”
Nope, I thought, he's made a mistake, “...that starts at 7:30 p.m.”
“No, it's at 7:30 a.m.,” he responded.
Really? He must be right. I jumped out of bed, pulled on my jeans, picked out one of Josh's remaining traditional shirts and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Five minutes after my wake-up call we were out the door.
It was only a short walk and as we entered the courtyard where the ceremony was to take place it was obvious that everyone was waiting on us. People all around began speaking in Ewe, laughing after certain words and phrases that called attention to our presence – the two white guys have arrived! Chairs were set up in rows along three of the four buildings which shared this courtyard and Stone, the new father, was seated in the front row to one side. We were directed to sit the front row directly opposite and as soon as lowered into our seats the ceremony began.
Stone, beaming through his thick white beard, looked especially prophetic today - dressed in a long, loose-fitting, traditional shirt, long pants, leather sandals and a white knit cap. In the center of courtyard, two men, both dressed in jeans and t-shirt seemed to be the misfitting master of ceremony and his assistant. They began by mixing leaves, water and some other root or grass that I couldn't make out into a half-coconut-shell bowl. After saying a few words in Ewe the assistant walked up to Stone's wife, uncovered the baby, and snipped off a small piece of hair, which was also added to the mixture.
This is about the point where Stone's cell phone rang. I thought he would just hang-up on the caller but to my shock he had a full conversation with the person. Josh and I looked at one another and laughed. It was quite a site: Stone sitting there in the front row talking loudly, not worried that he was interupting his own child's ceremony or that everyone could hear every word of his conversation. Cell phones... The juxaposition was blindingly apparent: a traditional African ceremony interupted by a cell phone call. I guess it must happen often.
After Stone finished our MC began once more. Again, he walked over to Stone's wife, this time taking the baby in his hands after uncovering his eight-day-old head and he held him up toward the sun. The man then placed the child on the ground, spoke a few words, picked up the bowl containing the mixture he had prepared and sprayed some on the baby. Then the baby's name was spoken for the first time: "Didi" – meaning desire.
At this point the ceremony had ended and the drinking had begun. The MC and his assistant carried bottles of gin and whisky, pouring a shot for anyone who waved them over, and two women passed out Coke's, Fanta's, and Star (beer). The well-dressed woman sitting next to me must have been thrirsty becasue after drinking a Coke she finished off a Star just a few seconds. I looked across to Josh, wondering if he had noticed. He gave me an smirk, the one that says: wow, impressive.
Somehow, I managed to skip the gin and whisky cue and finished off my Coke without incident. As we sat there another man stood up and began to solicit donations. Now, this was not your typical anonymous church-service "pass around a basket" donatation procession. He took a person's money, held it up for everyone to see, announced the value and, with everyone joining in, thanked the person. I had forgotten my wallet at home, so I felt like an idiot. But, luckily, Josh had some money in his pocket so we were able to save face. The whole process took some time, but afterward the service was finally over.
I thought we were free to go at this point, but Stone invited us over to his house for a "light breakfast." When we arrived we were taken into the living room, which was very odd considering everyone else remained outside, served a plate of rice and fish, and given a cold beer to help wash it down – nevermind that it was only 8:00 a.m. Let me reiterate: we had rice, fish and beer for breakfast. TIA.
After forcing down the rice and finishing off my breakfast beer, Josh and I were invited outside to take pictures. The first set of photos document my first ever encounter with palm wine, a local wine produced by tapping a palm tree and then slowly smoking the liquid that comes out. Josh and I were both poured a healthy portion – half a cocunut shell bowl each – and we drank. It was very smoky, and the alcohol was apparent as the liquid made its way south, but it was very refreshing, nontheless.
By this point I was a little tipsy. The mixture of breakfast beer and palm wine began to shift loudly in my stomach and the heat of the now fully risen sun was not helping. Stone disapeared for a moment and came back with his wife and new baby in tow. Stone explained that he wanted pictures of the baby with his two American fathers, so one by one, Josh and I held Didi and posed for a picture. Didi was asleep, but shifted very slightly when I took him in my arms. Being only eight days old, he felt very fragile. His skin looked soft, unweathered by the world, and his thick black hair seemed oddly out of place on someone so young. He was beautiful.
Later on that day we had a chance to ask Stone about the different parts of the ceremony and thier meaning. The baby had been covered for the first eight days of his life, but today, his face was uncovered for the first time and he was shown the sun. The MC held the baby up in the air to symbolize that, at times during ones life, we may find ourselves far from the ground but that we should not worry. The baby was then placed on the ground to symbolize that we all fall down, alot, and then sprinkled him with the mixture of water, earth and hair as a form of protection.
The ceremony marks the begining of Didi's journey through this world and I was honored to among those who helped send him on his way.
PART TWO: DEATH
After so much excitement so early in the day, Josh and I came back home and tried our best to impersonate vegtables. I napped on-and-off in one of the lounge chairs and Josh went to his bed. After regaining some energy we finally started on our to-do list, item 1: laundry.
Let me just say, we hate doing laundry by hand. I know, I know, how "American" of me. Well I've hand washed many loads of clothes so I think I'm entitled to my opinion. It sucks. First you have to scrub each individual item, sometimes for ten minutes. Not long after you begin, your fingers start to sting. That's because you've rubbed off the top layer of your skin and the laundry soup is seaping into your bloodstream. After washing everything thoroughly, you pour out the blackened water, get new water AND DO IT ALL AGAIN. Then there is a rinse cycle and then, if your clothes are still soapy, you repeat that too.
Josh and I have our own technique, which pains the women here but saves us about an hour. We pre-soak all of our clothes in soap, wash once – one to two minutes per shirt and shorts, less for underwear – soak the clothes in clean water, strain and we're done. After drying, you can see that our method is crap because our clothes gain a stiff-like quality that they didn't have before. Oh well. I don't care.
A few minutes into the wash I looked up and noticed a baby goat walking across the yard. I smiled at the site – the little creature, no larger than a small kitten, prancing around the yard, stoping periodically to eat a leaf off the ground. For a moment I had forgotten that I was scrubbing my hands raw in the dirty water. Life was good. The scene just seemed right.
Not long after that I took part of our load to hang on the clothes line in order to make room in our rinse bucket. When I returned, I heard a cry and I immediately scanned the yard for the little goat. It was lying not twenty feet away, on its side and he looked to be in pain. Cry after cry after cry – you could hear that he was suffering. Josh and I stood over him, feeling confused and very helpless. Finally, Mama came over, took one look and concluding that he must be dying. We couldn't be sure of the cause, but she thought he probably ate something poisonous. Within five minutes his little body went limp and he stopped crying.
Mama picked him by his hind legs and carried it across the yard, tossing it into a bucket by our back gate. I couldn't help but appreciate the imagery – just as Josh and I had tossed our satruated shirts into the rinse bucket, that little, lifeless goat had been tossed into an identical container. Mama picked up a hoe and dug a shallow grave. Then she picked up the little goat, tossed him in, covered him with dirt, and placed two large rocks over top. At first I thought they were makeshift gravestones, but realized the rocks were just there to make it harder for the naiborhood dogs to dig up the shallow grave.
There was no service. Not one words was spoken. Just like that, in the span of thirty-minutes, the life of that baby goat had come to an end. And here in Africa life went on.
PART THREE: LOVE
Later on that night Josh and I met Stone at the Maxy Spot for a celebratory drink. Here in Ghana, bars are called 'spots', but being the immature young men we are, we've changed the Maxy's name to the "Maxy Pad." That's right, we've gone there.
We stat down, ordered a round of Star and a round of meat from Sonny, Josh's meet guy. Most spots have a meat guy that serves slice beef with onions dusted in a special blend of ground spices, but Sonny is by far Kpando's best. Soon our beer was served and our meat was ready, and thus class was in session.
Josh and I both agree that Stone is one of the smartest people we've ever met. He just looks smart – a sagely, white beard covers his round cheeks and his knit hat bumps up his 'prophet' status twofold. On that night he didn't disapoint. Per normal, we discussed world politics. Stone makes sure to watch Al-Jazeera, BBC and CNN every night, so he as able to catch us up on the ongoing struggle in Libya.
After some time Josh inteterupted the conversation and asked Stone if he would be willing to answer a question. He paused, for effect, then asked, "Stone, what is the secret to love?" I was taken aback by the question, but being a few beers in I remember thinking: brilliant.
Stone's answer, like most things he says, suprised us because it was so different from what we expected. Stone is a Traditionalist, and so believes that a man can take more than one wife. Actually, many of the African men we've met, whether they are Christian, Muslim or Traditionalists, will subscribe to this line of thinking. So, you can imagine where we thought this conversation was headed.
To paraphrase, Stone began: Love is complicated. Traditionally, we believe that a man can take more than one wife, and so a man can love more than one women. But, I admire your way of viewing love. You find, then love only one woman and no matter where you go in this world you know that she is waiting home for you, loving just you. And, you only love her. It's beautiful (he uses this phrase often).
Like I said, his answer was the exact opposite of what I was expecting. I was waiting to hear a lecture on how having more than one wife should be encouraged, etc, etc, etc. But, instead he, in such a simple way, put words to one of lifes great mysteries. Prophet? Maybe. Wiseman? Most definately.
Regretably, I've run out of time and space. There is so much left unwritten – the water project, tro-tro's, Meet Me There, Mama Peta and Monique. I will continue to fill in the missing details when I return home, but for now I will channel my inner Anthony Bourdain and close with this final thought:
What will I take away from this place? What will I remember? What will move me to return? To be honest, at times it was challenging. On a few occasions, the heat, the garbage filled gutters and the crowded city buses made me question my decision stay for so long. But, the hardship is quickly washed away by the simplicity of this place. Here people walk to where they are going. No one passes you by at 45 miles-per-hour. So, here, everyone waves and asks, "how are you", and I am always expected to stop and answer. Children sing and clap as I walk past – yevu, yevu, bonsui...white person, white person, chop chop – a left over, mistranslated colonial song. Here I'm more aware of the humanity that exists within the boundaries of a city. Every object, every interaction and every person has something to teach you. You just have to slow down, say "hello" as you walk through town and you're bound to learn some lesson – about youself and about the way this crazy world works.
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