The African Diaspora

Ernesto is here. He and I have been traveling around Ghana for the past week. I have read every book I packed and I have no desire to purchase any new books. Books have become an additional weight and space filler in my bag and are therefore not ideal during travels. I have listened to every song on my ipod at least 9 times and I cannot bear the sound of them anymore. I have been spending a lot of time in thought...it seems the only way to make it through 9 hour tro-tro rides over unpaved roads. The thought that has been encompassing my thoughts is this, "Even though Black people have been dispersed throughout the world (mostly through the slave trade), how is it that their situations, challenges, and experiences throughout the world are so similar?"

Traveling throughout Ghana I have seen widespread poverty. I have seen devastation that HIV/AIDS has had on Black communities. I have understood the amount of dependency that Blacks have developed on others, often Whites, for their own survival. What I see in Ghana is not all that different from the realities that many African-Americans face. It is not very different from the circumstances of the Afro-Caribbeans. Blacks (Africans, African-Americans, Afro-Caribbean, Afro-Europeans, Haitians, Jamaicans, etc...) are all dealing with the same psychological, health, economic and familial challenges. Many of these challenges result from similar histories. We all have histories of being forced into labor (slavery) or colonization (being robbed of our own land). That alone has caused a lot of physiological and economic damage. However, I will not accept that the past justifies everything that I see today.

On a tro-tro ride Ernesto and I befriended a retired Ghanian solider named Robert. We small talked with Robert for a while. He talked and talked. He told us that nothing in Ghana is owned by Ghanians (I knew this already). European and Asian countries own the major corporations throughout the country. Ghanians own very few, if any, of the businesses throughout their own country. They do not even control their own cocoa plantations. Nestle owns the Cocoa. The cars are imported from other nations. Holland owns the roads. Various European countries own the cell phone companies. China owns everything else. With that, I asked Robert, "Well then you understand that Ghana, and most of the rest of the African countries, are still colonized?" It took him a minute to process what I meant. Maybe he had not thought about it in this way. He went on to say that he felt that it was better that outside countries controlled the major businesses in Ghana. "Ghanians don't do good business. Holland makes better roads. Chinese do better business. I do not like to do business with Ghanians. Ghanian business no good." With this, my heart sank. This is the same exact sentiment that many African-Americans take with each other. We do not support our own businesses because our attitude is that White's do things better (I admit that I take on this attitude in certain aspects of life as well). If you want your car fixed correctly and quickly, take it to the White man. If you want your car fixed cheaply and you have time to spare, take it to a brother. I am starting to develop different feelings about the way that members of the Black Diaspora use the words "brother" and "sister" so loosely. Do we really feel that way about each other? I mean damn, I understand that it is often family that treats each other the worst but does this have to transfer to the way entire communities, or races, of people treat interact?

The children here in Africa remind me so much of the Black children in the states. Many of them receive sub-standard educations. Too many of them suffer from lack of nutritious diets (these malnourished diets result from lack of education, cultural cuisine and limited financial means). There is a lack of men in the home. Everybody has a Daddy but few children have a father. They do not have the access they need to compete with the rest of the world. That access is denied through lack of technology, opportunity and adults who expect them to excel. Harmful practices are not abandoned if they are considered part of the culture. Indigenous doctors, or "Witch doctors", old people, preachers (and religious institutions in general) have way too much power in Black communities. There is not enough questioning of cultural and historical practices. There is way, way, way, way, way, too much acceptance. There is not enough QUESTIONING. Not enough CHALLENGING. And surely, Not enough CHANGING!

We, as a people, have a lot of work to do.

A Creation Story

One glorious morning in the 1980’s God was looking down on the earth and was not pleased with what she saw. People were less focused on building communities to benefit others and were more focused on themselves. There was an increased emphasizes on designer jeans, tennis shoes, name brands and people, rich and poor, became very materialistic. Could this be the decade that followed the politically charged and conscious 60’s and 70’s? God was floured. She sat on her thrown and thought that something must be done. She decided that she was going to send servants to earth during the 1980’s so they would be of great benefit to the world during their lifetimes. Ideally, they would encourage individuals, especially Westerners, to see themselves as a part of a global community. God picked up some dirt and spit her magical spit in it and started to create. God was halfway through her 54^th person, a boy that she was going to name Adrian Pinkney, when one of the angels called her for her afternoon tea. God placed the incomplete creation down on her table and went to collect her Early Grey and Pepperidge Farm Milano’s. When she was satisfied she returned to her thrown and picked up the Claymation that would soon become human 9 months after being sent through a womb. God had already made a beautiful face, a toned structure, and had even given Adrian the privilege of black skin. There was one piece of clay remaining and God could not remember if she was supposed to make breast or a penis for her divine creation. Was Adrian supposed to be a boy or a girl? She looked around for something to trigger her memory but she was at a loss (excusably God is like a ba-trillion years old) and she remembered that she had a lot more people to create that day. Manipulating the clay a bit, God make two breast, a slit between the legs and sent her creation down through the womb of the virgin Maria (Note: When the bible was written the word “virgin” referred to young women. It applied to all women of a certain age. So Maria and Mary likely performed the same miracle as “virgin” women who bore children)

Nine months later, Maria bore a beautiful baby girl and called her Adrianne, which means really-awesome-super-cool-beautiful-smart-wonderful-strong-all-that-and-more-girl-that-rocks. Adrianne was a curious little girl and enjoyed growing up alongside her big brother Cameron. When Adrianne hit puberty she noticed that she was not like all the other girls. Where they had smooth soft skin with very little hair, she was excessively hairy. She developed a moustache, long side burns, a beard and the hair on her legs was so long in parts that she could braid it when she was lost for entertainment. Adrianne knew she was different and tried to hide her hairy shame under long pants. She suffered through the summer months. At home, she would wear shorts to get some relief from the stuffy pants she wore throughout the day. Cameron took notice of his sister’s hairy condition. “Ewww Adrianne! You are a werewolf!” he taunted. “You are more of man than I’ll ever be!” he teased as he pointed to Adrianne’s moustache. Adrianne was ashamed of all of her hair. Little did she know that she was one of God’s special creations…with a slight defect. God gave Adrian many traditionally male features and personality traits before she went for her tea, the breast that she slapped on her were supposed to be her penis. But since God doesn’t make mistakes, all of these things will someday work to Adrianne’s favor…unfortunately, that day is yet to come.

When Adriane was 12 years-old she started to shave her legs. She found this to be a long and tedious process that resulted in clogged bathtub drains and minor cuts. She disliked shaving and only shaved during the summer months so that she could swim without criticism. As Adrianne grew she developed a stronger sense of herself. She decided that God made her beautiful, just the way she was, and there was no shame in her excessive body hair. She stopped shaving and even wore her legs out sometimes in the summertime. She ignored people’s long stares and looks of disgust and continued to enjoy her day. All was going well until Adrianne met “Man”. Like many women, Adrianne liked Man a lot. She found him to be strong, fun, handsome and refreshingly different, and like, herself. She liked Man and wanted to keep one around. Little did she know, Man was largely under the influence of popular media and Western standards of beauty. Man began to project those ideas on Adrianne and discouraged her from keeping her hairy legs. He said he was not attracted to them. Adrianne wanted to be liked by Man, like the rest of the girls, so she returned to body hair removal. Refusing to shave, Adrianne turned to waxing. Although it was expensive, she enjoyed the smooth and long-term benefits it provided. The first time Adrianne waxed she cried and cried. She had never experienced such pain and her life; however she, like most women, had been told that “Beauty is pain” and continued to torture herself and her body much like the Chinese women with bound feet or the Medieval women with corsets. Adrianne had a monthly appointment to have her hair ripped from her body.

At the age of 25, Adrianne decided to spend her summer in Africa. While in Africa she decided to “let herself go” from the Western ideas that had controlled much of her life. She was in the East! She did not paint her nails, wear make-up, or shave her legs. She was happy. Many men, and women, stopped to compliment her hairy condition. She enjoyed two months of this type of affirmation. It was good for her spirit. Adrianne was expecting a visit from a Western friend and all of her anxieties about her beastly legs returned. She was afraid they would not like it. She didn’t want to disappoint her friend who came so far to see her. While walking through the streets of Accra Adrianne saw a sign in the distance, “FULL LEG/BIKINI WAX FOR 30 CEDI!” She could not believe her eyes. Could she really have her legs waxed for around 20 American dollars? Adrianne ran toward the sign and rushed in the door. 20 minutes later she was lying on a massage table waiting for her hair to be removed. Her spirits were high, as she was saving a lot of money.

Moments later, Elizabeth and Teka walked in. Adrianne had never been waxed by two people before! She thought, “This should go especially fast.” Teka attempted to spread some wax along Adrianne’s thigh. Adrianne noticed that the wax was not hot enough to be spread. The wax pulled along Adrianne’s long hairs and caused her great pain. “Ouch!” she yelped. Teka apologized and proceeded to lay a strip along the luke­-warm wax. Teka grabbed the edge of the strip and ripped. Adrianne screamed! They both looked at the strip and it was completely hairless. Wax still remained all over Adrianne’s legs. Adrianne knew that she made a mistake. She should not have opted to get her legs waxed in a developing nation. “Damn these hairy legs!” she thought. Her thought was interrupted by another strip being ripped off her skin. She then understood. Elizabeth and Teka planned to wax her legs at the same time, as if she were some corpse that could be worked on at the convenience of the medical student. Adrianne resisted. She informed the waxers they could not wax both of her legs at the same time and that they needed to wait for the wax to get warmer. Teka sneered at Elizabeth, “I told you we had to wait for the wax to get hotter!” Adrianne worried. When was the last time the wax pot was warmed? Maybe no one gets there legs waxed here? Don’t places that really wax a lot of people always leave the wax pot on? This wax pot was obviously off…for a while. Adrianne gulped. Feelings of horror engulfed Adrianne’s mind. What was going to happen to her body? She wanted to get up and leave, but she didn’t want to offend the young women who were beginning their careers. Maybe she would willingly be their first real client. Elizabeth spread more wax on Adrianne’s shaking leg. It was warmer. Rip! “Shit!” exclaims Elizabeth. She panicked each time she removed a strip. She had no idea what she was doing. Adrianne suggested that she pull the skin tight before removing the strip (Adrianne had her own wax pot a home that she sometimes used when she was too broke to go to the salon). Elizabeth applied more wax and asked Teka to hold the skin around the strip while she pulled. “Shit! I did it!” Elizabeth exclaimed. Finally, after several attempts, one of the wax strips had actually removed some hair. Elizabeth and Teka continued to work together to remove the hair from Adrianne’s legs. Twice Elizabeth smacked Teka in the face as she removed the waxed strips. It was slap-stick comedy. Adrianne would have laughed… If only this was not her body it was happening to. Adrianne wondered if she was being “Punked”. Then she remembered the show was cancel and probably didn’t air in Africa anyway. To forget about the torture, Adrianne put in her ipod and listened to R. Kelly’s Love Letter, as an attempt to escape her body. She lay on the table and thought about God. When Adrianne felt like her legs were about done, she sat up and looked at her legs. She laughed. She was covered in pieces of wax strips that had not been pulled of her legs. There were lines of hair on her legs that were somehow skipped over. This was just awful! Elizabeth immediately starts explaining “Oh, we will go back over it again and clean it up. It is okay. We will clean. We will clean. Don’t worry”. Elizabeth attempted to push Adrianne back down so she could not see this disastrous thing that happened to her legs. Teka quickly left the room. Finally, Adrianne did what she should have done long ago; she jumps off the table and reaches for her pants. In attempt to put them on, she noticed she had large globs of wax all over her legs. Elizabeth offered her some oil. Adrianne and Elizabeth worked together to slather Adrianne and baby oil so that the wax and paper strips could be removed from her legs. After all the remnants of the attempted wax job were removed, Adrianne left the shop frustrated, in pain, and almost just as hairy as she was when she arrived. While walking home, Adrianne thought about laser hair removal. She resolved herself to be on the lookout for the next Groupon or Living Social special coupon for hair removal services. She would never wax again…at least not in Africa. The end.

Accra

I have spent the last few nights in Accra. The "big city" in Ghana. It is nice. It is here in Accra that I see the "third world" and the "first world" combine so graciously. Right outside of the 5 star restaurant that serves the 50 cedi (dollar) steaks is a market lady selling fried yam chips for 50 peswas (cents). We are staying at the Salvation Army which is about the cheapest accomidation for backpackers. It's cool. The owner invited me to church Sunday morning, like a good ol' typicaly Ghanaian woman would. I declined and jokingly told her I couldn't go because I was a sinner. She said, "All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God". I responded, "I know, but I am heathen". She laughed. I successfully dodged attending another long, loud Ghanaian church service. I bought a lot of cool gifts for people here in Accra. The street vendor workers are A LOT more aggressive here. A young man named Kofi fell in love with me once he saw how hairy my legs are. Apparently, hairy legs are considered very sexy to many African men. I have gotten several compliments since I have decided to go "bush woman". Kofi proceeded to follow me around the market and rub my legs every chance he got. I cursed and smacked him several times to no avail. Ghanaian men are very aggressive and women smacking and cursing them is often considered part of the flirtation process. He was just playing the game, and my pleas for help became a part of it. I was screwed. He kept following me and rubbing my legs through the market. It would have been funny if it weren't so damn annoying. A random Rasta man came to my rescue and told Kofi to go away and stop messing with his sister. Thank God for the Rastas. Jah Bless. Rastafari! Jah will provide.

When I get home I want to spend more time studying other religions. I plan to read the Qu'ran, it it's entirety and study the origins and ideas of Rastafarianism. I see a lot of peace in those religions and I am curious to explore it a bit more...

Traveling North

The week started with the bus. Public transportation in a developing nation. That meant long waits, unreliable bus schedules, raggedy and overcrowded buses with more passengers than seats. Waiting at the bus station has been by far the most intense test of patience I have ever experienced. Especially when it rained. There was a line of passengers waiting to get tickets to Kumasi. They stood in line for hours, pushing each other and yelling at each other. It was quite violent. A baby was knocked down in the muddy rain water but the mother was too preoccupied with the fight to notice. I picked up the traumatized child and wiped him clean. The bus station seemed to represent so many institutions in Ghana...things that could be easily fixed, or organized, but no one takes the initiative to do it. All the bus station needed, was a designated place for buses departing and arriving from certain areas to park (the buses pull up and all the passengers have to keep moving to see if it is their bus...it creates a lot of unnecessary movement), a roped off line for ticket-buyers to wait in (so they don't have to turn themselves into a human line of squished together people trying to keep the line-skippers from squeezing between them), and a board displaying the times that the buses are expected to arrive (because you have to keep going to the front desk and asking what time your bus is going to come). The entire bus station was a cluster fuck. The ride was just about the same. The buses are always overcrowded. Too many people and too many bags. During one bus ride four men were unable to get a seat. They stood the entire ride. 5 hours they stood. I was amazed. I thought they were the strongest men I have seen in a while. They didn't complain. Just stood. Didn't lean the entire way. I guess they were just glad to have made the bus...

Actually I spent the majority of the bus ride in amazement. I was literally left speechless by the things I witnessed while in Northern Ghana. Having spent the majority of my time exploring the Cape Coast area, which is a bit touristy and somewhat developed (developed is used very loosely, mostly for a lack of better words), I was flabbergasted by the poverty that I witnessed in the North. We passed village after village of mud huts with straw roofs. I distinctly remember one village that had a street light. I will always remember it because under that street light there was a young man standing, leaning on the pole and reading a book. It seemed it was the only light available for him to read after the sun went down. Whatever he was reading couldn't wait for the next day's dawn. He stood under the light to read. Profound. Despite of the intense poverty and underdevelopment of the North, I found the North to be more orderly and clean than the southern region. This could be a result of the smaller population, but I really think it is a result of the prevalence of Islam. I have always been impressed by the Muslim communities in America and I am finding them to be equally as impressive in Ghana. Having read sections of the Qu'ran I know that Islam has a strict commitment to cleanliness of the body; but also of general space. In the South I could barely walk down the streets without fear of being hit by a car (there is no space for pedestrians) but in the North there are not only sidewalks, but also bike lanes! There is less, if any, trash on the ground and an increased number of trash cans! (who would ever think that trash should be collected in one central space to prevent the spreed of disease?). I feel a deep respect for the people in this area. Though they are impoverished they have a since of pride in themselves that I haven't seen all over Africa. I really have a lot of respect for Northerners; but it is always easy to respect someone who first show respect for themselves. Also, the North Ghanaians are BEAUTIFUL. I couldn't stop staring. I was in awe, complete admiration, of beauty of the men and women of the North. My God. BEAUTIFUL people. I found about 5 men and women that I wanted to take home and give to friends as presents...if only that were not a violation of human rights. Damn United Nations.

One person stood out. When we arrived in the village of Larabanga (the oldest Muslim village in Ghana) we stayed in a local guest house owned by two brothers. The guest house was very cool. I slept in a mud hut. Huts are a lot more impressive on the inside than I thought. They are very reliable structures. It rained, or should I say monsoon-ed, while I slept in my hut and I barely heard it. I awoke totally safe and totally dry. It was in this guest house that I met Balil. She was simply beautiful, inside and out, but right now I will focus on her outside. She is tall, black (literally), with beautiful white teeth, and a slender build that does not readily reveal that she is mother of three, her smile is genuine and kind and she emits a warmth that attracts others...or it was the source that attracted me to her. Balil was always doing. Cooking, cleaning, washing children, washing clothes. She never stopped. Her husband who claimed to be "a very busy man" spend his days sitting under a tree. He never offered to assist her. A bit perturbed by watching her toil while her husband rested in the shade, I offered to help Balil cook. While she cooked, we talked like women do. I started by asking her birthday (my shameful attempt to figure out everyone's zodiac sign within the first 20 minutes of knowing them...I think I have a problem) and she informed me that she does not know her birthday. She assumes that she is around 30 years old. At least that is what she tells people. Suddenly, the lights went out. Balil continued to cook and I ran to my hut to get my flashlight to hold over her while she cooked over charcoal flames in a cauldron. I held the light. Balil cooked. I listened. She talked. "Women here have to marry. I lived in a room with 20 other people. We all slept on the floor. All the girls must marry. To make more room. Many of the men here do not work. They can't find work. Do men have work in America? It is a problem for Ghana. The women do a lot. I must bathe the children. I must cook. Right now it is especially hard for me for it is Ramadan and we are fasting. I have to wake extra early to prepare a meal before the sun. I am tired because I am not eating when the sun is up. But I still must work. Do I want more children? No, I am taking family planning (In Ghana birth control has been promoted by using a more friendly title of "family planning. Rightfully, Africans would not trust a product if it were promoted to control their birthing. People of color have had a hurtful past of our reproduction being controlled by outsiders). Oh what type? We don't really have a choice here. You go to the clinic and the doctors give you what they want you to have. I tried a pill but I kept forgetting it. I am so busy. That is how I got Ibrahim. I went back to family planning. This time they give me a shot. I don't have to remember it for 3 months. I like that. Have you been to Accra? I heard that the women there are different. They have jobs. Important jobs, like men. I have heard that the men there have to help. Or the women hire caretakers for their children. But that will not happen for me. I did not go to school. I had to help my family. I sometimes sit outside of classes and listen. It is very important that my daughter goes to school. She is 9. She just started classes. She has to catch up. I want her to be smarter than me." To this I interjected, "Balil, you are smart. You run this entire business. Only a smart person could do that". To this she laughed.

Even through her broken, simple English I understood so much about Africa after listening to Balil. I wanted to do something nice for Balil, so I bought some cloth from her. She is allowed to sell cloth for her own money. She overcharged me...and it was the first time that I took

overpaying as my personal privilege. Balil does not seem like an unhappy woman. I would not call her oppressed, or at least "knowingly oppressed". She seems accepting of her lot in life and contented to work within the sexist society in which she was born. When she cooks, she smiles. She does not frown. She goes busily about her day. She seems okay. Seems being the operative word. I want to fill sorry for Balil. To take her back to America with me. To share some feminist philosophy with her. But what good would that do? She is fed, her children are fed, her daughters are educated, she has access to clean water, she can go to the doctor when she needs. She lives a life of luxury. Who cares if she has to work so hard for it? Don't we?

Hussein, Balil's husband, is a different character all together. He is not a mean man. He is actually quite pleasant and hospitable. My feelings for him were of indifference. I took him as a typical African man of Islamic faith. He does not see himself, or anyone around him as oppressive of women, he just lives within the structure. He is a supporter of "the way things are" or better yet, "the way God intended things to be". I would be too, if it worked to my benefit as much as it works to his. On my last night at the guest house, I sat outside and enjoyed a bond fire, courtesy of my awesome group members. Hussein mounted his bike and left the compound. He returned with a woman on the bike. He and the woman went to his room (he and Balil have separate huts. It is very common practice and one I actually like). Hussein then brought a boom box outside and turned the music up very, very loud. An hour later Hussein and the lady (please look up the historical meaning of the word lady to understand why I choose to associate it with this woman) emerged from the hut, mounted the bike and left. My feelings of indifference turned into disgust. Then I remember, Hussein in one of the few men in the village who has only one wife. Well if the Bible, and Qu'ran, solidify marriage through consummation, then Hussein has two wives as well.

As the bike rode away I immediately thought of the man that I saw earlier that day in the market. We had to go to Damongo to eat because all of Larabanga was fasting. In Damongo I was checking out cucumbers and preparing myself to bargain down the price. I was interrupted by a local man who was speaking to the market lady. I looked up to find that this mans face was covered in liaisons. I looked down to find his hands covered as well. It was the first time I have ever seen a person with AIDS. After seeing that man, I saw another who had the similar facial abrasions. It was heartbreaking. It is heartbreaking. I don't know where HIV/AIDS came from, and I don't care if it arrived from someone who fucked a monkey or resulted from a government science lab. I don't CARE where HIV/AIDS originated! All I know is that shit is real and is killing people, people of color, BLACK PEOPLE, throughout the world. Something has to be done. Now! Almost every family in Ghana is taking of at least two additional children who are orphans. I am told that their parents died of "pneumonia" or "malaria". No one wants to admit that these orphan children are a result of HIV/AIDS. With that silence, the problem will surely persist.

I have a lot more to tell about my travels North, but I am actually typing this from Accra. Now that I am in the capital city, the internet cafe is much more expensive. I will have to continue this when I have more money. Plus, typing all of this kind of wears me down a bit. It makes my heart heavy. It is Saturday night in the big city. I GOTTA GO!

Traveling North

Sorry my blogs have been few and far between. This one will be short, much like the one that precedes it. I am in the Northern part of Ghana and the people here are very poor and the resources are scarce. I am typing this blog on a computer that looks like it was resurrected from the early 90's. The keys stick when I press them and I refuse to type a long blog under these conditions. I have so much to say that I don't know where to start. I'll start soon. As soon as I find the words.