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!