Reunion

I saw an amazing thing.
Last time I went to the refugee camp, the UNHCR car had an extra errand to do on the way. We picked up a 9-year-old girl from an orphanage. She is not an orphan but had been living in the orphan house for almost six months. This little girl was brutally assaulted by some men living at the camp. She was seriously injured to the extent that after she was released from the hospital, she was too weak to make the hour-long trip between the camp and the medical center. The orphanage is near the hospital so arrangements were made for her to live there until she healed physically. She has been separated from her mom for almost six months. Our job for the day was to take her back to live with her mother. While some of the group managed the paperwork, she wanted to change her dress so she would look special for her mom. She changed it twice.
As we drove out to the camp, she could hardly sit still. She fidgeted excitedly and carefully took in everything around her.
The plan was to meet her mom at a gas station outside the camp. Without phones, we could not call to confirm. Everyone in the truck was very nervous that her mom would not be there for some reason. None of us could bear her to feel any disappointment.
Thankfully, her mom was there. She let out a squeal when we pulled into the parking lot. Before the car could stop, she was scrambling out and was instantly enfolded in her mother’s arms. They twirled around as her mom began to cry.

I was very humbled to bear witness to this moment. It felt like a sacred moment, one in which the deepest longings of two people were met in a reunion. I hope it was a redemptive moment, one that marks a shift from surviving a horror to healing and new life.

Giving Psychology Away

I've spent the last week at a workshop to trains missionaries in crisis response. The content ranges from practical skills to reflecting on a personal theology of suffering. It seems like the focused time to think about crisis and the opprotunity to receive training in how to support friends and collegues in the midst of trauma has been absoluetly invaluable to those who are here. These folks are all "well versed" in crisis through personal experiences. This training adds more formal knowledge and the opportunity to practice specific skills. Perhaps most importantly the training forms the basis for a network of peers who can advise and support each other as they are assisting and supporting other people.

The simple fact is that there is much trauma and few professional mental health workers. It is most effective for the few trained workers to use some of their time and energy equipping other people to better fullfill the supportive roles they are already playing. It makes sense to enhance the organic "counseling" and care-taking that is already taking place, rather than attempt to care directly for each person who may need some psychological support.

As an emerging professional it has been neat to see psychology used in such a practical, empowering way. I think there is some tendancy to among professionals to hoard knowledge and training and treat it as if it needs to be restricted for use by a select few. It costs professionals some tokens of authority to reveal their "secret" knowledge and offer it to others. I understand that there is danger in a little bit of knowledge and I am not arguing for the careless distribution of psychological practice and theory, but I do think professionals do a disservice when they underestimate "non-professionals". I really like the word empowerment. Give power to others, don't hold it all to yourself.

Out for a stroll in a village

Last week I spent a day in a village outside of Accra. Village life is very different than city life. It is harder is some ways- daily life is more difficult to manage without an abundance of stores. There is only one place to buy laundry soap. When they run out you have to wait until the next trip to the city. Inconvenient. Yet, it is refreshing in its slowness, and friendliness. People learn to do more with less.

With my hosts, I went for a walk through the village. I wish I had been able to take a picture of the elementary school children leaving school for the afternoon. Each of them was neatly dressed in their brown and orange school uniforms. They walked with arms linked emphatically exchanging stories from the day (both boys and girls link arms or hold hands- there is no cultural prohibition against friendly male affection). Some kicked soccer balls as they walked and others sort of skipped along. A few carried book bags. Most carried a notebook of some kind and a writing utensil. The striking thing is that all carried a small, kid-sized machete.

I have no explanation for why all the school kids were carrying large knives. I do not know if they were learning machete techniques in gym class or if it was bring your machete for show-and-tell day. In Africa, a machete is common as a toothbrush. Here a machete is much more than a weapon; it is an essential multi-purpose tool.

When I lived here, I had my own machete. I don’t remember where it came from, I acquired it somehow. Once you get over the strangeness of identifying yourself as a machete owner, it turns out to be quite useful. Some uses I found for my machete included:

1. Flipping pancakes or frying eggs (like a spatula)
2. Cutting fruit
3. Cutting grass (this is probably the most common use in an urban area and is sure to result in a back ache)
4. Scraping grime off a number of surfaces
5. Clearing brush from the path of a wild fire
6. Chopping down a small tree in order to build a shelter for the night
7. Creating a tasty beverage from a fresh coconut
8. As a can opener
9. As a back scratcher for the mid back or other hard to reach itchy spots
10. As torque to loosen stuck things

Unhappy African Experience #2

I was sick over the weekend. I feel much better now, but I had a few unhappy days. First vomiting, then the other. I was fatigued. I was hot and cold. Feverish.

Whenever anyone gets sick in Africa, you instantly think: MALARIA! Of course, this is a good first consideration given how common it is and how dangerous it can be. However, I am taking malaria prophylaxis and have not had too many mosquito bites so malaria was not likely. Yet, the possibilities keep you up at night.

I can be very neurotic, especially when sleep deprived. I think I inherited a worry trait from my mom, or maybe just an overactive desire to have a contingency plan for a range of possible situations. Over the course of two nights, I lay awake between bathroom trips considering what diseases I could possibly have. Amebas, parasites, typhoid, cholera, dysentery, yellow fever, elephantites, leprosy… they all sound really horrible. Which ones are treatable? Which ones are not? I considered what would happen if I were to become severely dehydrated and have to go to the hospital for an intravenous drip. I reminded myself to make sure I see the needle being unwrapped before they put it in my arm. I wondered: How sick should I get before going to the hospital? Before deciding to go home? Should I call someone? What should I say? “I have an upset stomach, and I think I might die” sounded too paranoid, even at 3 am.

After consulting with Marion, who is trained as a nurse, I did go to the lab for some tests (just in case). It looks like I will pull through after all and make a full recovery. I felt well enough to have a burger and fries for dinner tonight.

I, Obruni

Obruni is the Twi word for foreign person or white person (they are interchangeable). It has become my name. Every time I step on the street, the word “obruni” bubbles all around me. They are talking about me.

In Africa, my skin is the most important determinate of my identity. I am a caricature, an exaggerated amalgamation.

I would like to say that being, for a moment, a member of the minority gives me some wonderful sympathetic perspective into the experience of minorities in my home country. However, there is an essential difference: everywhere in the world, my skin is the skin of privilege. It is the skin of the colonizers, conquerors and slave traders. It is the skin of those who have won the Darwinian struggle for the earth’s natural and manufactured resources. It is the skin of wealth and power.
I can go into any restaurant, hotel, business, hospital, or government office in this country and be treated a certain way based simply on my skin color. The reality that I am the daughter of an insignificant working class family who survived on top ramen and pretzels in college is inconceivable. In America, I am nobody. In Africa, I am a white person and that means I must be important.

Two other (white) women and I visited a small community church at the invitation of one of the associate pastors. We were seated in front. I don’t mean the first row, I mean the stage.

When I was here as a student, I wanted to do an internship. I took a bus to Ghana’s Department of Social Welfare to look at the bulletin boards. Within minutes, I was sipping tea with the National Director. (Not based on my merit)

This weekend I went to Cape Coast castle. It is a slave “castle.” A point of export for millions of slaves. This history cannot be erased from modern race relations.

Accra’s best neighborhoods are inhabited by obrunis (Europeans, Americans, Lebanese, Koreans). Lovely walled compounds with beautiful bougainvillea and lush grass. Foreigners control many of the major businesses. It is possible to be in Africa and totally surround yourself with other foreigners. There are lovely hotels, restaurants and beachside resorts that are priced exclusively for the foreigner. Eating at a restaurant where lunch is $5 a plate will out-price an average Ghanaian. Eating fufu and stew from a communal bowl sitting on a crate on the side of the road will overwhelm the average obruni. Lunch hour is an hour of apartheid.
Being a white person in Africa is like being at the zoo. Rather, I should say in the zoo. On display. An object of interest. Curious and odd to look at. The skin of privilege is a mobile cage. I cannot roam freely. Wherever I walk, the children call “obruni” to announce my passing and I, once a child on Vandiver Lane, walk the streets as an icon of colonization, slavery, The World Bank, George Bush’s America, and Hollywood.

Update on the week… and existential questions

I am wrapping up a long week of therapy with a someone caught in the middle of one of West Africa’s many civil wars. I won’t say more about it here, except to add that it has been an invaluable learning experience for me. Because transportation is difficult and expensive, and because Karen is the only psychologist in the region, people can only come for one or two weeks. Rather than the weekly, 50-minute sessions that are common in the States, we meet for 2-3 hours at a time, sometimes two sessions a day. We do a lot of work in a short time period. This seems to work well given the parameters.

I feel like my time here is going very, very fast. I have been here for over three weeks. Laura, the other intern, is leaving at the beginning of next week. Rob will be here in just over a week. I will head home in one month’s time. Time is passing quickly. I wish I could stay an additional month or two (with Rob here of course). I am just beginning to feel that I “get” this population well enough to jump in and be useful. I also want to spend more time at the refugee camp and continue to learn more about mental health work with Africans. So many things! I guess some work will have to wait for another trip.

Being here makes me ponder the well worn question of what I am going to do with my life. It is impossible for me (for most people I think) to be a witness to suffering and need without some kind of thoughts about continued involvement. I don’t think I could have these kind of experiences if I didn’t have the sense that this work is part of the larger picture for my life. I am building on a foundation that has been under construction in me for many years. If only I had a copy of the architect’s plans! I know the foundation is deep but I don’t know if it’s a skyscraper, or a bomb shelter. I keep going on trips, each time with my heart open to some kind of sign, some kind of voice from the heavens that says “THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE THING FOR WHICH YOU WERE CREATED.” I don’t understand why this has not happened (I say this ironically because I don’t think it works this way at all).

Rather than drive myself crazy looking for my life’s call written in neon lights, I am borrowing from the contemplative tradition and simply asking myself: “What did I do today that was life-giving, that I loved? What did I do today that was life-draining, that I did not like?” The answers to these questions have led me (over and over) to return to places like Africa and Central America. There is something in the eyes of Ghanaians, Salvadorans, Guatemalans… something about the dusty streets and colorful fabrics… something about the determination to live peacefully, happily, in strong relationships, in spite of, in the midst of (poverty, injustice, war)… something about this place is life-giving to the very core of me.
And the tears come.

What does it mean that I am moved? In this moment I am moved, but what does it mean for the next moment and tomorrow and next year and ten years from now. These are the questions I try not to ask. I just exhale and rest in the fact that this moment, right now, this press of the keyboard means something and that is enough.

People without country

I spent the morning at a refugee camp built to provide short-term refuge for 5000 Liberians. Fifteen years after opening, it is now a teeming city with at least 45,000 exiled residents.

Liberia entered civil war in 1989 when Charles Taylor led a coup d'état. However, in the midst of the offensive, his supporters fractioned and began to fight against each other. The fighting escalated and has resulted in an exceedingly complex series of alliances, and attempted takeovers. A number of separate tribes/people groups have cycled through shifting loyalties and been on different sides of the conflict at different times. It has been a heinous war marked by torture, rape, child soldiers, and ethnic cleansing. Thousands and thousands of people have been forced to flee for their lives. Several peace accords have been signed, then broken. Refugees have fled and returned several times. The country remains in a state of chaos and destruction, with all hope focused on an election that will take place in October. There are more than 50 presidential candidates which in my opinion is not a promising sign. The odds that one of the 49 losers will be disgruntled enough to take up arms are and try to force his way to power seem high.

The living conditions at the camp are abysmal. No one expected it to last this long or grow this big. Only recently have parts of the camp been equipped with electricity (most areas do not yet have power). There is no running water, there are not enough toilets. A wooded area of the camp has become the public toilet, however it has also become a cauldron of criminal activity and is known as a place where people are raped or robbed.

These people are without country. The country they remember has been destroyed. Their families have been separated, social networks broken down, their cultural practices distorted and marred by warmongers. They are in a foreign nation with a different culture, a different language. They have enduring loss, horror and tragedy beyond imagination. The future remains precarious and uncertain…

I spent the morning with a group of teen-age mothers. We met in a counseling room without electricity meaning no fans or lights. We had to close the windows to keep our conversations private, yet the class did not keep out the sound of a blaring radio or a long line of people waiting to fill out forms for an office next door. The young women are all without family in the camp. A few of them “live” or at least sleep on the porch of an office building. Although they are at least fourteen and their bodies are physically able to bear children, malnutrition and the strain of war and refugee life has stunted their development such that several of them looked only 9 or 10. It was very strange to see them holding and nursing their own children.
All of these girls became pregnant after being raped. They have survived one of the most traumatic experiences a human being can go through and now they must struggle to keep themselves and their children alive. They are the most overlooked kind of war casualty. They have not been wounded in battle, but they are victims of a society that has broken down to the point of total depravity. Young women bear the brokenness of men who have been so destroyed by war and violence that in one girl’s words, “they cannot tell the difference between a human and an animal.”

It is hard to articulate what it felt like to be there. There are tears in my eyes while I write this. I feel sadness, but even more I feel moved with respect. Deep respect. In the face of such suffering, these young women still know how to laugh.
As a whole, the camp was full of life. Frustration and depression hung in the air, but it was combated by a sense of determination and gratitude for another day of existence. While I was there, I was in awe of the human ability to survive the unsurvivable, and create life out of ruins. In these moments, psychological theory fails me and I can only understand it as God’s tangible grace. Even in the wake of the ugliest human perpetrated atrocities, God is not absent, but intimately present in the reconstruction of human hearts and lives.

It was hard, very hard to enter such a desperate place, but it was not hopeless.

Sense of time

Came across some wonderful descriptions of Ghana in the book In the Shadow of the Sun by a Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuscinski.

The European (and North American) and the African have an entirely different concept of time. In the European worldview, time exists outside man, exists objectively, and has measurable and linear characteristics. According to Newton, time is absolute: “Absolute, true, mathematical time of itself and from its own nature, it flows equably and without relation to anything external.” The American feels himself to be time’s slave, dependent on it, subject to it. To exist and function, he must observe its ironclad, inviolate laws, its inflexible principles and rules. He must heed deadlines, dates, days and hours. He moves within the rigors of time and cannot exist outside them. They impose upon him their requirements and quotas. An unresolvable conflict exists between man and time, one that always ends with man’s defeat - time annihilates him.

Africans apprehend time differently. For them, it is a much looser concept, more open, elastic, subjective. It is man who influences time, its shape, course, and rhythm (man acting, of course, with the consent of gods and ancestors). Time is even something that man can create outright, for time is made manifest through events, and whether an event takes place or not depends, after all, on man alone. Time appears as a result of our actions, and vanishes when we neglect or ignore it. It is something that springs to life under our influence, but falls into a state of hibernation, even nonexistence, if we do not direct our energy toward it. It is a subservient, passive essence, and most importantly, one dependent on man.
In practical terms, this means that if you go to a village where a meeting is scheduled for the afternoon but find no one at the appointed spot, asking, “when will the meeting take place?” makes no sense. You know the answer: “It will take place when people come”.

Ghanaian Food

Fufu- This is the proud traditional food of the Ashanti tribe. It is part of many traditional legends and sayings. People here love it. One must have at least one fufu experience when visiting Ghana. Fufu is a soft doughy ball. It is made from yam, cassava and plantain. These starches are pounded together by a woman beating a stick into a hard ceramic bowl. The process is long and labor intensive. As she pounds, she adds water until the contents become moist and gooey. The fufu is then rolled into fist-sized balls and served alongside a stew. You use your hands to tear off a piece and dip it in a stew. Wha-la you are eating fufu! Unfortunately, I strongly dislike fufu. My rejection is based entirely on texture. It is too soft and slimy to chew and too thick to swallow. The first time I ate it, I was unprepared for the truly unique texture. I took a bite that was too big to swallow whole. As I tried to chew, I found that the slimy mess would not break apart or thin, it seemed to grow in my mouth like a sea monkey. To my utter embarrassment, I gagged to the point that I had to spit my bite discreetly into my hand and drop it at my feet for a stray dog (one advantage of outdoor dining). I have been fufu shy ever since. I just cannot figure out how to get it down.

Banku- The brother of fufu, however this dish is more operator friendly. It is made of corn and cassava which are pounded, mixed with water, formed into a ball and then fermented somehow. I’m not clear on this last step. It is also eaten with the hands and dipped into a stew. The wonderful thing about banku is that it can be chewed and properly swallowed. There is not the feeling of a slug crawling down your throat.

RedRed- this is by far my favorite dish! Red beans and meat cooked in palm oil with a side of fried ripe plantains. This dish is aptly named since almost all the ingredients are red. Palm oil is thick and bright red. It has a unique taste which this dish hard to reproduce without it. I have not really seen it in the States. My guess is that it is not at all good for you, but it tastes wonderful. Often it is served with a fish head on top.

Kelewele- small pieces of ripe plantain fried with ginger and chili powder. It is a tasty snack often eaten for dessert, but it can be very spicy. Extra points for a cool name.

Talapia- A small fish about the size of an adult hand. It is fried or grilled whole (eyeballs and everything). It is disconcerting when first served but a veteran knows that the meat is rich and tasty. Often combined used in the stew eaten with fufu and banku.

Apateshi- This is home-brew liquor- perhaps most similar to gin. It is bad, bad, bad. It is very strong, tastes horrible and can be dangerous. This week 30-40 Kenyans died of poisoning after drinking the Kenyan version of apateshi which was made with methanol alcohol (?). Check the BBC. The tricky thing about this drink is that it is served when one visits a chief. As a stranger in a small village, it is traditional and socially important to greet the chief if you plan to spend any time in his village. When one greets the chief one will inevitably be invited to sit under a tree to tell him your reason for being there and to learn about his village at length. You will be served a glass of apateshi (a tumbler, not a shot glass). This stuff is strong. The nose runs, the eyes water, the lungs gasp for better air. It is like drinking gasoline. One trick to getting around having to drink too much is that it is customary to pour some on the ground as a libation or tribute to the village ancestors. I like to make a very generous tribute, sometimes more than one. You can also make a tribute to the chief, to his family members, to his livestock etc. It is like toasting. The more toasts, the better for me.

Interesting Things

High speed internet has been down for the past few days- across the entire country. Can you imagine the fallout that would occur if high speed internet when down in the US for even an hour? It is not unordinary here. While waiting for pages to load on dial-up I’ve been reflecting on various parts of life in Ghana. Here are some experiences/observations:

It is perfectly acceptable for men to urinate in public. I took a taxi the other day and when we reached the destination he got out of the car and urinated while I sat there waiting to hand him the money. I stared at my hand for awhile and then left the money on the passenger seat.

It is incredibly rude to hand someone something with your left hand. The left hand is the dirty hand. It is used for dirty things (also bathroom related). To eat with your left hand, give something to someone or even wave with your left hand toward a person is insulting. This is not an easy culture for the leftys.

Greeting is a big deal. You must greet people. If you do not it is insulting. A greeting is much more than a hi or a wave. You must stop, say good morning, ask how the person is, ask how their spouse is, ask about the children, ask if they slept well (if it is morning), ask about anything that transpired since you last met the person. You respond in kind to each question. It takes awhile, but it is very important and reflects the paramount value of relationship. When people respond to “how are you?” with “fine”, they sing it, “fiiiiiiiiiiine”. The “i” is thick and airy. I particularly like this.

Things are interestingly named and decorated. Flag stickers are popular for taxi windshields. I rode in one today with the Australian flag and the Mexican flag. I have frequently seen a large sticker of a naked white crawling baby on the back of trotros. I have no idea where it comes from, what it means or why there seem to be so many floating around Ghana. Many business have religious names like “Blood of Our Savior Beauty Supply” and “Grace of God Bar”. I did not make those up. I should do a photo project on shop names and taxi decorations. It was be very interesting- mostly because it is so random.

Most housing is in compound form. In a rural area, earthen huts are clustered together and surrounded by a low fence to keep the livestock enclosed. The extended family lives together in one compound. In an urban area it is similar. Houses are large and hold multiple families. The guest house I am staying in has like 6-7 bedrooms in the main house and other living space in several small structures on the property. Granted it is a guesthouse, so of course it is large, but it was not originally built for this purpose. Many city houses have walls and watchmen. Crime is not particularly high in Ghana (very low compared to other African cities), but people are very conscious of security.

It is not rude to play loud music. It is considered favorable to share your music with your neighbors. Even at 6:30 AM on a Saturday. Let’s get the party started.

“Tomorrow” is a relative term that can mean anything from five minutes to eternity. When will the shipment arrive? Tomorrow. When will your sister visit? Tomorrow. When will we invade Mars? Tomorrow. It can literally mean the next day, or it can mean the person has no idea, or it can mean that the person does not want to be impolite by telling you that something is impossible or never going to happen. This can be annoying if you’re on a schedule or trying to plan something. (In general planning is kind of… um, pointless). However, I actually enjoy the acceptability of being vague. A young man very intently wanted to sell me a painting of Bob Marley. I could, in full cultural appropriateness, escape by politely saying “perhaps tomorrow”. I wonder if I could spread this cultural principle at home, say at school.

Oh, there are so many things I could talk about. I will certainly write more on this theme tomorrow.

Passing Days

I have spent the first part of this week organizing a research project for the team. I am sending reminder e-mails, making spreadsheets, and generally using my meticulous side. Later in the week I will begin working with a client who is coming to Accra from another West African country. The clinical work is intense and brief. We will meet in 2-3 hour chunks, sometimes twice a day for 5-6 days. It is very different than the weekly 50 minutes sessions I am used to in the States. Because people must travel across several countries, therapy cannot take a typical form.

I am also working on preparing to co-facilitate a support group for teen mothers at a nearby refugee camp. This will be quite an adventure! I face the multiple challenges of establishing rapport as an outsider, navigating the dynamics of a different culture, and trying to connect with teenagers which can be internationally difficult. Despite the challenge, I am really excited about it and confident that it will be a rich learning experience. There are few situations more difficult than refugee life. These people have had to leave everything- homes, villages, family, businesses, school, even their country, in order to save their lives. They relocate in a foreign country where they may not speak the language, they have no ties, and must start over or at least wait out the conflict at home. They live as a community in a refugee camp which quickly becomes the size of a city. The one I will visit has over 40,000 inhabitants. Most of the camp is without running water or consistent electricity. Some people have been there as long as ten years. It is extremely difficult to reconstruct a country after a civil war or ethnic conflict. Africa’s poverty and instability make it an excruciatingly slow process. I hope that I can encourage or strengthen a few of the young women I will work with.

Days pass very quickly here. I cannot believe I’ve already been here for two weeks. Life goes slowly and normal tasks (like cooking) take much longer than at home. The day fills up fast with basic tasks. Some moments I want to slow it down so I can be sure I am really soaking in as much as possible. Other moments I am grateful that I do not have too much free mental time to dwell on being apart from Rob.

Market Day

If you have not had the opportunity to go to an outdoor market, I hope you go someday. Makola Market, the central market in downtown Accra is one of my favorites. Piles and piles of brightly patterned African fabrics are reminiscent of scenes from Wonderland. You can find anything in the market. All wares are neatly displayed on stands created from plywood and scraps of metal. The stands are packed in aisles so close together, there is hardly space for two people to walk past each other. The close quarters and sensory overload can make the market very overwhelming, especially the first time. When I lived in Ghana, I tried to make it to the market once every week or two. Few places afford such entertainment and cultural learning.

Particularly interesting are the loads that people manage to carry on their heads. Some of the loads are astoundingly heavy. Mission nurses tell stories about cracked vertebra and other injuries from carrying heavy loads. Many of the loads are carried by street children and young homeless women who make their living as kayayos, or transporters. On Saturday, I saw a woman carrying twenty-two plastic chairs on her head. The stack of chairs was taller than she was and very, very heavy. It was an amazing navigational feat to get the huge stack of chairs between the stalls. I am not sure how it was spatially possible. She needed help from two other women to get them up onto her head. Another interesting load was a large metal bowl full of 10-15 live chickens. Their feet were bound which apparently makes them go limp. They lay in the bowl clucking a bit, their eyes searching wildly.
I wish I could take pictures of everything I see. I’ve posted a few in an album you can reach by clicking on one of the other photo links.

This Week

This week MMCT is leading a workshop on interpersonal skills and stress management. Expatriate mission workers and intra-African mission workers came from 5 or 6 different West African countries. People are from a variety of backgrounds- translators, librarians, doctors, brail teachers, accountants, pastors, and a variety of home countries: Canada, Congo, Benin, France, Japan, The Netherlands, and the US. It is amazing to see how many different ways people support the work that is happening in Africa.
I am here to participate in the workshop, but am also strategically interacting with certain people who are having difficulty or coming from particularly stressful situations. Several are working in the Ivory Coast or Togo; both countries are that bubbling with civil unrest bordering on war. One session focused on grief and it was particularly poignant for the group. There are so many losses that come along with international life, especially life in Africa. Most of the people have had at least one experience of being evacuated because of due to the outbreak of war, faced the threat of innumerable dangers, and all of them have left family and friends at home. Living here means giving up a certain degree of safety; it means being away from comfortable people and loved ones. It also means watching people come in and out of your life. Most people come for several years and then return to their home country for six months or a year, come back, or go somewhere else. There is a lot of coming and going, a lot of turnover and many organizational shifts. People do not always give themselves time to acknowledge loss, or grieve, especially because there are so many losses piled on top of each other.

In a way, some of the conversations here remind me of a conversation I had with a young gulf war vet. We talked about the deaths that he had witnessed while he was in Iraq. He knew that going to war would involve death. It did not surprise him- it was a predictable outcome of war, an expected risk. Yet, he was not prepared for the sadness he felt, his emotional reaction shocked him and made him uncomfortable. Because death was expected, even matter-of -fact, he expected himself to have a matter-of-fact reaction and was unprepared for the extent of depression and distress that followed the loss of his friends. International workers make calculated sacrifices, they expect separations and danger. However, the nature of the work and the decision to take risks do not undo the inner workings of the heart. Like with the soldier, it is unrealistic for them to expect to sail through incredibly difficult experiences without any type of emotional reaction. People still grieve when they loose friends, safety or experience death and poverty around them. As we have talked about loss and grief throughout the course of the week, I have watched people soften and become more open and real – perhaps giving themselves license to feel a bit. It is not a pity party, but an acknowledgement that all decisions (even good, brave, noble decisions) involve loss, and losses (big or small) come with pain.

Africa

Several friends have written and asked me what Africa is like. I do not think my writing skills can manage an accurate description, but I will ramble a bit on the topic…

To me, coming to Africa is coming closer to earth. Sometimes I feel like California life has been plasticized, like a rock wrapped in layers and layers of saran wrap. All the layers make it look sparkly and it feels nice and squishy between your fingers, but it is no longer a rock. Africa is pure rock. There is no protective or decorative coating between your bear skin and the course texture of the natural earth. If it does not rain, people starve. If it rains too much, people become infected with diseases carried by mosquitoes. Every part of human life is entwined with the ebb and flow of nature. There are very few shields. Earth is everywhere and everything smells like earth. People have a sweet, warm ripe scent. Homes are made from earth, food is grown from earth. Water, fire, all the necessities of daily life are gathered daily, directly from earth.

For me, being in Africa feels like a return to something inside me that preexisted modern life. In my courses, we’ve talked about post-modernity and modernity. Modern people operate based on facts, post-moderns on conversation, expression, intellect, ideas, etc. People in the States are kind of a mix based on generation and geography. Africa is pre-modern. Its highest values are survival and tribe. It is an entirely different way of life (and death). It is at once both simple and wild. The simple and wild parts of me feel at home here and I am drawn to a way of life that is unwrapped. It calms my raw American nerves and redefines the use of the word need. This life requires trust in the Creator of the earth for even the simplest of needs. I have tremendous respect for the African people and their ability to survive, and even thrive, in what some would call unbearable situations.

I do not mean to make poverty unduly poetic. I look around me with novel eyes that appreciate and love this place, but I have not lost a baby to disease, nor have I experienced the slow erosion of hunger. Also, I do not mean to create a caricature of Africa as a collection of huts and people with spears. There is tremendous innovation here and push toward modernization and development.

Perhaps the underlying issue is that when I stepped off the plane in 1998 I felt tremendous compassion for Africa. That compassion has grown, but in addition, I have developed a deep respect for this continent and even eyes to see what is good and beautiful here. I began wanting to help, I have shifted to wanting to learn and love.
Africa is like a home and predates the ones you have known. Whether or not one has been here before, there is a sense of return, of coming back.

Unhappy African Experience #1

As I was getting ready for bed tonight, I grabbed a dirty shirt from a small pile of dirty laundry at the bottom of my closet. I usually wash my clothes each night so that the dirty ones don’t pile up and lead to hours of hand washing. It has been a full week so, I’ve let a few items accumulate, mostly socks and underwear that I prefer to wash in hot water while I am more than half awake. When I touched the shirt, I felt some type of non-clothe item brush my hand. I looked and I saw a small flurry of movement, also not clothe-like. The movement was small so I leaned over, inspected and poked the pile with a hanger. To my shock and disgust a virtual multitude of roaches scattered all over my room. I jumped on the bed and let out a series of squeaking sounds (which may have been some kind of primordial roach communication), trying not to scream and wake up the house. After I composed myself a bit, I grabbed the hanger and begin to move each item of dirty clothing one by one, carefully examining for any evidence of remaining roaches.

Now, 90 minutes later, I have emptied the hot water tank by compulsively washing every item of clothing on the closet floor. After spraying enough Raid and mosquito repellant to asphyxiate a roach twice my body weight, I am sitting by the window with the fan on my face trying to muster up the courage to turn the light off and go to sleep.
I am not bug-phobic but, there was something so violating about seeing those little nasties scurrying over my underclothes. The fact that I didn’t kill them all allows me to entertain the paranoia that as soon as I turn off the light they are going to come back with big brother roaches, homey roaches, and fat roaches named Vinny and Sal. Then the mighty roach army will viciously pillage my newly washed clothes, already clean clothes, fabric not yet made into clothes, and worst of all worsts – crawl on me. Ugh! I can’t even think about it. I’m going to put my headlamp on and thoroughly inspect every inch of the sheets.

Power Optional

We have spent 30 hours without power. It is amazing what can be accomplished by candlelight. Thankfully is has not been too hot so it was bearable to sleep without a fan. Life in Africa certainly demands flexibility and creative problem solving. People go about their business unphased by the lack of electricity. People are used to it. Of course it is novel to me, but I rather enjoy the excitement and the challenge to adapt.

Yesterday Laura and I took a trotro to the market. A trotro is the standard Ghanaian public transportation. Usually a trotro is a mini-bus with four or five rows of seats. Each seat sits four + adults. The whole experience completely violates any of my cultural standards about personal space. People sit on each other, climb over each other and hold each other’s children, suitcases, and baskets of chickens. It is hot and sweaty and often physically uncomfortable. Trotros have no schedule, no specific stops, no set route, no standardized licensure…. To a Westerner, they are pure chaos. They are manned by two people: a driver, who drives like a stuntman on speed, and a conductor who is a young man (age 13-25). The conductor has a very important job! He hangs out the open door or window and yells the destination to people outside. The destinations are abbreviated and often are accompanied by a hand signal. For a trotro going downtown to Kwame Nkruma Circle, the conductor yells “Circ Circ!” and waves his hand in a circular motion. At a busy intersection, 20 trotros line up with the conductors yelling the various destinations. At a big intersection or station, drivers do not like to leave until the trotro is absolutely full. Everyone has to sit in the hot trotro waiting until it fills up. This can take hours- literally, not hyperbolically. In the past I have been tempted to yell the destination myself in order to round up more people.
They are uncomfortable, dangerous, slow and confusing, but I have a special place in my heart for the trotro. It is such an African experience! I love rubbing shoulders with strangers and watching the landscape fly by. I did not really feel like I was back in Africa until I rode in a trotro. It is a great way to interact with “normal” folks, and watch life happen genuinely, without packaging or performance. I can sit and listen and watch (as long as I move my feet every few minutes so some blood can circulate down there)!

Orientation

I went for a jog this morning and watched the neighborhood begin its day. After zigzagging around huge puddles, I passed a crowd of children wearing tan and orange uniforms walking to primary school. I passed groups of people waiting for the bus to work, women setting up their fruit stands, boys selling papers, men opening their shops. The busy streets overflowed with life, activity and a sense of expectation for the day ahead. A jogging obruni (foreign person) is an anomaly on the Accra streets. People are too polite to comment but I sense being a specticle. I like the opportunity to get out and explore in a way that allows me to observe and take in daily life.

We have spent most of the day getting to know each other as a team. We had meetings this morning about our expectations, hopes and desires. We met for dinner tonight and began to tell our stories. The stories of how we grew up, came to faith, and ended up in psychology and Africa. It is a gift to be supervised by people who are willing to share not only their training and expertise but also their lives. The next few days will also be spent in orientation and rest. Next week, our schedule will be full with a training on interpersonal skills and beginning some counseling. The week after that we will be doing some work in a Liberian refugee camp. Not sure exactly what that will invovle but I am looking forward to working with Africans.

I have been sleeping well and feeling healthy. I am grateful for the light schedule and the gentle transition.

Travel and arrival

Long plane flights are the closest one comes to pausing time. A strange stage between asleep and awake. Substandard films stared at by mushy minds. Too tender to think backward to home. Too tired to think forward to months of learning and adventure. Too restless to be in the present. Too anxious and cramped to sleep. In a tiny capsule 50,000 miles above an unknown place. A night without darkness. Loosing hours of life to vertical lines on a map. Accompanied by strangers who become unnatural intimates- rubbing shoulders, sharing meals and bathroom schedules. Emerging from the daze on another day in another world.

I arrived in rainy season. Over the course of one hour a clear sky filled with dark clouds and hurled enough water to flood the city. Major streets were covered with water. Homes filled with a foot of muddy mess. Laura, Karen and I had to wade to mid calf through their driveway into their house. We scrubbed our legs thoroughly. We had to find someone with a 4x4 to drive us back to the guest house because the road was impassable for a small car. The situation is not serious, it happens frequently here. People have tile floors and keep valuable items up on tables or shelves. It does create some health concerns as the raw sewage in the gutters is spread around by the rain water. Never a dull moment in Ghana!

These first few days will be for rest, orientation and getting to know the team. "The team" (The Mobile Member Care Team) consists of Karen, Darlene and Marion- three wonderful women in their 40s-50s. Between them they have tremendous experience in Africa. Karen is a clinical psychologist and will be my supervisor and mentor while I am here. For more about them and their history visit www.mmct.org. Laura is the other summer intern. She is a Marriage and Family Therapist who graduated from Fuller. We will be sharing our lives for the next month- cooking together, sharing taxis, and talking through our impressions of this experience.

Film for thought

I saw two movies within the last week that I am still thinking about. Hotel Rwanda tells the story of one man's heroism during the Hutu Tutsi genocide. Watching it helped me to think about the suffering that has gone on in Africa, particularly in countries that have had recent wars. It gave an image to the stories that I may soon here from Liberian refugees and aid workers who were stationed in Liberia, Sierra Leon, Cote d'Ivoire and other war-torn West-African countries. The film also touched on the relationship between Africa and the West: the nature of Western intervention, economic aid, and racism. In one scene, a white UN officer has to tell his Rwandan friend that there will be no aid or peacekeeping troops. He attributed this to race and the West's lack or interest or concern for Africa. In another scene, all of the foreign nationals were evacuated, sometimes ripped from the arms of their Rwandan friends, and the Rwandans are left to face almost certain death. There were no exit visas and no room on the bus to evacuate Rwandans- only (white) foreign citizens please. The Rwandans listened desperately to reports on the BBC, listening for any hint of rescue, and they hear deliberations about "acts of genocide" versus full genocide- and a lot of political jargon nonsense.

The second film that has been on my mind is Crash. It is about racial relationships in Los Angeles. It is brilliantly constructed and manages to address very difficult and volatile topics without being overwhelming. This film tracks a serious of interracial reactions and shows the way that people are dehumanized on the basis of their race. When I say dehumanized, I mean that their ability to parent, protect their spouses, make a fair living, be physically safe- very basic functions of being human - are taken away. This film, better than any other I've seen touches on the complexity of race. The conflicts are not just black and white (pardon the pun) but multidimensional. Good people do racist things. Criminals make ethical decisions. The film incorporates interactions that are redemptive. In these scenes people are forced to see past a general label and instead see the needs and pain of a specific human being.

Between the two films, I realize how dangerous thinking in the general can be. Actions that restore people, actions that are positive - love, compassion, heroism, forgiveness - are usually particular, between specific people or parties. Actions that destroy are general, they are directed toward all of something without distinction - racism, stereotype, genocide. It seems like a lesson to be as particular as possible, to look directly at a person and see them for their particular uniqueness, not their membership in a group.

Going soon

Some of you may be wondering at the state of blog-silence that has persisted for the past month. Since I last wrote I have been almost fully immersed in academic life. I proposed my dissertation, a rare accomplishment for a third-year student. I have also completed all but four of the classes I need for my degrees. I have three years (12 academic quarters) to finish the rest. No more 10 week sessions of 5 classes, clinical work and research projects piled on top of each other. The era of classroom student is over. For the next several years my learning will take place in the research lab, the therapy room, and the classroom (from behind the podium). My work will be largely on my own schedule- something I am so, so ready for after almost 20 years of living life around scheduled classes. I feel like I can finally take a breath and dare to look back with satisfaction at all that has been completed.

I dare not linger too long in my reflection. I will be on a plane for Ghana in less than one week. I feel ready, even eager. The practical things have been taken care of: money, shots, visas. I even have a packing pile going. I have been amazed at the generosity of friends and family. Rob and I received more money than we asked for, meaning we will not have to use as much of our savings as we thought. That in itself feels like confirmation that we are meant to be going on this trip. We are sent by our community, sent with purpose and support.