#icanfingerspell?

#coldbucketshowers.   Sooo, someone hasn't showered in 3 days. (I'm sure my rommate is loving me for it.)  Blame it on a fever. And dumsor.  Dumsor literally means "on/off" and is how we talk about the common power outages.  Most of the power in Accra comes from the dam at Akosombo, and as far as I understand it, the government turns the power off as needed.  We have a battery and inverter at my house that power a few lights and outlets.  The question is how much juice they've got left.

Akosombo Dam, Volta River

 

So bring on the cold bucket showers-- just not until tomorrow.  I was just thinking back to the last time I was sick in Africa.  In 2009, I was living in a remote village and developed a severe case of esophagitis.  The village medical person (read: not a doctor) suggested I treat my mysterious illness by giving myself a shot (in the butt) for amoeba.  Ummm....NO thank you. Let's just say I am very thankful that getting medical help here is cake in comparison.

Here in Accra, I took a taxi down to the pharmacy, did a quick malaria test, got some tylenol and a sports drink, and went back to bed.  All for 12 cedis.  (That's a whole 4 bucks.)  So sweatin' off a fever and bodyaches is okay by me.  I got resources (!) and no one is telling me to inject myself with worm-killing drugs.  Not to mention I got a Texan woman named Bev (an IJMer's wife) lookin' out for me.  So, things are on the up and up, even if my "sick day" craving for eggo waffles has to wait until I get back to PA.

#tasernotrequired.  Several evenings ago, I was walking on the cool new sidewalk by my house when a tall young man made an assertive beeline in my direction.  I couldn't read him as he approached-- and admittedly, it was a bit unnerving.  But I had my "special" flashlight (i.e. taser) in hand.

He said hello and smiled. (All good.)  He introduced himself as Ishmael and welcomed me to the neighborhood.  We talked for a few moments.  I noticed his English was stellar.  I learned he had just finished university.  I thanked him for coming to speak with me, he pointed out where he lived, and we wished each other a good evening.  As I walked away, I was struck by his courage and hospitality.

Truth is, most people around here are very kind and open. 

#foreverfavorites.  My favorite Ghanaians though are the ones I work with everyday.  Ama (Senior Attorney and my boss), Festus, Benson (our Kenyan), Tina, Patrick, Anita, Ade, an investigator who I can't name, Randy, Henry, Dennis, Francis, Bernard, and Janette.  Office culture is marked by laughter and lightheartedness, professionalism and kindness. They're the best-- and just hands down amazing human beings. 

#ballerstatus.  This past weekend, Kyle (a legal fellow from Texas) and I went to see Bernard (pronounced Ben-od) play soccer (aka futball).  In true American form, we showed up early... to an empty field.  As teams began to arrive, we looked for Bernard.  No sign of him.  

We went to both sidelines, and then we noticed something.  Everyone on the field was silent. Both teams were fully comprised of boys who were deaf and mute.  And Bernard wasn't there...yet.

Watching two deaf teams play soccer was fascinating.  The ref waved a white towel instead of blowing a whistle.  Everything was communicated in sign language and facial expressions.  Emotions ran high, just quietly.  At one point a coach smiled and signaled to me as if he was telling me to go in and play.  HA!  One player, Kofi, came to greet us, and Kyle and I were somehow (magically) able to finger spell our names.

#17 Bernard

Then Bernard's team played.  Much noiser, this crowd.  This ref wore street clothes and had no issues blowing his whistle.  He handed out yellow cards like they were candy (5 in all) and even whipped out a red card at one point. He even called a foul on a goalie in the box, which caused a small riot.  Let's just say it was super entertaining.  And these dudes are athletes--sheesh! Bernard played the entire game, and is an excellent midfielder!  So fun to watch!

We definitely want to see another futball game. In the meantime, I think I'll go contemplate filling my bucket with cold water while I eat pineapple (thank you, Charity) and turn on some tunes.  Back to work tomorrow, I think.

Speaking of tunes, these two songs have kind of become the anthem of my summer.  Enjoy!

Below My Feet by Mumford and Sons.

...and...

Captain by Hillsong United.

grateful.
alayna.



I met them on a Tuesday

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Today I got to meet the rescued boys. Three months ago, all of them were engaged in hazardous forced labor on Lake Volta.  Today they are in a shelter where they are fed, clothed, and cared for by professional and caring staff.  They go to school and have regular meetings with a counselor.  They play.  And dance.  And sing.  

And finally, they are safe.

As the legal team loaded in the van this morning to drive to the shelter, I felt as if I'd been waiting forever for this moment.  I've spent the last few weeks pouring over transcripts of the boys' post-rescue interviews, needs assessments, and summary reports that our aftercare specialists put together.  For every document I read, I would find their picture and match a face to the story. 

I've been working with our case management system, pulling out legally relevant facts from these documents and matching them with suspected perpetrators and elements of relevant crimes.  I learned a lot about each of the boys-- their family history, how they ended up at the lake, their opinions of the people in their lives and their feelings about being off the lake.  I also read about the trauma and abuse each of them had suffered.  The missing piece: I hadn't actually met any of them.  Until today.

 

Even with my legal understanding of human trafficking and the 'worst forms of child labor,' I wasn't completely prepared for what I read.  The boys had spoken of the fear they had of storms on the lake, diving into the water to untangle nets, and witnessing others drown.

They had recounted waking up at 1 o'clock in the morning to set nets-- six days a week.  They spoke of being beaten by their masters and suffering from sickness, severe injuries, and hunger.  Some should be in kindergarten, others in high school.  All had been doing this for at least a year.  Some had no memory of their previous life or biological family, while others remembered their past and their trafficking vividly. 

At the end of one interview that I read, one little boy expressed how excited he was to be off the lake because now he could go to school and realize his dreams.  Like many of the boys, he had never been in school.  Today, I got to meet him.  

As I sat in the office of the shelter's director, I turned my head to see a boy looking at me through the open door.  He stood at a distance with a big toothy smile across his face.  I recognized him right away.  I gave him a quick wave.  He waved back, and for a moment I thought he might have mistaken me for someone he knew.  But as I left the office a few minutes later to join the boys in the courtyard, he came right up to me with a kind of eager shyness and another big smile. I introduced myself and extended my hand.  He told me his name, and all I could think was, "Yes, I know exactly who you are!"  I found out he likes soccer and that we share the same favorite local food. 

I got to observe his English class after the break, and I watched as he sat quietly and attentively with his notebook open in front of him.  At one point, the teacher wrote a letter on the whiteboard and asked "What letter is this?"  He raised his hand and gave the correct answer, turned around and looked at me-- beaming.  I gave him the biggest, proudest smile in return.

Wow.  As I walked out of his classroom several minutes later, uninvited tears welled up in my eyes.  Go get those dreams, dear one.  Go get 'em.  I looked out the window that overlooks the grounds and prayed for all the boys.  These boys are walking miracles to me, and I felt beyond privileged to be with them today. 

"Surely the arm of the Lord is not too short to save, nor his ear too dull to hear."  Isaiah 59:1

My head is hard and I won't marry you

I am looking forward to a couple upcoming blog posts about my internship and about meeting the nine boys who were rescued off the lake in March.  Because of the sensitive nature of our casework, I am having drafts reviewed before I publish them.  In the meantime, here are a couple recent "life as I know it" moments....


Concussions are rough.  Two Saturdays ago, I thought I'd go for a run in my neighborhood.  It was about 10am.  It was warm, but I thought "Meh, I'll be fine."  So I took off through the streets, greeted along the way by kids and adults alike.  As I passed one guy, I got a "You look tired."  Thanks, dude.

My neighborhood, Labone.

Okay, I admit. It was dang humid.  I got home, got a slight headache and then...bam.  The next thing I know I am on my back, coming back to consciousness.  I realized I had fainted and had hit my head on the cement floor as it was throbbing like nuts.  I 'what'sapped' a couple pals who came and peeled me off the floor (okay, a slight exaggeration). I felt like a wilted vegetable.

I spent the next 3 hours in a semi-catatonic, mildly nauseous state, waiting for the periodical "don't fall asleep" as I sipped a homemade pineapple smoothie.  I slept for two days, was foggy for one and then was good to go. Lesson learned: Run at 6am. No later.

 Hot and humid this rainy season.

"You are marriage?"  It's not an uncommon question for a white girl in a taxi.  Basically, I take taxis everywhere.  Conversations with taxi drivers don't happen all the time, but when they do it's not boring.  Everything from dust storms to language lessons, Obama, gay marriage, and Jesus come up in taxis.  So do marriage proposals.  This time I was leaving the grocery store, and a parked taxi driver calls out to me as I walked toward him.

Grocery store in Osu.

I told him where I needed to go-- remember: no addresses, just landmarks.  So, in my slow, staccato American-Ghanaian accent, I say, "Ah, do you know Labone? G4S?"  I am in luck. He does and then the bartering begins:
Me: "How much?"
Driver: 10 cedis.
Me (I act appalled- it's part of the game):  "Oh too high! I will go for 6."
Driver (it's his turn to act appalled):  "Ohhhhhh..nooo....8 cedis."
Me: "Ah, no.  I never go for more than 7."  He is unconvinced.  I tell him I will go find another taxi.  Driver: "Wait, what is your name?"
Me (in my head): Ha! No way, man. But now I have another bartering chip.
Me: "If you take me for 7 cedis, I will tell you my name."

I win. I thought.  I hop in, introduce myself.  His name is George and from Accra.  Then....
George: "You are marriage?"
Me: "Am I married? No, I am not married. I have a boyfriend."
George: "If you decide to not go with boyfriend than I will marriage you. I like to marry a white woman." 

Now a veteran at the "are-you-marriage" conversation, I begin my inquisition... and my "yes, I'm sure I can't marry you." Where would we live? Why should a white girl marry you?  Do you ask every white girl who gets in your taxi to marry you? Why do you want to marry a white girl?

George's stated answer to my last question surprises me: "White women don't cheat. Once a white woman tells you she loves you, everything is fine." 
Fascinating generalization.  I do my neighborly duty and tell him that white women with rings on their fingers cheat too.  Sorry to burst your bubble, George.

Off to bed.  Gotta run in the morning... and catch a taxi. 

grateful.
alayna.

Recipe: Easy Peasy Plantain Chips

Plantain chips are kind of a big deal around here.  And boy oh boy are they addicting!  Charity (our angelic house help) happily agreed to show me how to make them--the Ghanaian way.  Woot woot!  They're easy peasy and super yummy. Enjoy!

What you'll need:

• Plantains (green are best, but ripe will work)
• Vegetable oil
• Strainer
• Two small bowls/ containers (one for oil drips, one for finished plantains)
• Salt and water
• Saucepan
• Slotted spoon 
  
  
  

  

  Oil (save it and reuse it) and salt

1.  Fill small bowl / container with water and salt.

2. Slice plantains (circles or strips work.)  

3. Soak in salt water for a few minutes.

4. Heat oil in saucepan on stove.

4.  Carefully drop soaked plantains into hot oil.  Careful, it's a hot job!

5.  If the plantains are ripe, they will stick together and stay pretty soft as they cook.  Ripe ones will also brown quickly.  Remove before they get this dark:

6.  Use your slotted spoon to remove from oil.  Place in strainer.  Let cool.

Wah la!

While they're great as is, they're also good with hummus.

Cooked plantains are a good source of vitamins A, B6, and C, as well as potassium, and magnesium.  Not taking into account the oil, they are 97% carbs, 2% protein and 1% fat.