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Loosely the complement of "School," this category's excerpts draw largely from school breaks when I was most surrounded by the goings-on at home.
My host family is well-off. My host mother runs a large shop in the front of the complex, similar to a general store. My host father has a repair shop near the harbor where he works on mostly electrical machine parts that people bring in. He has several workers. Priscilla, my 11-year-old host sister, is cheerful and rather unpleasant to share a queen-size bed with, as I tried to do last night. Mordester, my 13-year-old host sister is currently in Kumasi (central Ghana) with her mother’s family there; I do not know when she will return. There is another “daughter” in the house: 12 years old, Grace does not go to school but stays home and helps with the store. My host family is extremely warm, and they already call me their sister/daughter.
The compound is surrounded by high walls with openings for a gated driveway and the store. There are two cars: a small sedan and a KIA Sorento that my host father bought through his US-resident friend. There is a renovation going on, which I think I might have been the catalyst for. (This includes painters on the outsides of both my bedroom window and the bathroom window, neither of which have curtains.) When you step into the house, a large foyer and living room greet you. There is an attached kitchen and a hallway with a bathroom at the end. My room is large and square with faux marble floors—which I think is a big thing in Africa because the AFS office had them too—and a brand new queen-size bed. My host parents told me that they will bring a mattress in for Priscilla to sleep on because I did not sleep well last night. Her things are in another room, however, so my stuff, a small television, a closet, and a little dressing table are the only things in the room.
Saturday is the most common day for laundry here, and although this weekend was not my first experience with hand washing, I will take this opportunity to make a few remarks about it. First and foremost, whoever or whatever gave me the impression that manual laundering was gentler than machine washing was deceptive. Maybe that is true for hands that wash one or two items per load, but in a country where washing machines are scarce, that is just plain wrong. The process involves four basins, two with soap, one for rinsing, and a fourth containing bleach. Bags of powdered detergent are dumped into the initial two basins, and a bar of lye soap is also employed in the first of these. Clothes soak briefly and while others are being handled. Clutching the fabric in one's left hand (my host mother made a point of me using my left--I don't know why), soap is ground into the threads by roughly passing the cloth back and forth with the right hand. All unclean spots, both visible and potential, are scoured with the lye soap, too. As much as I insist, my host mother does not always respect my wishes that my more fragile textiles be spared from the big, bad bleach. The only other opinions I have about hand washing are that it's actually pretty fun, and the stiffness in sundried clothes is temporary.
Upon reflection, I decided to elaborate further on a normality I hinted at yesterday. For many food products, labels are deemed unnecessary here, and many single-serving packages are hand-assembled. Yesterday, I helped my host mother divide a large bag of peanuts into 75 golf ball-sized pieces of merchandise. Each small handful from the original purchase was carefully poured into a foot-long plastic bag--similar to a miniature newspaper bag--and then sealed by tying a knot in the bag. Roughly a quarter-inch above that knot, another was tied. Then, the next handful was poured into the tube, separated from the first by the pair of knots, and the tying process was repeated. The resulting chain can be torn in any of the quarter-inch regions, isolating a customer's desired number of servings. An identical process is used for granulated sugar, cocoa powder, and things of the like. Another use of these long, clear bags is for ice cream--or, at least, what Ghanaians call ice cream. My host mother's store sells Nestle hot chocolate mix and evaporated milk which, due to their printed labels, have defined expiration dates. When such goods are nearly spoilt, the wrappers are abandoned and their contents stirred into a big bucket--indeed the one I use for my showers since the water is off again--with nearly-rotten canned milk. Half-mug portions of this cream-colored (or, in the case of the chocolate, brown) mixture are carefully funneled into individual plastic bags, sealed with a knot, and frozen. Since I only somewhat enjoy the branded, flavored ice cream, I admit to having little inclination to try this homemade, unflavored variety.
This weekend is a taste of what I expect Easter break will be like; Sheila will be home for a month then. As a result of her apparent craziness when we visited her at school, I was unsure of how comfortable it would be to live together. However, I have been pleasantly surprised that she, for the most part, respects my boundaries and, in particular, my sovereignty of my bedroom. One of my chief inquiries preceding her arrival had been in regards to where she would be sleeping. In light of Ghanaian customs, this question was silly, not to mention unanswerable. It prompted my host dad to give a long-winded description of all the rooms on the compound and each one's history of dwellers. In this country, individuals rarely stake ownership claims for a certain room or area. Instead, the home is everyone's to sleep, eat, and undress in. Additionally, the "home" means the house, driveway, and store. For residences that are not walled compounds, this turf encompasses the land surrounding the house as well as the nearest open sewer (for urination). At home, women wear cloths wrapped like towels, men go shirtless, and children run around stark naked. I can handle other members of my host family doing such things, but I prefer to maintain more privacy. Thus, I appreciate my room remaining periodically off-limits to visitors. Priscilla and my host parents seem to understand this, and I'm glad that Sheila recognizes it too--although, upon my request for her to wait while I changed, she chuckled and said, "Are you shy about me?!"
One question for the group: How do Ghanaian children spend time outside school?
Ghanaian kids, as far as I can tell, spend most of their time studying and helping their parents--as in, fetching various things and following orders for other such chores. Grace spends a sizable part of her day simply running to her mother when she calls, running to the store when a customer calls, and running back to whatever she had been cooking or cleaning before being called. After returning home, Priscilla does a fair bit of this too, but I can imagine that a daughter in a house without a Grace-like person would spend all post-school time on her feet. In addition, I know that school attendance drops significantly when the tap is not flowing and children must search for water to bring home, suggesting that such "household responsibilities" fall to the offspring. Between these errands, students study and complete homework assignments. Serious pupils in my year are already in high-gear WASSCE--end-of-high school exam--preparation mode. This means countless dull textbooks and practice books full of former WASSCE questions. These books pile on top of regular homework and test review, keeping kids very busy (though maybe not intellectually stimulated).
Today’s multipart question is about neighborhood/street life: “What are typical family sizes? How are families typically organized? Is the goal for both parents to work? Are there—and, if so, what are popular—leisure activities?”
It is difficult to estimate family size because the neighborhood/street is a blur of children. My best guess is that each household has 2-4 adults and 4-6 kids. Often I see two women and a man, but I expect the picture changes once all the harbor laborers return home. It appears that families keep traditional gender-based structures, with mothers cooking, cleaning, and selling, while the men work outside the home. Most inhabited structures have some kind of store out front, whether it sells provisions, harvested fruits and vegetables, electrical equipment, prepared food, shoes, services (tailors, bars, prepaid electricity credit etc.) or wholesale to supply other stores. These shops and stands are run almost exclusively by women, and street vendors (those who sell to drivers stuck in traffic) are majority female, too. Thus, it seems that both parents do ideally work. Unfortunately, I have less insight into common jobs for males. Based solely on observation, I would say that hassling the “obruni” is the leisure activity of choice for children. Most families do not own cars, so travel is limited. Visiting and hosting family and friends is probably the main source of fun.
Today’s question is “Can you explain more about the role of music in daily and church life?”
Music, particularly singing, is an indispensable part of life here. Grace and my host mother sing worship songs in Twi while washing dishes, cooking dinner, and strolling around the house. Priscilla parrots ballads from Disney Channel movies she watches. My host father manages to belt along to his barely-functional car radio on my way to school. Radio stations play almost exclusively music, except on Sundays, when they feature Christian homilies and scripture readings. Whenever I use the bathroom in the evening, I am greeted by hymns wafting out of a nearby church. Although instruments are sometimes employed, African vocal cords are strong enough without them. The adult service at my host family’s parish has a drum set and keyboard, but the youth congregation is a cappella. One or more people appoint themselves soloists in praise music, and they improvise in the silence between the chorus’ phrases. Songs are sung chiefly in a call-and-response pattern because they are often initiated during prayers, when everyone’s eyes are closed. The leader starts the opening line of the tune, and the audience joins in.
Walking and driving around the neighborhood, it’s hard not to notice that, while most vendors strolling through the streets are adults, others are youth and still others mere children. My inquiries to Priscilla and my host father have yielded the following insight. On Saturdays, some mothers—who are vendors by weekday—give the merchant responsibilities to their school-enrolled daughters. That explains why I saw a 13-year-old yesterday with a tray of baby clothes on her head. On the other hand, if school-aged children are working on weekdays, there are two possible explanations. They might attend the government-operated school that offers half-day schedules to accommodate families that count on child-earned revenue. Otherwise, the young sellers’ parents are likely unable to afford education, and the kids may have started working before their tenth birthdays. Wednesday, there was a girl selling tomatoes whose age could not have been in the double digits.
First, there is caning. Although I have mentioned corporal punishment on previous occasions, those were all regarding school. However, I have realized that this form of discipline is pervasive homes and even churches, in addition to educational institutions. Sunday, a young girl came to the store to buy a cane. (The standard practice is for teachers to demand students buy and bring sticks with which the adults will beat them.) Sheila asked her why she was buying a cane on a Sunday, and the girl replied by naming her church. In a separate incident, several weeks ago, my host father expounded upon his affability with children, citing, as evidence, his disuse of the cane on his kids. It was clear that ordinary Ghanaian fathers keep canes on hand at home.
Another focus is the nonexistence of things that are truly “compulsory.” In the United States, it is widely accepted that certain duties—attending school, paying the stated price for purchased goods and services, staying on the right side of the road, etc.—are required. I would argue that, at its base, people comply with these rules because there is the threat of legal action against those who do not. In Ghana, that threat is absent. Teachers can—and, sometimes, do—threaten truants with divine destruction, but they cannot mail them a court summons, such as the ones sent to my American classmates who skip school. No customer leaves the store gate with their purchases before counting their change. By the same token, my host mother checks any large bills for anti-counterfeit marks. After all, money dishonestly earned carries the same value as that which is honestly earned, and victims cannot sue their rippers-off, since most stores—including my host mother’s—are not formally registered with the government. However, Ghanaians are God-fearing people in some of the same ways that Americans are lawsuit-fearing people. I believe that religious piety and the threat of supernatural wrath keep citizens performing their necessary responsibilities. Social stigmatism also discourages petty crimes and irresponsibility. In fact, I have come to regard this “informal” judicial system as just as legitimate as our “formal” one. But it cannot guarantee such duties as I highlighted earlier; they remain, at their core, optional.
As anyone notices when they leave home, there are countless inconsequential tasks for which each community develops a unique procedure. Here are a few Ghanaian mannerisms I find smarter than their American equivalents. Firstly, towels are fastened differently. Once wrapped around the body, instead of tucking the loose end into the inner rim, the inner rim is folded down over the loose end to hold it in place. This technique is also used for the securing a baby sling. A second dissimilarity is the way in which bags are tied. In my experience the American practice is to make a loop, pull the free end 180° around it, and tuck the loose end through the loop. Ghanaians, on the other hand, pull the free end at least 360° around the loop before tucking. This renders the bag more airtight, which is very important considering how many food items are kept in tied bags for long stretches of time. Lastly, I have observed a clever system for beating away mosquitoes. People firmly flick dish towels in swipes parallel and close to their legs, hence harshly knocking out the bugs without self-inflicting too much physical pain.
Lately, I received a question regarding visitors. To begin, it should be stated that guests are always either neighbors/church members or family. Some weeks, there are visitors on three different days while other weeks pass without seeing any unfamiliar faces. Typically, folks arrive in the afternoon, and they rarely leave before dinnertime. One major difference is the attitude toward food preparation in the presence of guests. Since cooking dinner is an affair spanning several hours each day, it must be commenced in the afternoon. Regardless of whether my host mother has started cooking when visitors arrive, she inevitably prepares the meal in their midst. The driveway then functions as both kitchen and parlor, and chatter persists throughout the cooking. To be clear, visitors do not, unless they are younger family members, participate in the labor of cooking. Once the meal is ready, some guests eat in the driveway whereas others depart with a plastic bag containing their dinner.
“How do Ghanaians save? Where and how do they tend to invest their savings?”
According to a question on my Social Studies exam, acceptable locations for saving money are banks, post offices, and objects called “Susu Boxes.” I am not sure that the majority of Ghanaians have the means to make investments, but I will summarize observations I have made about family finances. Laborers make as little as five cedis, or two dollars, each day. Girls selling bags of water to market shoppers take home about one cedi for every thirty bags sold. For a little perspective, I can eat one or two cedis of a prepared rice dish in one sitting. Water vendors are widely considered the lowest earners in the tertiary sector, and the daily profits of other workers in the markets reach double and maybe triple digits. My host mother’s markup on items ranges from 25% on bread to 80% on toys. I think my host father charges four figures for a medium-sized contract, and he pays several employees and imports large orders of supplies. From what I can see, groceries are bought daily. Sheila told me that ingredients for one night’s dinner might cost fifty cedis. Most of that is spent on meat and fish, which are quite expensive. In short, people appear to spend most of their money on food. I know that my host father owns a few plots of land outside the city, and I am not sure what he intends for them, but they are investments, I suppose. Aside from government-run elementary and middle schools, all educational institutions charge fees, so I think children’s education is an investment (not that it is one that all parents can afford to make). Only the largest corporations are registered with the government, and I assume the status of being unregistered would render most businesses ineligible for a stock exchange, if such a thing were to exist.
Today’s first discussion topic is the attitude toward planning. In comparison to my American life, there seems to be less of this. Teachers collect workbooks near the end of the term to log students’ classwork grades because they did not keep records of assignment marks when they graded them. The bakery sometimes delivers the morning’s bread loaves in two shipments since certain some are not finished cooking, so any customers seeking Butter Bread early in the morning are told to “go and come.” Week nights’ dinners need not be planned on the weekend because grocery shopping is a daily, rather than weekly, affair. Much of the economy operates on the “Gimme” System, in which merchandise is prominently displayed—usually on vendors’ heads—to entice buyers. On the other hand, my host mother takes “best by” dates seriously; older cans are stacked on top, and she judges how large a price cut is necessary to ensure the shelf clears before the impending doom of expiration. In summary, forward thinking is less pervasive but not nonexistent.
An aspect of material culture I have been meaning to describe is that of all-purpose items. By far, the most essential Ghanaian household possession is the machete, a foot-long, non-serrated blade fastened to a four-inch handle. My host family has three or four in circulation, but unfortunately the sharpest also tend to have the most deteriorated handles. The machete replaces the butcher’s knife, vegetable chopper, carrot peeler, spatula, charcoal stoker, and, at times, scouring pad. I doubt the existence of an “As Seen on TV” product that would boast all of those uses. Dish towels get ample employment, too. The Ghanaian English word for one is “napkin” (although my host mother pronounces it “nipe-kin”). Clean ones function as rice insulators, pot holders, lids, and fly swatters. Meanwhile, dirty ones act the part of dust rag. In short, dish towels do everything cloths do, except dry dishes. A third all-purpose item is the table spoon. Since traditional Ghanaian food is eaten with the hands, use of utensils is an acquired art. Not everyone my age is proficient in maneuvering a fork and knife, so the most popular piece of flatware is the spoon. Rice, salad, and even fried chicken are divided in bite-sized bits and spooned into the mouth. After my parents’ valiantly tried for sixteen years to improve my table manners, it is pretty funny to watch schoolmates saw fruitlessly on a hunk of meat with the side of a plastic spoon.
Switching gears completely, my final focus is on orthopedic health, which appears especially poor here. Heavy buckets of water are always carried on the right side, forcing their young bearers to lean far to the left to counterbalance the load. Otherwise, cargo is toted on one’s head, which is better for posture but requires tension of neck muscles—at least for inexperienced people like me. Cooking, sweeping, and laundering are often performed by bending down to low-lying targets. This probably does wonders for women’s hamstring flexibility, but it cannot be good for the back. In order to travel with a child, the mother must tip her pelvis so the baby has a ledge on which to balance. Between all of the leaning and bending and tipping, I am not surprised, though no less saddened, to watch old women clutch their lower backs as they hobble down the street.
Plenty has previously been said about the look of Ghana, as well as its attributed feelings and flavors, so today I turn to the other two senses. With regards to hearing, it is important to remember that tropical homes need no insulation, and thin walls happily admit any and all noises.
I generally wake to the same orchestra every morning. While it includes the stereotyped rooster’s crow, the loudest instrument is the broom, as Grace sweeps the driveway before sunup. Other birds trill, and goats bleat. All doors and gates have rusty deadbolts that scratch and whine as they are unlocked for the day. Hinges squeak and metal framework clangs as entrances are subsequently opened. Before school, Priscilla sometimes has requests to make to her father or else admonishments to hear from her mother, so begging and yelling in Twi frequently join my morning music.
Starting around dawn and continuing into the evening, vendors stroll through the streets. To get the attention of residents in the houses they pass, many use sound. Swinging bells is common, especially for those selling cleaning products, second-hand clothing, and packaged crackers. Produce saleswomen advertise their “ripe plantain” or “fresh okra” verbally in throaty tones I used to think the preserve of auctioneers. A traveling carpenter clanks two rusted tools together as he passes. Supply trucks with workmen lounging in the flat beds often have megaphones shouting commercials, but the language barrier prevents me learning whether they promote their own goods or others’. Bicycle horns unfailingly announce the presence of boys pushing carts of ice cream (made with powdered milk and not great compared to what I am used to) and pastries. It interests me that sounds seem to replace signs, but I suppose bells are cheaper than billboards.
Most days, I leave the property to buy lunch and am met by the now-typical calls. Children jump up and down, cheering, “Obruni!” Whenever any such kid comes to the store, my host mother, with good intentions, scolds them and tells them to call me “Sister Mary,” so some now scream that at me, too. Young men sometimes tell me to “Bra!” (“Come!”), a command I always ignore. I would describe myself as a friendly acquaintance of a few of my host mother’s neighbors, and we give each other greetings as I walk by. In Ghana, greetings, particularly with neighborhood women, consist of “paacho Good Mo’ning/Afte’noon/Ev’ning,” followed by “e ti sen” or “paacho wo hoy ye,” to which I respond “paacho eye” or “paacho ain,” then “Mama o hoy ye,” the reply of which is “paacho ain,” and the encounter ends with a warm “yo.” To translate, the exchange consists of “Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening,” inquiries about my wellbeing and my host mother’s, and finally the acknowledgement “yo,” which is roughly equivalent to “alright.” “Paacho” is the universal way to make a statement polite. Once I return, those at home say, “ai-ee ko,” and I say, “ya yee.” Then, I ask, “e chi rey,” and they confirm, “bo ko.” I believe that conversation is first welcoming me home and second gaining assurance that everything at home is well.
Lastly, there are the day’s smells to describe. The most pungent is fire which, depending on its source, varies in tolerability. If an upwind neighbor is burning some gruesome articles of garbage—plastic, etc.—it can be quite unpleasant until the breeze changes direction. “Normal” trash blazes are not great, but I have endured worse. Charcoal stoves do not give off much scent except in the lighting process, which involves pouring and igniting gasoline to warm the coals. Other than fire, odors include chicken droppings and shallow sewers. Pleasant aromas, on the other hand, are the morning’s delivery of fresh bread, rice that is cooked almost nightly, and the sea breeze when it picks up.
“What are your host family’s and classmates’ attitudes and approaches to healthcare?”
An ill Ghanaian looks to have three options for treatment. Of these, clinics are one. A patient pays a couple hundred cedis to consult with a doctor, get a blood test, and buy prescribed medications. Hospitals can provide similar services; I believe they are lower in both quality and cost. Generally, it seems that those who can afford it opt for the clinic, at least at first. If that fails or is too expensive, people turn to herbal centers. These are shops selling a wide variety of herbal products that claim to treat medical problems. I have never been to one, but I have seen signs for them. They range in appearance from walk-in stores to roadside, jar-laden tables. Sheila once brought home a tonic for menstrual cramps. My inspection of the box yielded little information, save that it contained two ingredients with long names and that its price was six cedis. A third road in healthcare leads to spiritual care. The Divine Healer’s Church has a branch near the house, and my host father tells me the Christ Apostolic Church turns from modern medicine, too. I think his uncle first converted to Christianity in search of a cure for some medical condition, which I believe he found at Christ Apostolic Church. As a final note, I will mention that all care is paid for in cash because health insurance never really caught on, and the Ghanaian health insurance system collapsed a couple of months ago.
“Does Priscilla often have friends over?”
As much as a few times a week, Priscilla’s classmates populate the bench in the driveway as my host mother makes the evening’s dinner. Sunday is, perhaps, the most common day for guests, but some come—particularly her best friend Belinda—on weekdays after school. At times, they work on homework together.
“What is the Ghanaian relationship with shoes? Do people take them off when they come indoors, do they have house shoes or go barefoot? Do they grab a pair of sandals to go outside in their yards?”
Flip flops suffice for casual occasions, including errands and vending. Students wear flats, while professionals and churchgoers don high heels. I walk around the property and store in bare feet, but external traipsing requires shoes. There was once a boy selling cartons of eggs who stepped into the store to carefully unload my host mother’s purchase from his head. He removed his flip flops on the lower step of the store, before entering the main part. I believe Grace usually does the same thing upon returning from neighborhood food stands. I copy Priscilla and wear my church shoes through the store when I get back on Sunday afternoons, and I take them to my room. There is no carpeting here, and the unsealed nature of buildings lets dust accumulate on the floors, so Ghanaians sweep a lot and do not worry too much about getting floors dirty.
We eventually reach the house, and a decent source of amusement is the driveway chickens. Many have recently-hatched chicks, which are little more than fluffy rumps with heads perched on top. Their mothers lead them around the property, teaching them to eat the discarded food that is allotted them. They play a game of “Marco Polo” while on the move, in which the mother clucks and her kids echo. A couple batches are still too small to scale the curb that surrounds most of the flowerbed, but their frantic attempts are adorable. They learn to preen their feathers by watching Mother do it. The activity looks similar to a toddler straightening his little tie. Possibly cutest is naptime, when legs collapse and the driveway is suddenly populated by rubber duck-like creatures. Certain little ones seem to like naptime a lot because they are found still squatting under the car when all siblings have already scampered off to peck at rice. With the encouragement of a brother or sister, the lazy chick eventually stands up and runs to join the rest.
It’s raining. Water is falling in front of my window in graceful strands, thanks to the corrugated sheet metal roof with its evenly spaced hills and valleys. Wet laundry on the clothes line is getting wetter. Displays in the store have been packed away a safe distance from the edge of the canopy. The amount of daylight filtering through the clouds indicates it is evening, even though the clock has not yet hit 2pm. Thunder crackles hesitantly, complementing—rather than disrupting—the peaceful white noise of drops hitting the roof. All have withdrawn, sought shelter. They have been replaced by rain. A brilliant stroke of lightening is accompanied by an impatient boom, suggesting close proximity. Instinct speeds my heart a little. Then, the racket starts to lessen. Scrubbing can be heard as Grace cleans her body; she is taking her shower outside rather than in. She enters the house in search of clothes, singing.
Earlier today, the children from next door were playing in the street. At breakfast, one of the miniscule twins could be seen swinging her spoon threateningly at her fleeing older siblings. As their mother counted the bananas she had purchased to sell throughout the day, the kids dashed around the dilapidated fruit stand, chasing one another. Once she finished, the mother rounded up her half-naked little ones and dressed them in secondhand dresses from the Western world. Later on, the four siblings and a couple of neighborhood peers inexplicably bolted in front of the store and down to the house on the corner, around which they loitered until returning home. Another source of morning entertainment came in the form of a visit to my host mother’s store. After learning that her coin was not enough to buy a small pack of crackers, a twin proceeded to experiment with how much of her body she could fit through the metal fence in front of the store. Today was just one more productive day in the lives of children too young—and possibly too poor—to go to school.
I taught Grace how to properly hold a pen this morning. She had previously copied the word “type” as she saw it in full caps on the battery box. She learned (by ear) that the batteries were of the brand TigerHead, so she thought she had written the word “tiger.” I pointed out the letter “t” in both words, as well as in a number of brand names on products in the store. I wrote her name for her, spacing out the letters, and she duplicated the five characters passably after a few tries. Her uppercase “G” was a bit unorthodox, and I had to point out that the vertical line in an “a” belongs on the right side—not the left. However, her “r” did not look too much like an “n,” and she got the “c” on her first try. I think Priscilla has showed her one or two things in the past, but I got the feeling that most of what I covered was new material.